Текст книги "The Cure"

Автор книги: Douglas E. Richards

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

29

HANSEN PARKED THE Blue Medusa in the expansive Walmart lot and his mind returned to the present. He bought a prepaid disposable cell phone, not identical to Erin’s but with the same limited functionality, and called her while pacing through the store’s endless aisles.

“Has anyone kicked down the door of your old room yet?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t opened the curtain as much as an inch to peer out and see what might be happening. This motel could be blanketed with twenty commandoes, and I wouldn’t know it.”

Just hearing her melodious voice was causing stirrings of arousal within him. It was a wonder mankind had to wait for Pavlov to understand the whole stimulus-response thing.

Hansen told her he had had second thoughts about attempting misdirection by planting false leads in her old room. Returning to this room was too risky.

“I agree,” she said. “I came to the same conclusion after you left.”

“I’ll drive by the motel a few times and do some reconnaissance. If there are hostiles in the parking lot, I’ll wait until they leave. If not, we can change our appearances and get the hell out of there.”

“Did you just use the words reconnaissance and hostiles?” said Erin in amusement.

Hansen laughed. “I thought you’d like that. I may not read your genre, but I don’t live in a cave. I have seen movies with military themes.”

“Those wouldn’t be the ones where Hasbro toys come to life, would they?”

“Nah. I’d never watch mindless stuff like that. If it doesn’t have subtitles and isn’t showing at an art house theater, I won’t go. It’s as simple as that. My favorites are arty French films with German subtitles.”

“Let me guess. You don’t speak a word of either language?”

“Good guess,” he replied with a chuckle.

Hansen knew they were wasting precious time on banter, but they were both under tremendous stress, and this was a way to defuse the tension a bit and continue to solidify the deep connection that was rapidly developing between them.

“Stay on the phone while you shop, so I can know exactly what you’re getting and make sure you get the right sizes. Knowing what you’ve bought will help me plot out the most efficient way for us to transform ourselves.”

“Sounds good.”

“I figure once you’re back, we should be able to get shorn, colored, tattooed, and clothed in less than ten minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Hansen with a heavy sigh.

30

RYAN BROCK WATCHED as his team left the vicinity of the Saguaro Inn to pursue other leads. He and the man he had chosen to partner with on this mission, Lieutenant Jim Blessinger, would be doing the same soon. But before doing so, he wanted to be absolutely certain he had left no stone unturned. The petite woman at the front desk, who had recognized Erin Palmer’s photo on TV, had told them that Erin had checked in, using an alias, paid in cash, and was now gone, not bothering to stop by the front desk when checkout time had rolled around just minutes earlier. A maid had been about to begin cleaning Erin’s room, but they had arrived in time to stop her, so nothing inside had been disturbed.

Erin Palmer could have left half an hour before they arrived or ten hours before. There was no way to tell.

According to the desk clerk, Erin had checked in alone. The clerk had also happened to see her return to the motel by cab, within an hour or so of when she had disappeared from their sight at the union. She had been alone this time as well.

This matched their expectations. She and Kyle Hansen would have almost had to have gone their separate ways to have any chance of slipping by them. And splitting up made by far the most sense strategically. Given her almost preternatural strategic abilities in this area, Brock was convinced they would split up and make things more difficult for them.

Brock had gained considerable respect for this girl, who continued to make seasoned veterans look like rookie assholes. He suspected she was long gone. There was always the chance the clerk had misidentified her, but given this guest’s arrival by cab, without bags, and payments in cash, he was convinced it really had been Erin Palmer.

So now he and Blessinger were in the room she had checked into, trying to find tea leaves to read: tiny balled-up pieces of paper with writing on them, a book of matches; anything.

The TV station that Erin had last watched was a local one. Brock wondered if she had seen herself on the screen. If so, she would be even harder to catch, since she would be more careful than ever. But it didn’t matter. The dragnet for her was so extensive she didn’t stand a chance. This wasn’t football, where a great defense could win the day. This was a game of cat and mouse. With five thousands cats. And a single mouse. Didn’t matter how clever a mouse, it was only a matter of time—and not much time at that.

