Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (8 page)

“Hardly, I’m doing just fine for myself and I’ve learned it’s hard to trust others with that kind of thing,” Goldstein said before making eye contact.  It seemed like he was determined to find something there.  Jenkins raised an eyebrow and gave him a puzzled look.

“Then are you coming to appreciate my handsome features?  My pretty eyes?”  Goldstein laughed and shook his head.

“Not so much, though I am looking for something.  Tell me,” Goldstein said before tilting his head the other way.  “Have you noticed how the others look at you?”  Jenkins looked at the merchant and realized this wasn’t a friendly call.  He might have been friendly about it, but Goldstein had his own motives to be here in Jenkins’ room at this time of night.  Jenkins felt apprehensive and gripped the edges of the desk with a little more force.

“Have I noticed them looking at me?  Like how?”  Goldstein crossed his arms and gave a half-smile. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve noticed.  It’s been a couple of weeks, now.  They all look at you strangely, don’t you agree?  It’s like something’s a bit…off.”  Goldstein continued that perverse little smile of his while thoughts bounced around in Jenkins’ brain.  The young Crow had noticed that these men who had been constant features in his life for the last two months had changed in their behaviors.  He had noticed how Dr. Kane didn’t seem the same as she was before.  Jenkins looked at the merchant and wondered what the man was getting at.

“Yes, I have noticed this.  I assume you have something to say about it.”  Goldstein shrugged and looked back at him.

“You know what they say about assuming?” the merchant asked with a slight smile.  Jenkins rolled his eyes; only now did he realize how corny it really was.

“Yes, ass, you, me, I know the saying.  But you do have something to say,” Jenkins said, starting to get impatient.  The older man had a purpose here.

“Don’t get testy with me; you will have plenty to think about in just a short while.  Do you have any idea why your teammates would look at you like this?  Do you have any idea why some of them might not trust you anymore?”  Jenkins was starting to dislike the merchant.  Goldstein couldn’t just say something plainly; he had to poke and prod until his game was over.  Jenkins played along only so that he could know what the other soldier meant to say.

“No, Goldstein, I don’t know why they don’t trust me anymore,” Jenkins said in a frustrated tone.  He really didn’t know and hadn’t thought about it, but it did explain their behavior.  They looked at him like he was a freak.

“Well, Ryan, it’s because you committed suicide.”  Jenkins’ eyes widened at that.  He had absolutely no recollection of that event.  He would know if he tried to off himself.  It was a serious offense on Eris and could lead to “permanent retirement.”  He didn’t want to die; it didn’t make sense.

“And did you even know that you were instrumental in Roberts’ overdose and that you were there for the entirety of that miserable life where Hawkins abused his pain receptors?  That you attacked the scientist and vowed to kill him?”  Jenkins didn’t know any of that, either.  He looked at the merchant and wondered what he was trying to do.  These things couldn’t have happened; Ryan would remember them.

“Do you remember how you felt when you realized you were just the clone of a man who died back on Earth?  Do you remember how you realized that your entire existence was devoted to misery and you could end it?  Do you remember the instant when you realized that you would rather die than live one minute longer on this little asteroid fighting a war for the people’s amusement?”

Jenkins looked at the merchant.  The middle-aged Crow had stopped smiling; Goldstein was looking at the younger soldier with genuine interest and compassion.  It seemed absurd, but Goldstein might have been telling the truth.  Jenkins did his best to remember any of these things but couldn’t.  There was nothing even close to it.

They stared at each other for a moment.  Jenkins had no idea how long the moment lasted, but his mind was going a thousand kilometers per second.  While it seemed so impossible, there was a part in the back of his mind that knew it was familiar.  Goldstein unfolded his arms and stood up a little straighter against the opposite wall.  He looked at the floor and sighed.

“No, I don’t suppose you would.  Hawkins has always been quite thorough.  That’s why the Commission trusts him so much.  He’s their very own, personal Doctor Frankenstein.  And you, Ryan, are the monster,” Goldstein said before pushing off the wall and closing the distance to the soldier sitting on the desk.  Jenkins was confused and Goldstein couldn’t blame him.  The merchant placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.  Goldstein almost regretted letting him know the truth.

