Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (27 page)

Templeton looked at the merchant in front of him and completely forgot about Corrigan’s existence.  The merchant, the person that Templeton had thought the most vile of all the Crows, was the other contact.  Goldstein was the one responsible for greasing the wheels, for letting the EFI undercover agents in to help.  The man in front of him, the only Crow Templeton had thought to be irredeemable, was actually his one true ally.

Darius laughed as he realized he couldn’t hold a candle to the merchant.

“I…well, obviously I had no idea.  You’re pretty good with the undercover, Goldstein,” Templeton said bringing his elbows up to the table and placing the weight of his chin over his interlaced fingers.  He admired the middle-aged man in front of him.

“Keep your fawning to yourself, Templeton.  I actually
was
as selfish as you thought.  Just…” Goldstein said as he looked towards Abrams, who seemed to be in better spirits now that she knew what was coming.  He continued to turn his head to see Roberts sitting by Feldman, the boy soldier clearly suffering through a medicated pain.  He turned back to Templeton, who had dropped the smile from his face.  “I got attached, that’s all.”

“Well, shit.  Why’d you reveal the truth now?  You’re putting yourself in jeopardy, you know?” Templeton asked with real concern.  Shylock was supposed to be completely clandestine, but after his confession Goldstein was right out in the open.  Zachary laughed bitterly and shrugged.

“The footage feedback is in place, Templeton.  There’s no risk here.  Besides,” he said before playing with the mashed potatoes on his tray.  He had grabbed a heap of mystery meat, as well, but it looked even more unappetizing once it was on his tray.  “Atlas is
concerned
.”

Templeton’s eyes widened at the name.  He hadn’t heard anything from Atlas for a long time; the resistance leader was quite reclusive and let his lieutenants handle most of the communication.  For him to talk directly to Goldstein meant that he held the merchant in great esteem.

“About what?” Templeton asked, disturbed that he had not been contacted directly about this.  Goldstein looked at the resistance agent and had to stop himself from sighing.  The man was so gullible; just a few words about his precious leader and he was in Goldstein’s thrall.  The merchant knew he wasn’t interfering, but it was definitely something to note for any future conversation.

“Your end.  He wants to make sure that
every
real soldier is prepared.  Haywick, Markham and all the rest will be fine taking orders, but the rest need to prepare.  The EFI needs quite a few soldiers,” Goldstein said, flagrantly disobeying Atlas’ wishes.  Templeton breathed out deeply and did some mental accounting in front of the merchant.  Goldstein wondered how such a blindly loyal man had become an undercover agent.

“Well, I’m pretty sure all the major players know.  Only one that might be in the dark is Norris, and, well,” Templeton started, trying to think of a nice way to say that Norris was a cold-blooded sociopath that probably shouldn’t make it back to Earth, but Goldstein didn’t let him define the sentiment.

“You’re paired with him today,” Goldstein said bluntly.  “Take out the cameras and tell him, like you did with Carver.”  Templeton looked at him in shock, not knowing how to respond to the merchant’s knowledge.  Goldstein just glared at him disapprovingly and that was all the answer Darius needed.

“I…,” Templeton said before clearing his throat, “I will.  You can count on me.  Atlas can count on me,” Templeton said, knowing that he was almost done with his part of the preparation.  Everyone except the broken soldiers would know what was coming.

“Good, we’ll be ready to get out of here in a few days, then,” the merchant said before taking a piece of the mystery meat and plopping it into his mouth.  It didn’t taste good, but he didn’t much mind at this point.

“Let’s hope so,” a weak voice said to their side.  The two resistance agents looked over in shock at the gaunt, broken soldier beside them.  They had completely forgotten that Corrigan had been sitting there for the entire conversation.  He didn’t smile, he didn’t frown and he didn’t even shrug.  He just picked up his fork and skewered another green bean, which fell apart and back onto the tray as he raised it to his mouth.  Corrigan just poked at it again and lifted it once more, holding it in the air as he looked at the two men.

“I’m broken, but I can still think; I can still hear you.  I don’t mind if you ignore me, but don’t think less of me when I’m sitting right next to you.  Do your part and I’ll do mine.  If that means dying,” he said before placing the vegetable in his mouth and chewing it, not bothering to swallow before speaking again.  “You’ll just have to make it worth it.”