Brock inspected the room with a fine-tooth comb but found nothing useful. It was time to go. Somehow they would catch her trail again. He took one last look around. Everything was neat and tidy, for the most part. A few towels had been used. And the sheets looked as though a war had been fought on them. But Brock didn’t doubt Erin Palmer had done a lot of tossing and turning before she had managed to fall asleep.

The outline of a small stain caught his eye on the cotton sheet, like a small bit of soda had been spilled and had left a faint, amorphous outline when it had dried. He tilted his head. It could have been a permanent feature of the sheet, but he doubted it.

Would water have left this kind of outline? Maybe. He hadn’t seen any spent soda bottles or other drinks. Had she tried to disguise herself? He knew nothing about dying hair, but perhaps she had spilled a clear ingredient in this process—maybe a base before the new color was applied. He had already turned over the sheets and the yellow-and-orange floral bedspread once to be sure nothing had been left in their folds, but he did so again, even more carefully this time. He found no other evidence that would suggest hair dye had been applied here.

He leaned over the bed and put his nose close to the faint outline on the bed. His eyes widened. What an idiot he had been. How could he be so fucking stupid?

“Jim, smell this and tell me what you think it is.”

Blessinger repeated Brock’s maneuver and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Jesus, Ryan. Really?”

“I’ll take that as a confirmation. It seems our little grad student got laid last night.”

“Yeah. No shit. But I would have taken your fucking word for it,” said Blessinger, looking toward the sink as though he wanted to scrub his nose with soap.

Brock ignored him. They had been careless. Just because the desk clerk had said Erin had checked in alone, didn’t mean she couldn’t have met up with Hansen later. Brock should have checked, just to be sure. Erin Palmer and Kyle Hansen had obviously joined up again here—in more ways than one. Very interesting.

“I’ll let the team know we think they’re traveling together,” said Blessinger. “And have become … good friends.”

“Do that,” said Brock. No matter what, they had uncovered useful information, but maybe he could get lucky. “While you’re calling the team, I’m going to talk to the desk clerk one more time. What was her name?”

“Whitney. You know, like the inventor of the cotton gin.”

“Really? That’s how you remember it?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Brock rolled his eyes. Minutes later he was sliding a tablet computer into the hands of the woman named Whitney at the front desk. “Have you ever seen this man?”

She studied the photo with a funny look on her face. “Yeah. He just checked in a little while ago.”

Brock thought he would jump out of his skin. “He checked in? Here? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“No kidding,” he said, forcing himself to sound relaxed and barely interested. “What room did you put him in?”

She checked a computer. “Room one forty-eight.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. I think he might have walked here—I don’t know from where. Then, after he checked in, he came back and gave me a whole routine about losing his phone, and needing to check a few urgent e-mails. He practically begged me to let him use a computer for five minutes.”

“Interesting,” said Brock, trying to hide his eagerness. “I assume you let him.”

“Yes.”

“The computer he used,” said Brock. “Has anyone used it since he did?”

Whitney shook her head.

“Can I see it?” asked Brock.

Whitney led him through the desk area into a small office. Brock worked the mouse and within seconds had the recent browsing history for the computer up on the screen. He smiled as he clicked on the last page Hansen had viewed. It showed a used car for sale, a blue Chevy Malibu long past its prime. It was quite an eyesore. But to Brock it was the most beautiful sight he had seen in quite some time.

He left the small office. “Thanks, Whitney, you’ve been very helpful,” he said as he passed the front desk. He paused at the glass double doors serving the motel lobby. “And I’ll make sure you get the fifty-thousand-dollar reward. For now, though, do me a favor. Don’t leave this office until I give you the green light. Hopefully, it won’t be too long. And light up the No Vacancy sign.”

Whitney swallowed hard. “Will I be in any danger?” she asked.

“Stay put and you’ll be just fine,” he said reassuringly. “I promise.”