“You’re a fake, Ryan.  The real Jenkins died when he ended his own life.  Hawkins brought back a twisted version and that’s you.  And the fun part is that Carver paid for it.  I suggest you have a chat with him,” he said before moving past the soldier and walking to the door.  He paused with his fingers on the handle and looked back at the soldier who was still reeling from shock.

“You should thank the three of them, you know.  Without Jenkins, you would never exist, Carver paid for it and Hawkins created the miracle that is you.  Ain’t life grand?”  Goldstein felt guilty about it, but it had to be done.  There was no point in living in denial; he wished he could make everyone see that.  As he opened the door and started to leave he heard the soldier speaking behind him.

“Why the fuck would you tell me that?”  Goldstein turned and wanted to tell him it was all a cruel joke, but some very important people had wanted him to stand there waiting for Jenkins that night.  He sighed and shrugged.

“Information is one of the most valuable things a man can have.  The truth even more valuable.  I just gave you the truth about yourself.  I want to see what you do with it.”

The merchant turned and walked into the dark hallway.  He could see from one of the external windows that the Earth was starting to rise.  He wondered again if it was worth saving.

Douglas Finnegan felt nervous and really didn’t want to be in the brightly-lit hotel room.  He didn’t have a choice.  The announcer with the curly, dark brown hair was already stuck in this life and these were the consequences, but he had figured these styles of meetings should have taken place in dive bars or deserted parks; places where there weren’t any lights or cameras to spy on them.  He didn’t want to have coffee in the hotel lobby of his fellow conspirator.

It all made sense, though.  Eric Jones was such the personality that people were going to follow him anywhere; they might as well be comfortable.  The sports anchor for
War World
had more clout than some of the movie stars that were making the rounds these days and he had a reputation for some wild partying.  If Eric had tried to talk about bringing down the Commission and the games anywhere else there would be photographic evidence and people eavesdropping for every word.  In the hotel lobby the two of them wouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing.

It still made Douglas uneasy.  The note that had been left on his desk was suitably vague.  All that was written on the piece of paper was the time and place for the meeting and instructions to burn the piece of paper upon reading it.  There was a sizable part of him that was considering that it was all a trap and he’d spend the rest of his very short life working slave labor on Demeter.  The thought made him shudder as he realized he’d never done a single day’s worth of labor.  Douglas looked down at his gut and wondered how all those stars convinced themselves to go to the gym every day.  It wasn’t like his job was built against that behavior, he only had to spend a couple hours at work being the announcer of the most popular sports program, but he could never get himself off of his couch when he had the free time.

Douglas sighed and looked around the lobby.  The soft yellow light reflected off brass fixtures and the upholstery on the furniture looked pleasant and felt comfortable.  It was nice; typical of the hotels that the poor weren’t allowed to touch.  Douglas liked to think he still held something in common with the poor people, even if his weekly checks were more than they might make in a year.  He hated himself for such a life of luxury, but he justified it by living on the ruined shell that was Earth.  Three hundred years ago the planet had been lush and vibrant, even with the overpopulation and pollution threatening the human race.  After the Moonfall, the Trade Union harvested everything they could to make their precious little asteroids.  They had ruined Earth and turned it into a glorified slum.

The only reason Douglas actually lived on the planet was because of his job.  In order to report on the pretend wars occurring on Eris, the War World Network needed the ability to gather information constantly.  They couldn’t have other asteroids blocking transmissions.  The entire staff for the program had to live on the planet, but there were still nice little bastions of luxury planet-side.  The anchors and the heads of the studio could afford to live in hotels like these.  Douglas had a studio apartment.

The announcer looked at the fine wooden table in front of him and saw how they had made it look hand-carved.  It was a mass-produced relic and had no real skill attached to it, but it did make Douglas think about how things used to be.  It made his self-loathing kick up again and he tried to justify himself.  He knew he wouldn’t be able to help that much, but the Initiative needed him for some reason.  Or, at least, that’s what Eric had told him that day in the break room.  Douglas didn’t know how much of a role he’d have in their “special” broadcast, but he wanted to help.  The world couldn’t go on like this.

