Authors: Mark Souza
The car was cold and drafty. Moyer huddled in the last seat and tucked his knees into his coat. Before lying down, he put the gold cap on his head in case he fell asleep during the ride.
He wore a laborer’s coverall and an old sweatshirt with a hood to cover his cap. In a land where people didn’t look up and spent most of the time with their eyes disconnected from their brains, Moyer wouldn’t be noticed. Though somehow something was already going wrong and he knew it. A series of coughs racked his ribs until his breath ran out. Beads of sweat sprouted from his brow despite the frigid night air.
It was still dark when the train pulled into the terminal. Moyer waited by the fence on Michigan Street, in the shadows, facing out on the gloomy concrete housing blocks lit by the jaundiced light from streetlamps. When workers left their apartments for the commute, Moyer joined the ranks and fell in step with them.
On the tube, Moyer tried to blank his mind and stare ahead the same as other workers on the car. He noticed their hands, calloused and heavily veined. His now matched theirs. He was a different man than the one who had fled to Mannington months earlier. He tried to stifle a laugh which spawned a hacking fit. The laborers nearest him snapped to consciousness and moved away.
From Freedom Circle Station, Moyer took backstreets following directions Brother Duffy had given him to an alley and a small café he didn’t know existed. Inside, the space was narrow and long, filled with booths on both sides. The clientele was exclusively laborers. The restaurant lacked a menu vid board because there was no choice. Breakfast was breakfast and the same every day. Patrons either wanted it or found someplace else. Considering how far it was off the beaten path, and the limited menu, there was little chance of an accidental meeting with anyone from his previous life who might recognize him, which was the point he supposed.
He found an open booth at the back facing the door and waited. He shooed away a server telling him he was expecting a friend. “You don’t look so good,” the man said as he left. When a familiar face came through the door, Moyer pulled his hood low attempting to evade detection. Hugh Sasaki spotted him anyway and lumbered ahead, still looking like a giant schoolboy whose clothes were chosen by his mother. Was this his contact? Sasaki sat and grinned. “This place is hard to find,” he said. “But I hear the food is good.”
“Why are you here, Hugh?”
The grin left Sasaki’s face. His mouth hung slack and his eyes went dull. After a moment the spark returned. “You are supposed to give me something to upload,” he said. The sense of purpose brought a smile to Sasaki’s doughy face. The server returned to the table. Sasaki held up a pair of fingers. “Two please.”
The server walked to the kitchen and returned with two plates. Sasaki offered his barcode and was charged for both. Moyer pulled the micro-disk from his pocket and slid it across the table. It shone silver as a mirror and unraveled light reflecting off it into a rainbow of distinct colors. Sasaki plucked the disc off the table and squirreled it away in his coat.
“Upload that onto the main server,” Moyer said. “It doesn’t matter where. Then launch the executable. Do you understand?”
Sasaki nodded.
“You seem to be doing better.”
“Little steps,” he said.
Moyer picked at his plate but couldn’t finish. His stomach was roiling and after months of Betsy Connors cooking, he had lost his appetite for flavored soy. Moyer also worried he would lose what little he’d managed to get down during his next coughing jag.
He let Sasaki leave first and wondered if he had recovered enough from rehabilitation to successfully upload the virus. Moyer supposed it didn’t matter. There were no other options.
“Live long and prosper,” Sasaki said as he left, his hand splayed in an odd, split-fingered salute.
Moyer left the café a few minutes later. It was too hot inside. Perspiration dampened his skin. He headed to the station to return home. The chilled air of the Circle was pure relief.
A train pulled in as he cleared the turnstile, the doors opened and people hurriedly streamed out – professionals. The labor commute was already done. Professionals now owned the trains and station. Moyer moved well away from the cars and turned his back to the departing commuters on the off chance he might be recognized. He noticed a camera suspended from the ceiling and tipped his head down to let the hood shield his face.
When he heard the commuters move off and up the stairs, he turned and boarded an empty car and waited for the doors to close. No one would be riding the tube outbound at this time of day. Laborers were well into the workday, and professionals were on their way in, not out.
He waited, but the doors didn’t close. Something was wrong. Moyer stood to exit the car. Two agents blocked the way, a barricade of black. Their wands glowed, ready for a fight. Moyer didn’t offer one. It was the realization of what he dreaded and anticipated – his destiny. He didn’t resist.