And with that he pushed through the lobby doors and began dialing his cell phone.

31

HANSEN PURCHASED THE items in his cart and returned to the Blue Medusa in the Walmart parking lot. As he entered the car, he wondered what Drake was doing right now. A being he had worked with far more closely than any human.

While Drake had helped him achieve unbelievable things, Hansen had also often been relegated to the position of a lowly hired hand. But this couldn’t be helped. Someone needed to take care of mundane interactions with humans, since it was always best to keep Drake’s interactions with members of the host planet to a minimum.

Besides, if it weren’t for him being Drake’s errand boy, he never would have had the chance to meet Erin Palmer.

But Hansen had been worried about his alien associate for some time now, even prior to this attack, which elevated his anxiety to the stratosphere. Drake had seemed to be getting more and more unstable as the psychological burden of living among the constant savagery of humanity took its toll. And now this. Not only having to witness, and escape, a brutal attack, but being forced to go on the run. Being hunted like an animal.

And the attack in Yuma wasn’t the first time Drake had experienced such savagery up close and personal. As Hansen pulled out of the parking lot, vivid memories of Drake’s first exposure to human ruthlessness came to the forefront of his consciousness.

*   *   *

TWO YEARS HAD gone by since Hansen had met with Fuller and Fermi. Two years in which he had worked harder than ever before, and during which progress was slower, and more painful, than ever before.

The Wraps had been right to intervene when they had. If he didn’t know for sure that he was on the right track, he would have given up months earlier, as stubborn as he was. This was sheer torture, made even worse by knowing that beings existed somewhere close by who could give him the answers he needed instantly.

Generous funding had magically appeared, as promised, to support Hansen and to purchase expensive equipment for his advisor’s lab. Even so, his advisor was embarrassed by Hansen. He appreciated the funding, although he was convinced a crackpot who knew nothing about physics was responsible, but insisted that Hansen would never earn his Ph.D. unless he switched gears immediately. Unless he got with the program and worked on something that wasn’t unanimously thought to be preposterous.

Hansen had finally broken up with Morgan, and while he did date on occasion, he hadn’t found anyone special. He still lived in an apartment, and he was soaking up as much knowledge as he could from some truly brilliant professors, skeptical of his own work though they might be.

Steve Fuller hadn’t attempted to communicate with him even once since that first meeting, but Hansen felt certain he was being observed, at least periodically. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel outraged. They’d be fools to trust him entirely.

Not that he wasn’t trustworthy, but too much was riding on him keeping quiet. He could only imagine how often the Wraps and their computer were helping to break up terrorist plots around the world, carefully tracking WMD in the hands of crazed regimes, and using inconceivable computing power to predict pockets of global tension and suggest ways to defuse them before they spiraled out of control.

The Wraps were like benevolent fairy godmothers watching over humanity, guiding them away from the self-destruction an even greater computer on Suran had predicted with such certainty. Given the importance of Fuller’s operation, and the lives it was saving in both the short and the long run, Hansen would have kept tabs on someone like himself if he were in their shoes, making sure he didn’t betray them.

When he had started to pry, Fuller could have just put a bullet in his head. So the fact that his head still only had the usual five openings, and not a bullet-shaped sixth between his eyes, made the prospect of being under surveillance a lot easier to bear.

And instead of eliminating him as a risk, Fuller and Fermi had vindicated his beliefs and given him a purpose. He would be instrumental in making epic breakthroughs in quantum physics for mankind. Yes, he was just repeating what members of the Seventeen had discovered hundreds of thousands of years earlier, and other races, perhaps, millions or billions of years before that. But it was like watching a stunning magic trick performed by a master illusionist and being the first to figure out how it was done. There was still some satisfaction to be had from this endeavor.

And by pushing the boundaries of current knowledge, he was hastening the day when humanity would reach a stage of maturity and scientific development that would allow them to be welcomed as the eighteenth member of galactic society.