The two men looked at Corrigan in horror, realizing the deficiency in their own characters.  Templeton was about to apologize, but after looking at Goldstein, who was shaking his head slightly, he knew that silence was the better option.  The two men nodded at the broken soldier and went back to their meals and their thoughts.

Corrigan ate the rest of his meal without saying another word.  He did not taste a single bite; he did not feel a single one of his muscles contracting as he ate.  He just remembered how to chew; remembered how to swallow.  Hawkins had robbed him of his touch.  One time Corrigan had bit clear through his tongue and drowned in his own blood.  It was no way to live.

He hoped he would have a good death.

-

Jamie Caswell stepped out of the studio and walked towards his private car.  It was sleek, black and polished to a shine; a show of luxury on a planet of beggars.  When his driver chauffeured him throughout the city streets basking in neon lights, the beggar and criminal populace could only gape in wonder.  It was status, it was fortune and it was just one of the amenities for being the producer of the most popular television show of all time.

Caswell hated the thing.  He opened the door as his driver was most likely asleep; Oscar always slept in the driver seat while waiting for the producer to finish on set.  Caswell didn’t have the heart to fire the man, as Oscar had quite the alcohol problem and couldn’t afford to lose his job.  It was the one act of kindness that Jamie allowed for this producer persona of his; he needed to keep up his callous appearance in all other aspects.  If anyone asked, Jamie would just respond that Oscar saved his life and that Jamie wanted to repay the debt.  It was false, but Jamie didn’t care.

He had a world’s worth of debts to repay.

As he slammed the door, Oscar woke up in the seat and readjusted his hat.  He was fearful of Caswell’s coming reprisal, but Jamie just sighed and turned his head out of the window.  Only a few more days of appearances and he could become himself again.

“Home, Oscar.  I just want to go home,” Jamie said while supporting his head with the heel of his palm.  He could feel the sticky gel in his hair and it irritated his scalp.  He wished for his days back in college where he could wake up, pat his hair down and be done with it.  Outside of his sight, Oscar coughed, nodded and started the car.

“Certainly, Mr. Caswell,” he said before shifting the car into gear and setting off down the streets of Los Angeles.  The city had always been dirty in Jamie’s mind, but tonight it looked downright disgusting.  Jamie had to remind himself that even this little dirty spot of humanity deserved to be saved.  The people here deserved to have their lives to themselves.  He sighed as they passed through the boulevards and bright streets in the middle of the night.

“How was work today, Mr. Caswell?” Oscar asked in the driver’s seat.  Jamie turned his head slightly to look at his driver.  Oscar, a portly pale man with graying hair, was not the best driver in the world.  Jamie felt quite a few bumps in the road and Oscar’s talent at braking hard and accelerating far too fast was enough to give some of his guests motion sickness, but Jamie had a soft spot for the man.  Oscar had lived his entire life in the servitude of celebrities and minor executives; he had never had a free day in his life.  Jamie looked at this life-long driver and let the mask slip away.  The producer could not bear to keep up his public persona; he was so close to his goal.

“Terrible, Oscar, just like always,” he said before peering out the window of his luxury sedan.  Jamie could see a couple of teenagers smoking a crack pipe underneath a streetlamp in plain sight.  The EOSF didn’t bother to stop such minor drug infractions anymore; the people were not worth saving, even from themselves.  Oscar made a noise in the driver’s seat, equal parts disdain and acceptance.

“Sorry to hear that, sir.  Did they forget to dose McEwen again?” the overweight man asked as he took a turn far too sharp and almost forced Jamie to fall into the door.  Jamie readjusted himself and shook off the mistake; he couldn’t care about such an inconvenience.

“No, Oscar.  Like always they dosed him too much,” he said while looking out the window.  He could see a crowd gathering in front of one of the nightclubs and watched the young elite bouncing around.  They were all so young; they were all so beautiful.  Jamie looked at them and wondered if they even bothered to think for themselves; he wondered what they would do if they were given the option.  Jamie hoped that they would take it; he hoped that they weren’t too far gone.  The producer watched the crowd as they passed and remembered the youth he used to be.  He remembered the people he used to know.  They were gone, now; dead, addicted or worse.  Some of them were just like him on the outside, except that it had seeped inside, as well.  Caswell wished that he could go back to the days when jeans and a t-shirt were acceptable.  The past seemed so welcoming, now.

