Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (26 page)

“Shylock, you have to make sure everything goes right.  It’s getting to be dangerous and we can’t have any loose ends.  If necessary we can grant you more funds, I know that’ll sway some of your more base tendenci-”

“Oh, fuck you,” Goldstein muttered over his private channel.  He held the small communicator to his ear as he paced the room.  He knew he was just a merchant, he was just the king of the black market to a lot of people, but Zachary Goldstein did have a moral code.  “It’s not because of the money.”

“What, we’re supposed to believe that you actually care about these people, Shylock?  When we first approached you,” the voice continued, but Goldstein was not going to let them finish the statement.  He still felt shame about that first exchange with the EFI.

“Things change, alright,” Goldstein said as he looked towards the ledgers on his desk.  Things really had changed.  The funds in his accounts were plentiful and there were quite a few debts owed him, but he didn’t care about that anymore.  Goldstein thought about Abrams and her sister.  He thought about Roberts and the terrible pains the boy soldier experienced day after day.

Zachary Goldstein thought about Jenkins.  He remembered how the boy used to be; he knew what the boy had turned into.  Goldstein remembered that game against the Tigers and the change in the boy’s very personality after the merchant had revealed another cruel truth.  Zachary had been responsible for that; responsible for setting Ryan down that road to ruin.  The merchant almost wasn’t able to recover himself from his thoughts and his voice wavered when he returned to the conversation.

“Look, I’m more…invested now.  I want things to end right.”  Goldstein had bartered with these resistance agents when they first came to him.  He had no interest in sustaining a doomed revolution and made it quite clear.  But now, after these last few weeks…

“God, Shylock, if this is about your mansion on Solaria,” the voice started, but Goldstein merely narrowed his eyes and somehow whispered and shouted at the same time.

“You’re not listening!” he said, interrupting before the masculine voice could finish another condescending statement.  The mansion Goldstein had dreamed of on the tropical asteroid was a distant memory now.  He didn’t even want to return to his family on Zion with his riches in hand; this wasn’t about the money anymore.

“Shylock, you need to stop these interruptions.  I’m not going to stand for it.  We
need
Hamlet to get out of there in one piece.  That’s what matters here.  Of course we want the rest of the soldiers, but Hamlet is the secret weapon.  We’re already out some of our agents in the field.  The Hammerheads are lost to us, already.  We can’t have that happen with the Crows.  Do you understand?” the disembodied voice asked through the device.  Zachary huffed and looked out his window towards the blasted landscape.  He could see the husk of Earth and Solaria just off to the left.

“There’s a lot of good people here, Atlas.  I want them to make it out of here,” Zachary said as he paced over to the window to get a better look at Solaria.  It was the future he had wanted, but the larger, ruined Earth drew his attention now.  It was the future he was meant to have.  The voice on the other end of the line sighed and was silent for a moment.

“I do, too, Shylock, but sadly they’re not a priority.  I know you have a soft spot for some of them, even if you don’t show it.  If we can I would gladly get them out, but we have to make the right arrangements for the cause.  If you need more funds, well,” the voice said, but Goldstein didn’t bother to get frustrated again.  He just kept staring at the ruined Earth.

“I told you, but I’ll tell you again.  This one’s on the house.  And, Atlas,” the merchant said, waiting for the resistance agent to respond.

“Yes, Shylock?”

“Understand that you’re not going to have a problem with me.  It’s the other puppets in this show.  Your Miranda, your Othello and your Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  These are the ones you should worry about.”

“I trust them, Shylock.  I have to,” the voice said over the communicator.  Goldstein looked at Solaria once more and realized that it was a petty dream in the first place.  Things had changed, and though it would not be a life of luxury Goldstein resolved that it was the right life to live.

“Then extend that same trust to me, Atlas.”  The line was silent for a time, but Goldstein knew that the resistance agent was still on the other end.

