Rift (30 page)

“That ‘someone' turned out to be a couple of armed security specialists from NeuroStor. Apparently they were watching me to find out if the transmission had altered my body in some way. I was afraid for my life, so I ran from these men. They chased me and killed my best friend, Tom Bishop. NeuroStor wants me dead as well because they plan to market this technology as viable, to use it on unsuspecting citizens. And the most important part of this is that their machine does not simply transmit a person from one place to another. A scan is performed, the digitized information is sent on its way, but
the original remains behind
. NeuroStor's technology amounts to nothing more than a human fax machine. Or nearly instant cloning, however you want to look at it.”

I pause here and glance over at Cameron. He has put the laptop on the curb and is ready to join me. In order to prove our story is no hoax, we decided beforehand to do everything in one take. I nod, and he walks into frame.

“This is the original Cameron Fisher. Explain what happened to you, Cameron.”

I watch as he relates the events from his point of view. The story NeuroStor told him, the confusion about his transmission, how he never made it to Arizona. The cash settlement.

“Our story may seem hard to believe, but together we are living proof that this machine exists,” I say. “I do not have an identical twin, something that can be easily verified by government birth records.

“I will enter the building heavily armed. I will fire if fired upon. I may not leave the building alive. But if what we believe about NeuroStor is true, they must be stopped. At any cost.”

I pause for a few seconds and try to remember anything I've left out. When you're not used to being in front of a camera, it's difficult to think clearly.

“This video will resume just before I enter the NeuroStor building. If I am attacked, portions of the program may become graphic. Thank you.”

Crystal shuts off the camera.

“We ought to get moving,” Cameron says. “By the time we drive over there and get everything set up, it'll be time to go in.”

I put on the fire suit—for some reason, wearing it is a whole lot more tiring than carrying it—and away we go.

         

There has never been a reason for me, a Houston-based expense report auditor, to visit our headquarters. So ten minutes later, as we approach it from the south, I see the NeuroStor building in person for the first time.

The building's architecture is sort of boring, I guess; it's nearly cubic, and the facade is some kind of maroon stone with a lot of tinted windows. The blue-and-white logo, of course, is mounted near the top floor. The ninth floor. That is where I hope to make my stand.

Where I plan to die.

As grateful as I am to Rodrigo Batista for providing this opportunity, this platform on which I may enact my noble purpose, I shouldn't have to. My decision to transmit, to accept this life-threatening risk, was based on imperfect information,
even though better information was available.
In other words, Batista lied to me. Maybe, in some warped way, the jerk thought he was doing me a favor. Or maybe he was deliberately fucking with my life. I may never know why he chose me as a test subject, but I do know that he should not have misled me regarding the nature of the machine. Regardless of whatever else he does with this invention, whether he tries to market the technology for cloning purposes or sell it to a foreign government or whatever other perverted idea he can think of, he lied. He made decisions that should have been left to me. And while I am going through with this assault because it is the right thing to do, because this is the way I will finally do something truly meaningful, I cannot allow Batista's arrogance to go unpunished. Regardless of what his privileged upbringing and Harvard education has taught him, today I am going to introduce him to the idea that his life is no more important than anyone else's. Including mine. He is my symbol, my evil, and I am going to make sure he pays.

Fuck him. Fuck Rodrigo Batista.

Crystal drives us toward NeuroStor in a roundabout way. It sits among a cluster of similar office buildings owned mostly by telecom companies, and I see a large marble sign that tells us we've entered The Technology Center. Traffic is moderate as people head into work. Most of the cars are new and clean. I watch for any sign of Clay, but it will be difficult to spot him in an unfamiliar car. We, on the other hand, will be easy to identify in Lee's Buick.

The dash clock reads 7:49. T-minus eleven minutes and counting. Cameron has configured the laptop for the FM download, and as Crystal finds a place to park, I connect the cameras and the transmitter. The miniature, which is mounted in my fire suit and hidden from view, will do the actual filming. It will send its video feed to the digital camcorder, which will convert the footage into the proper format, and the FM transmitter will broadcast it all to Cameron's laptop.