Hansen was in his apartment one morning, staring off into space and hoping that some divine intervention would give him insight into a problem that had stumped him for weeks, when there was a single light rap on his door.

He threw it open, expecting to see a solicitor. Instead, the first thing he saw was a yellow spiral notebook, being held open and thrust toward his face. DON’T SAY A WORD was written in big capital letters on the page facing him.

Hansen’s breath was knocked out of him just as surely as if he had been hit in the stomach. The notebook was being held up by twelve thin, supple tentacles, protruding from the midsection of the man standing there.

At first he thought it was Fermi, whose visage was seared into his memory, but it was not. It must have been one of the other three Wraps on Earth. They were artificially constructed to look like humans, and the surgeons and genetic engineers responsible back on Suran had obviously not seen any reason to deviate much from a single template.

The Wrap turned to a blank page and scribbled more words hastily, his tendrils balletic in their movements. He held the page out to Hansen.

DRIVE ME SOMEWHERE WE CAN TALK. BUT STAY SILENT IN YOUR CAR.

Hansen nodded, and without saying a word, grabbed his keys and wallet from a table near the door and closed it softly behind him.

The Wrap transferred the notebook to a ham-fisted human hand and his tendrils retreated under his shirt. His face was bruised, his clothing was filthy, and he smelled of petroleum. He looked as though he was burned in several places.

Hansen could only imagine what had happened, but whatever it was, it was very bad. The Wrap got into the passenger seat of his car, and Hansen turned on the radio, pretending he was alone and out for a drive.

He chose a destination almost immediately, and fifteen minutes later he and his guest were sitting on a bench in Schenley Park, a four-hundred-and-fifty-acre municipal park that bordered the campuses of Carnegie Mellon and Pittsburgh Universities. The bench had a view of a tranquil man-made lake surrounded by lush trees, dense with dark-green leaves.

“My name is Drake,” said the Wrap a moment after they had lowered themselves to the bench, apparently satisfied that it was finally safe to speak. “I need your help.”

Just as with Fermi, he had a slight accent, impossible to place, and a way about him that Hansen’s subconscious suggested was wrong. Something he wouldn’t have picked up on nearly this quickly had he not been exposed to it before.

“What happened?” asked Hansen.

“It was barbaric,” replied his guest, a faraway, haunted look in his eyes. “A carnage. An atrocity. Humanity is … brutal. Barbaric. I’m not even sure your species should be saved from itself anymore. I can’t even imagine loosing you on the galaxy. You’re like a plague.”

“Slow down,” said Hansen, his heart and mind racing. “First of all, are you okay? Physically?” he added, since it was clear that the alien was an emotional wreck.

“I’m battered but I’ll live.”

“Okay, what happened to you? Why are you here?”

The alien named Drake looked away for several seconds, the haunted look returning. “The others…” He halted as though he couldn’t go on. He turned away. “The others are all dead.”

“What others?” said Hansen. “The other Wraps?”

“Yes. And scores of humans as well. Humans who were working with us.”

Hansen felt like he had been hit with a baseball bat. Fermi dead? The emissaries who had been sent here at enormous cost to an entire civilization dead? How? Hansen didn’t have a clue about the details of their security, but it had to be unprecedented. These had been the most important four beings on the planet—apparently now down to one.

“How?” asked Hansen.

“We were betrayed,” said Drake in horror. “Utterly betrayed. By Steve Fuller.”

“What?” said Hansen, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. “Fuller is the head of the entire operation.”

But even as he said it he realized for this to have happened it almost had to have been Steve Fuller. The only person who could beat impenetrable security was the head of that security. Which explained the how. But not the why.

“Yes,” agreed Drake. “Fuller was in charge. But I’ve learned he was doing more than just working with us. For years, he was also using his extensive military connections to trade arms. He and his shadow organization have their hands in every pie across the globe.”

“That’s insane. You’re here to keep track of WMD, dictators, and disruptive elements. And you’re saying the man you were working with, the man in charge of the whole program, was the man who was supplying these same elements?”