He heard a bell ring and looked towards the elevator bay.  He had looked over every time expecting his co-conspirator to come out with a fake smile; Eric was all about the appearances.  Instead it was just another businessman with a debutante on his arm.  Douglas sat back in his chair and thought about what would happen if a pair of EOSF guards came in and put him under arrest.  If he tried to run, he could probably make it to the kitchen of the hotel’s restaurant, but he looked down at his gut and knew they’d catch him soon after that.

Douglas looked over at the elevator bay just as the bell went off again.  He was anticipating another disappointment, but after a few seconds he saw Eric come out of the elevator.  The celebrity wasn’t wearing his fake smile this time; he even had brown scruff around his jaw line.  Douglas hadn’t seen him in a couple of days, Eric had taken sick leave, but the announcer didn’t expect the man to neglect his appearance for even an hour.  Douglas breathed out and waved to the disheveled man.  The sullen television anchor was already walking to him, but gave a small nod of assent as he went.

Eric sat himself down in the armchair next to Douglas and gave a smile out of courtesy.  It still shocked Douglas to know that Eric was a secret agent for the Eris Freedom Initiative.  The man was rich, well-loved and had nothing to complain about from all appearances, but Douglas knew better.  The celebrity’s half-brother had been sucked into the games just like so many other lost souls and, in his own special set of circumstances, had been brainwashed into not remembering Eric or his past life.  When Eric had broken down and told him just a few weeks ago Douglas had thought he was acting at first, but he could see the torture in the man’s eyes.  Eric Jones wrung his hands and looked at the announcer to his side.

“So you got the note, too, eh?”  Douglas bit his lip and furrowed his brow.  Eric had been the one to recruit him; Douglas had assumed the news anchor had left the note for him.  That just made the middle-class announcer even more paranoid.

“That wasn’t you?” Douglas asked with a note of alarm.  Eric glanced around the room in response.   It seemed like he didn’t trust his safety in the wide open, either.  There was an awkward silence as the two men scanned the room for the EOSF guards that were sure to come out of the woodwork.  The brown-haired celebrity rubbed his face and then looked at his co-conspirator.

“Nah, that wasn’t me.  Last time they got in contact with me they kinda just blindsided me while I was on a bender.  As far as I know they don’t really work through notes, but this is my hotel.  I can always just say I came down for a drink and saw you.  We’re not friends, but we could talk about the show.”

“That was the idea,” a mystery voice said behind them.  The two conspirators turned to see Jamie Caswell, one of the producers of War World.  He was a pompous ass with slick-backed hair and designer glasses when he was on the set, but now his hair was ruddy and his frames were absent.  For a second Douglas thought he was fired for sure and would be arrested in just a moment, but soon enough reason started to set in.  The man knew too much already; he could be the man they were supposed to see.

Eric did not make the same connection.  As soon as he saw the producer he shifted in his seat and started to stammer.  His mind was wildly racing in order to find some excuse that they would be exactly where the note said they would be.

“Jamie!  H-hey, how you doin, buddy?  Look, um, we…”Eric started before Jamie looked at him and raised an eyebrow.  The producer didn’t let him continue.

“Eric, shut your mouth.  I left the note.  C’mon, I got a room.  We’ll talk in there,” the man said before turning his back and heading towards the elevator bay.  Douglas looked at Eric, who in turn was looking at him in utter amazement.  Jamie Caswell was the last one they would ever expect to be part of the resistance movement.

Never before had Douglas ever met anyone who was so callous about people’s feelings and more concerned with the bottom line.  He told Eric how to smile; he told Samantha, the wide-eyed blonde anchor on the show, how to best present her breasts.  He even told her how much weight she needed to lose in a week.  When he dealt with Franklyn, the highly-intelligent black anchor, Caswell did his best to imply that his job depended on him acting the stereotypical black man.  When Patrick, a former member of the Crows, ever broke out of his drug-induced delirium, Jamie was the first to fire an intern for not keeping him dosed.