“You have it, Shylock.  Live through this so I can thank you in person.”  Goldstein laughed and nodded, not bothering to reply.  He lowered the hand holding the communicator and sighed.  He wondered if the Earth was really a prize worth fighting for, but then he realized he wasn’t fighting for a piece of land; he was fighting for the people that would live there.  He walked over to his bed and tried to close his eyes.  He had to have his rest.  There were only three days left and there was so much more to do.  He could not afford any mistakes.

Humanity could not afford any mistakes. 

-

Jenkins threw his pillow against the opposite wall and watched as it fell to his desk.  He was breathing hard and felt the anger boiling within him.  He had tried to sleep, and the position of the asteroids outside his window showed that he had been somewhat successful, but he didn’t feel like he had rested at all.  He merely felt like he had jumped forward through time and had nothing to show for it.

Ryan wanted to yell and scream but he didn’t want to wake any of his teammates.  Their world was hard enough without a good night’s sleep; he knew that very well.  Jenkins fumed silently as he realized that he was not even given dreams to tide him over through the night.  The Commission had stolen that from him as well.  All Jenkins wanted was to justify his existence; he wanted to somehow convince himself that he was a real person, even if Hawkins had twisted his very personality out of the remnants of someone else.  But he was just a shade; a pale simulacrum of the real thing.

And the real thing was coming back.

Jenkins slammed his torso and his head back to the mattress beneath him.  He had never had a chance.  A corrupt world had brought him into being and now the righteous men were going to fix that mistake.  If Jenkins did not find himself at the wrong end of a weapon, he would live only as a reminder that evil men existed.  The real Jenkins would find himself the poster boy of the revolution.  The Jenkins lying in that currently-dead man’s bed would be pushed aside and termed a horror.  A genetic experiment gone wrong; destined only to find scorn and disdain for the rest of his days.

The artificial soldier wanted desperately to find some reason for his existence.  Since he had learned the truth, since he had learned that he was just a twisted version of a suicidal thief, he had done what he could to reclaim his humanity.  Ryan had seen the changes in himself, he was sure of it.  He no longer enjoyed the killing; he didn’t think of his time on Eris as just a series of games.  There was real weight to each death and resurrection, now.  Jenkins was no longer flippant in the face of Death; he was reverent.  He respected his teammates.  Jenkins was
trying;
he was trying
so hard
to become his old self.  He wanted to return to who he used to be; he wanted the memories.  Jenkins wanted to have proof of his own life.

But that path was too hard.  He was failing and everybody knew it.  They would never consider Jenkins the kid that had grown up in New Chicago who had fought beside them for a month.  They would never consider him another one of the Crows.  They would just discard him once their precious messiah, once their precious,
real
Ryan Jenkins returned.

Jenkins turned on his side and sank into his despair.  He didn’t bother to grab his pillow from its resting place on his desk.  No, not his desk; from
Jenkins’
desk.  He just curled up on top of his sheets and brought his knees to his chest.  He let the tears fall from his eyes, but he didn’t feel them.

Ryan just wanted to be somebody.  Hadn’t he earned that right?

-

The mystery meat didn’t look like meat at all.  It sat in a centimeter’s worth of reddish-brown gravy and looked like it could have been a mushroom.  The synthesized protein was often compared to a slimy fungus, but some of the soldiers enjoyed it in any case.  Darius Templeton grabbed a sizable portion and slapped it down onto his dull metallic tray.  He didn’t like the consistency of the almost-food, but it was better than some of the alternatives.

Templeton turned away from the rest of the food and looked along the benches.  He had done what he could to recruit as many people as possible for the revolution.  The resistance agent was well-aware of the importance of this particular team and, when given permission, had swiftly gone through all of the important people.  He could tell from knowing glances that the information had disseminated through them to others, especially from the way Abrams was looking at him, but he knew that not everyone had been told.

And he really only had three days left to do it.