“Yes. But not with WMD. That’s why our computer never made the connection. But when we were giving Fuller extensive lists of dangerous players around the world, we were basically putting together a customer list for him.”

“How do you know all this?” said Hansen.

“He told us. His men wiped out our bodyguards and anyone else not in his organization. They captured us. He was after our quantum computer. With it in his hands, he would have unlimited power.”

“Did he get it?”

“Physically, yes. He had been insisting that we let him use it since we arrived. Insisting that we break our own version of your prime directive. But we never gave in.”

“So he decided to take it from you?”

“Yes. But once he pulled his coup, really on himself since he was in charge, he discovered it was worthless to him. It’s programmed to only respond to Wraps. To him, it might as well be a paperweight.”

Drake looked away again. “He was furious,” continued the alien. “And when we wouldn’t tell him how to access the computer, he tortured Fermi. In front of us.”

His eyes glazed over as though this was a trauma from which he would never recover. The fact that it hadn’t driven him mad already was a miracle, given his more delicate constitution and sensibilities, and after having experienced something that would be traumatic to the most jaded human.

“Did Fermi give him what he wanted?”

“No. We were all programmed, at the genetic level, to be incapable of giving in to coercion of this type. In the end Fuller killed him. But he told us all about his arms operation while he was at it.”

The alien shook his head in horror. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Steve Fuller was our partner. How could he do this? It was like he was two people. He was so friendly and fair-minded. We all thought he was among the best of your people. How could we have been fooled so totally?”

Hansen thought of Jeffrey Dahmer and others like him. So smooth. So well liked. And yet monsters beyond compare on the inside. “I don’t know,” said Hansen. “Some people can look and act normal, even come across as compassionate, when inside they’re pure evil. I don’t understand it either.”

Drake stared at him incomprehensibly, unable to believe such evil could reside in any living thing, let along in someone able to wear the facade of good so convincingly.

“So how did you escape?” asked Hansen. “And what happened to the others?”

“The military was aware security was breached. Those independent of Fuller. They mounted a rescue attempt. During the attempt, the other two members of my species were killed, as were all of the rescuers. One man, severely injured, was able to get me out.”

The alien looked as though he was crying but no tears came out. Apparently, the Wraps had engineered this emotional cue but had forgotten to install human tear ducts, which made this act look totally surreal. “I tried to save his life,” continued Drake. “But I couldn’t. After he had saved my life.”

Hansen nodded woodenly. “And Fuller?” he asked.

Drake shook his head. “I don’t know. There was gunfire and explosions. I had my eyes closed most of the time—most on both sides were killed. Entire sections of buildings were burned to the ground or exploded into fragments. Fuller may have escaped, or he may have been killed. But without me to tell them, I’m not sure if anyone will ever know he was responsible.”

“Even if he escaped,” said Hansen with a frown, “if he decided not to resurface, the government might assume he had died trying to fight off the attack. Died a hero. One of the many who died but were unidentifiable. You have to tell them about him.”

“No,” said Drake simply. “I’ve learned from this experience. From now on I plan to limit the number of humans I trust to the absolute minimum. Especially those in a position of power. The good news is that when they don’t hear from me, they will assume I was killed and mixed in with the rubble as well.”

Hansen wondered what it would be like, not only for this to happen, but to be the last of your kind on a strange planet, without any way home.

“Okay,” said Hansen, “so you take yourself off the grid. But then what?”

“I came here sworn to a mission,” said Drake. “To save your species from itself. To be honest, I need to reevaluate if this is as laudable a goal as I had thought. I may ultimately determine the universe would be better off without you. But after giving it considerable thought I’ve decided that, for now, I will honor my commitment.” He paused. “Which is why I came to see you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“First, I had to trust someone, some human. And we’ve been watching you. You may be fooling us as much as Fuller did, but we are very impressed with your aura. In short, you’re someone I think I can trust. And you also happen to be vital to my mission. I need your expertise.”

“My expertise? You have to be kidding.”