The nearest building to NeuroStor is owned by a company called LMT Communications. Most of the LMT employees apparently park in an underground garage, but there is a small outdoor lot for overflow and visitor parking. Crystal finds a spot in the very back row. Behind us stands a line of trees, then a narrow asphalt road, then about a hundred yards to the NeuroStor property. Another fifty to the front doors, which are tinted glass like the windows and not locked, according to Clay. NeuroStor, in spite of their true nature, must pretend to be a normal corporation, which means no armed guards, no bars on the doors, nothing but a normal office building where normal people work. At the very least, then, I'll be able to get inside. Everything will be uphill from there.

“You ready, Cameron?” Crystal asks me.

Fuck Rodrigo Batista. Of course I'm not ready.

“Cameron?”

“I'm ready as I'll ever be.”

“Honey,” she says. “You don't have to go through with this. I promise you we can accomplish the same thing as a group. Clay is—”

I open the car door and step outside. Pull on the yellow fire helmet, flip down the clear face shield. It's going to be hell running 150 yards wearing all this. I place the MP-5 in the specially sewn pocket, where its butt protrudes about an inch. Quick access but almost hidden. We can't have a fireman running into their building waving an automatic weapon.

Now the duffel bag. I reach and pull out blocks of C4, all strung together with insulated wire. Stuff my suit full of it. In the legs, in the arms, down my back, in front of my chest. The battery goes into another special pocket, the battery and the detonator. Press and let go. This is how I'll kill myself: press and let go.

The driver's side door opens and Crystal flies out.

“Cameron,” she says.

I look away, ready to run. I can't stand here all day.

“Honey, you don't have to do this! Why don't you let us help? We can still do it the way Clay planned.”

“Crystal, I can't. I have to do it this way.”

Now Cameron gets out of the car.

“What's the problem? If he's going to do this, he needs to go now, before someone sees us and calls the police.”

“But—”

“Thank you for being my friend, Crystal.”

I reach forward to hug her as Cameron watches us.

“Good-bye,” I tell her and turn away. Tears blur the NeuroStor building before me.

“Cameron!” she cries.

I take off running, afraid that if I wait any longer, I'll lose my nerve and never run at all.

One thought pushes me forward: Batista.

         

Heavy breathing. Loud in my ears. Some kind of weird smell. A car goes by on the road just after I cross it.

Now grass. A stone sculpture. Stitch in my side already. Sweat rushes down my forehead. Stings my eyes.

Now asphalt. These boots are heavy. Getting tired already. See the doors. Up ahead. And someone standing near the sidewalk, watching me.

My God, it's Clay.

My hand moves to the butt of the MP-5, but Clay never moves. He just stands there, arms closed over his chest, watching me. As if he knew I was going to be here.

As if this is what he wanted all along.

Did Crystal tell him? Or did he figure it out on his own? Was he awake when I took the weapons from his room?

I keep running. Clay is behind me now. What the hell is he doing?

No time to think about it unless I want to abort. Less than thirty yards to the doors now.

I can't abort. I'm in too deep. I hope this works.

Twenty yards.

Fuck.

Ten.

Rodrigo.

Five.

Batista.

Touchdown.

         

One set of doors and then another. Now a semicircular desk in front of me. A middle-aged woman with pale, wrinkled skin and long red hair sits behind it. Her eyes grow large like dinner plates, and I am seized by a sudden, uncontrollable urge to apprise her of the situation regarding Rodrigo Batista. That he, in fact, deserves to be fucked. Somehow, however, clear reason steps through the haze of my weary mind and convinces me this is a bad idea.

“Ma'am, the PPD bomb squad is currently trying to diffuse a large bomb at LMT, across the way there.”

I point back the way I came. I'm using my deepest voice. Her alarm is obvious.

“We need to evacuate this building immediately. Do you have an evacuation alarm?”