The thin, black man looked through the benches and realized that he had forgotten a good deal of the soldiers, as they had never made themselves noteworthy.  The drones, they were called; men already destroyed by the experiments of the local mad scientist.  The other Crows had no idea, of course, but Templeton had been fully briefed on the sadistic practices of the weasel-faced scientist.  Templeton looked among the dozen drones present and recalled the advice of his superiors in the EFI.  The revolutionary had been told that they would follow if given the right orders, but suddenly Templeton knew that he had to make sure.  If these men were to fight and die, they at least had to know why.

Templeton made his way over to the nearest hunched-over soldier lazily placing food in his mouth.  As the revolutionary set down his tray and sat down, he noticed that the pale man had not bothered to look up or address him.  Templeton looked over Corrigan and noticed the red-rimmed eyes and the weary face.  The man looked gaunt and had been freshly-resurrected.  Templeton wondered what Hawkins had done to break the man in such a way, having forgotten the specific experiment.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting here,” Templeton said, making sure to issue a warm half-smile to the empty soldier.  The revolutionary would not be able to live with himself if he couldn’t warn the gaunt slave in front of him.  Templeton was grateful that the undercover EFI agents had looped footage for the mess hall; he would be able to talk freely when it was time.

“I don’t mind,” Corrigan said weakly, not straining himself with the effort of looking Templeton in the eye.  He slowly punctured a green bean with his fork and brought it to his mouth.  Darius didn’t know what Corrigan had been like before Eris, but it had to have been better than this.

“Well, that’s good,” Templeton said as he speared a piece of synthesized meat with his fork and brought it to his mouth.  “So, Corrigan, I don’t rightly know your story.  How did you end up here?” Templeton said before popping the piece of meat into his mouth and chewing.  The taste was almost non-existent, which was a mercy.  Corrigan shrugged in front of him and his head listed to the side.

“Problems with money.  Now I have more of them,” the soldier said before he set down his fork and stared at his tray.  Whatever had happened to Corrigan, it seemed like he had been conditioned to respond to everyone as a superior.  The resistance agent felt a weight on his soul as he realized that
that’s
what the other agents had meant.  Corrigan would enter into the resistance only because someone told him to, not because he actually wanted to be free.  He was past desire; he only felt despair.

“Corrigan…” Templeton began, not knowing how he could possibly talk to the man and make him understand that life could become good again, but he was saved the effort.  The revolutionary felt the presence before he actually saw the man, but when Goldstein sat down next to Corrigan, Templeton knew he had to be careful.  He had never actually spoken to the merchant about the resistance but assumed that the man could be bought.

“I wouldn’t waste my words, Templeton.  Corrigan here can’t respond the way you want him to,” Goldstein said before picking up his spoon and digging it into a modest pile of mashed potatoes.  Templeton’s eyes flashed with indignation before he tilted his head and decided to use a disapproving tone.

“Look, just because you don’t deign to speak with some of the others…” Templeton said, mindful of Goldstein’s usual taste for keeping his distance.  The merchant would never eat with the other soldiers, but instead kept a bench for himself.  The others would come to him if they wished to purchase contraband, but otherwise the middle-aged soldier was left alone.  Goldstein sighed and interrupted the agent, not bothering to keep up any charade.

“He’s broken,
Othello
.  We can give him promises of freedom, but it won’t matter.  Hawkins went too far with him.  Went too far with all of them.  Maybe,
maybe
Roberts will be fine, but I doubt it,” Goldstein said, wondering why he was getting so impatient these days.  His character seemed to be dissolving the more he cared about his fellow man.  Goldstein had looked down to play with his food during the statement, but as he brought another spoonful up to his mouth he looked up and found a face full of horror.

“Wh….. what did you say?” Templeton asked, his false persona evaporating when he held no conscious effort over it.  Goldstein gazed at him with disdain painted in narrow brushstrokes along every wrinkle.  He swallowed down the bland potatoes and sighed.

“I can’t believe I have to say this, but who the fuck did you think Shylock could be?” Goldstein asked disregarding any sort of regard for subtlety.  He was getting tired of all of this backroom dealing, especially when everything was about to happen all around them in just a few days.