“I need you to build a quantum computer for me. Our only one was destroyed in the battle. At least Fuller didn’t get it,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m the primitive, remember? If anyone can construct one, it’s you—not me.”

Drake shook his head. “Not true. It’s us together.” He paused as if considering how to explain. “I’m not a physicist or computer scientist on my world. And we brought a computer with us. Suppose you crash-landed on a primitive island. Just because you’ve used a cell phone your entire life, could you build one from scratch? Or a microwave oven? Or a television?”

“I get your point. But if you don’t have the skills, I certainly don’t.”

“That’s why I said together. I’m not a physicist, but I was taught big-picture things in school that can direct you. Newton was maybe the most capable and brilliant of your scientists. He invented calculus. Something you now learn in high school. But the average high school student isn’t even close to the genius he was, and couldn’t possibly understand calculus, and build upon it, the way Newton could. But if the student went back in time to when Newton was just developing his ideas, he would still know enough big-picture concepts to guide the true genius.”

“So you know enough quantum physics to guide me, from your equivalent of high school?”

“Right. But I need you to put it all together and truly understand it. I have the big-picture knowledge. You have the working knowledge. And you’ve now spent years headed in the right direction. But even if I had an exact blueprint, I would still need you. Materials and components readily available on Suran are not available here. You know what Earth materials might serve the same purposes, and how to get them. And we’ll need to work extensively with other humans; contractors, suppliers, collaborators. I can’t do that. You can.”

Hansen shook his head. “I appreciate what you’re saying. But recreating your computer can’t be done.”

“You are right. You and me working for a thousand years couldn’t do it. But that computer was overkill. Even a fraction of its capabilities will still exceed Earth’s computers. Without such a computer, I won’t be able to do my job. But with my guidance and your genius, I’m confident we can build a makeshift version powerful enough to do what needs to be done.”

Hansen considered. He could spend the next fifty years stumbling blindly through the dark, but Drake could accelerate this dramatically. Yes, it would mean working off the grid. Falling out of existence. Changing the course of his life forever. Still, it was a no-brainer. How could he say no?

They would need money and eventually a headquarters. But as they discussed this, the plan became clear. A quantum computer, once perfected, would allow them access to unlimited funds. They could build a fortress after that. It would take years and enormous effort, but they could do it.

So Hansen agreed.

Drake vanished into the woodwork and Hansen went back to his life at CMU. If he had fallen off the grid immediately it would look too suspicious. And this gave him a chance to stockpile supplies he would need in a secret warehouse. Six months later, with Drake’s help, he faked his own death.

Now there was no turning back.

He and Drake worked around the clock. Within a year they had developed a crude quantum computer that, primitive though it was, could easily break through the security encryption of any native computer, allowing them to siphon off all the money they needed from huge government slush funds that might not be fully deployed for a decade. From there they added contractors and collaborators on different pieces of the puzzle, and built a fortress in Yuma, Arizona.

Four months after that, while they continued to work toward a more refined, second-level computer, Drake reached a decision.

His experiences with Steve Fuller had caused him to study everything he could on the human condition, focusing solely on humanity’s seedy underbelly. He was horrified. He did a lot of the Suran equivalent of vomiting along the way, but he kept at it. And it took an obvious toll. He began to harden. To become less squeamish. And his resolve grew.

“We need to accelerate our work on the next-generation computer,” he announced one evening. “It’s more urgent than ever.”

“What’s changed?” said Hansen.

“I’ve become convinced that humanity will fall no matter what I do. Our computer can’t look everywhere at all times. And even the one we brought with us missed Fuller completely. Playing defense is doomed to failure. So it’s time to play offense.”

“Offense?” said Hansen.

“Yes. In the end, we’re battling human violence, human aggression, human brutality. But the worst of this, the most dangerous, has a name.” Drake paused. “It’s called psychopathy. And it’s impossible to defend against.” He stared at Hansen with a fierce resolve burning in his eyes. “That’s why I intend to cure it,” he said.