“Oscar?” he asked, lost in his own memories.

“Yes, sir?” the man asked as he jerked to a stop for the red light he had only barely noticed.  Jamie was jerked forward slightly, but paid no heed to any discomfort.

“What do you think of me, Oscar?” he asked, his head still turned outwards but his gaze focused inwards.

“Excuse me, sir?” Oscar asked, suddenly breaking into a sweat at this line of questioning.

“What do you think of me, Oscar?  Do you think I’m a good man?”  Jamie asked, remembering the promises he had made to himself upon graduating.  He remembered looking into the mirror and promising that he would never give up; that he would change the world for the better or die trying.

“Uh,” Oscar stammered.  He didn’t like having to answer a question from such a powerful man.  He was already on thin ice as he messed up frequently.  Mr. Caswell had even sent him home one time for attempting to drive the car while coming off of a massive bender.  The producer had merely dismissed him that day and drove himself, but had called for him the next day anyway.  Oscar did not want to say the wrong thing.

“Oscar, I want your honest opinion.  I’m not going to fire you; you’re going to drive me to work tomorrow and the day after that.  I promise.  What do you think of me?” Jamie asked before turning his head and looking into Oscar’s eyes reflected by the rearview mirror.  Oscar couldn’t help but look back, scared for his life.  The traffic light turned green without him noticing, turned yellow and then red again before Oscar looked away from the mirror.  Luckily they were by themselves on this particular street.

“Sir, I…”

“Jamie, Oscar.  Do away with the honors.  We’re just men, here,” Jamie said, dropping any pretense of superiority.  Oscar breathed in sharply and wondered what he had done to deserve this.

“Sir, I mean, Jamie… you’ve been so good to me,” he started, but Jamie just shook his head behind him.

“A man is more than just the treatment of his driver.  One good act does not stand alone,” Jamie said, pleading with his driver for a description of his character.  He wanted to know what the world thought of him, honestly.

“You’re….you’re a good man, Jamie.  Honest,” Oscar said, hoping that he was saying the right words.  He was not going to risk his income just for a conversation.  Jamie looked back to the street and sighed.  Oscar flicked his eyes back to the road just in time to see the light turn yellow, gunned it and made it past the intersection just before the traffic light turned red.  He breathed out in nervousness as he hoped that the conversation was done.

“Oscar, next time you lie to me, don’t use the word ‘honest.’  It’s pretty obvious,” Jamie said behind him.  Oscar felt a twitch in his lower back as he realized that Jamie saw straight through him.  He stammered and tried to recover his standing with the producer.

“I-I mean it, sir,” Oscar said, forgetting to abandon the honorific, “you’re a good man.  I’ve seen you give money to plenty of people that didn’t deserve it.  You’re a nice guy.”

“Oscar,” Jamie said, remembering how he had risen to his position in such a brutal fashion, abusing internal politics and blackmailing his way to the top.  He was a secret agent, taking his vengeance from the men who so clearly deserved it, but it was still reprehensible.  He had risen to the top of the hill, but only by stacking up the bodies of other people.  “My life had been filled with lies and deception.  You’re a good man, despite your faults, so I’m afraid that you’re just not good at being fake,” Jamie said with a sad smile as he looked back into the rearview mirror, which Oscar was busy avoiding.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Oscar said with defeat in his voice.  He fully expected to have to find another job.

“I’m sorry, too, Oscar.  I wish I could have been better,” Jamie said as he looked out the window.  He hadn’t realized that they were so close to his home, but they were pulling into his driveway as they spoke.  They rode in silence as Oscar pulled up to the garage and parked the sedan.  After a moment he turned off the engine and all that was left for them was that awful quiet.  Neither moved; both men were absorbed in their own thoughts.

“You know what I think, Mr. Caswell?” Oscar asked as he looked at the steering wheel.  He knew that there was nothing he could do, so he might as well speak his mind.  Oscar didn’t wait for Jamie to guess and Jamie had no intention of doing so.  “A man can do an awful lot of bad things in his life.  It weighs on him.  I can tell it’s weighing on you,” he said, never taking his eyes off the steering wheel.  He knew that if he glanced back into that rearview mirror and saw the producer’s stern face that he would lose his nerve.  Jamie turned his head to look into the mirror, but not to judge.  He desperately wanted to know what Oscar had to say.