She nods. Doesn't say anything.

“Sound it. And where is the nearest fire escape?”

She points to a set of glass doors.

“Through those doors. Go left. End of the hall.”

“Are those doors locked?”

“Yes. You need an employee ID.”

“Open them now.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I can't open them without leaving my desk, I mean.”

“Then get up and open them!”

“Yes sir.”

She jumps out of her chair and hurries to the sliding glass door. I follow her and run through as she opens it. Here the floor is carpeted. There are offices on both sides of the hall. Windows reveal desks in some and conference tables in others. I sprint, very tired now, toward the end of the hall. Toward the sign that reads
EXIT
in red letters.

Now the alarm sounds. A bright, white strobe flashes across the hall. An automated voice barks instructions, but somehow forgets to mention anything about Rodrigo Batista and how he is about to get fucked. Royally.

I reach a door marked
STAIRS
. Throw it open. Up the stairs. My hand is on the gun but I don't pull it out yet.

I've just reached the second floor when the door there is thrown open. Terror seizes me, and I almost jerk out the MP-5. Four people in professional clothing look at me and then take off down the stairs. Above, I hear another door open. My hand is on the gun again.

“What's happening?” someone screams. A fat, greasy man and a gorgeous woman jog by.

“Bomb,” I say, and then, in a nearly inaudible whisper, I add this delicious morsel: “Fuck Rodrigo Batista.”

Their legs take them faster.

Third floor. Getting very tired. Think I'm seeing double. Triple, even.

No more people now. This high up they take the elevator. Can't be bothered with physical exertion for a simple bomb scare. I wonder what the board is doing? Did Clay's contact lock the doors electronically even though the invasion is different from what he expected? I'm hoping he did, especially considering that Clay apparently knew about my plan already.

Fourth floor. Fuck. Fifth. Rodrigo. I'm nearly walking now. Batista.

Sixth. My heart is going to explode. I've got to stop. It's so hot. I've got to stop. Three more floors. Fuck. I'm never going to make it.

Gotta keep going. Stop now, never start again.

Rodrigo.

Seventh. Something is wrong. Gotta take a shit. Gotta shit bad. No bathroom here. What the hell?

Batista.

On my way to the eighth when someone opens a door above me. Loud footsteps.

“Hey!” someone yells.

“Bomb!” I yell back.

“There's no bomb! We called the police. There's no bomb at LMT!”

The ruse is up. Time to be honest. One hand goes to the MP-5.

“No.
I've
got a bomb.”

Other hand goes into the bomb pocket. Grabs the detonator. This is it. I've got to press it now in case I get shot. Press and let go. They may kill me, but I'll kill Batista. All I have to do is press and let go.

I pull the MP-5 free as I reach the landing between the seventh and eighth floors. Flip the safety and point the gun upwards.

“Put the weapon down!” he screams at me. “Put it down or I'll blow your fucking brains out!”

My chest is heaving, my vision still doubled. God, I've never been so hot in all my life. The man stands above me on the eighth-floor landing. His gun is trained on me, and I have no doubt he's a quicker and more accurate shot than I am. But he's scared, his eyes betray him, and I have the secret, deadly weapon in my hand.

“Shoot me and die,” I tell him. “This suit is packed with C4 plastic explosive. I've already depressed the detonator. If I let go now, it's all over.”

He stares at me for what seems like an hour. Above him, another door opens.

“What the fuck is going on?” someone yells. I recognize this voice. Too tired to place it.

The guy in front of me doesn't know what to do. He's not sure if he should answer. I nod at him.

“The guy has a bomb!”

I wait for a response, something to break this stalemate. What I hear is so bizarre that, for a minute, I'm sure this is all a dream, that I'm really asleep somewhere, making it all up.

“Cameron Fisher,” the familiar voice calls from above. “What do you want?”

My name! The guy knows my name!

I don't say anything. Shocked into silence.

“Cameron, tell us what you want.”