They dragged him out of the car by the arms and led him up the stairs toward the Circle. One agent seemed intent on re-breaking his bad arm. Instead of heading for the Security Services building, they forged ahead past it. The sun was high enough to reflect off the glass facades of the surrounding skyscrapers. The agents were taking him to the Hogan-Perko building. They were close now, close enough that there was no doubt.
The receptionist waited near the doors and opened them so the agents didn’t need to break stride. The elevator sat open and ready. The agent crushing his arm pressed 140, the top floor. Perko’s office. When the doors opened moments later, they led him out down the marble hall and through the tall metal doors.
A child sat at Viktor Perko’s desk, wrapped in a plush burgundy housecoat. The agents pulled Moyer toward him and shoved him down into a chair.
The boy smiled. “Moyer Winfield, I didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been such a long time. Look at you. You have gone, oh what’s the word I’m searching for,
native
. Yes, that’s it. My, my, long hair, and your shoulders are broader, but you don’t look well. Not well at all.”
The boy’s smile broadened into something threatening and predatory. Moyer knew this was no boy. It was the next iteration of Viktor Perko. “I didn’t recognize you either. Something about you has changed, but I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Moyer said. “Did you change your hair?”
Though he seemed like a child, his skin smooth and healthy, teeth pearly and small; the sadistic gleam in his eyes, unique turn of phrase, and malignant smile belonged to Viktor Perko and no one else. It answered a question that had plagued Moyer for months. If Petro’s story of his great grandfather having eaten meat as a boy were true, how could Perko, who ran the company then, still be alive? He must have invented a way of transferring his knowledge and memories to clones. Judging from Petro’s story, this was at least the third iteration of Viktor Perko. Those in the resistance who thought they could simply wait for Perko’s death were in for a rude surprise. Viktor Perko would never die without help.
Perko tipped his chair back putting additional distance between himself and Moyer. “I must say you have disappointed me. I asked you to do a simple favor like planting a bomb and you failed. Hawthorne’s embarrassing return forced me to use the Worm before it was ready, another example of your incompetence. It killed millions, and that’s your fault, as well. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Moyer smirked. “Happy to disappoint.”
The smile faded from Perko’s face. “I don’t think you appreciate how dire your circumstances are.”
“I knew I might die if I returned.” Moyer said. “Is it worse than that?” No sooner did he get out the words than he broke down hacking. The child in Perko’s chair recoiled. Once Moyer was able to catch his breath he grinned. “Do I scare you, boy?”
Perko tipped his head and the two agents swung wands near Moyer’s face. “What makes you so brave, Mr. Winfield? Is it that you have a feeling of accomplishment, of completing what it was you set out to do?”
Perko reached inside the pocket of his housecoat and tossed a silver disc on the desk. “We found this on Mr. Sasaki on his way to work. He’s been naughty again. I doubt he’s worth rehabilitating this time.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Ah, now, now. Let’s keep my mother out of this or you might hurt my feelings. But enough of Mr. Sasaki, I brought you here to talk about what you can do for me.”
“Isn’t it a little late to tempt me with a baby?”
“Maybe not,” Perko said. “Would you like to meet your daughter?”
“Nice try. You flushed her the moment the shockwave from your bomb crossed the Circle.”
Perko beamed. “No Mr. Winfield. I only flushed one of your daughters, the one created with that shrew you call a wife. You see, we spotted something interesting while screening your DNA. You have a rare genetic gift. Finding your degree of psychic ability in a male is almost unheard of. I paired your DNA with another psychic to create a sort of super child if you will. Your surviving daughter is eight months old now and very healthy. I’ve named her Pandora. Fitting don’t you think.”
Moyer squinted at Perko trying to ascertain whether he was lying. Though his head was in a fog, he sensed the boy was telling the truth. “Where is she?”
“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As I reckon, you still owe me a favor.”
“What do you want from me?”
Perko steepled his fingers under his chin. “You are about doing the right thing and preserving the welfare of others. How about this then; fix the Worm program.”
Moyer shook his head side to side. “I already tried to destroy your pet project. What makes you think I’d help you fix it?”
“Because fixing it will save lives. Because if you do, I’ll let you meet your daughter. And because if you don’t, I will have someone hunt your wife down and cut the baby out of her belly while you watch.” Perko’s lips curled upward and exposed a set of perfect, tiny teeth. It was a look of self satisfaction, acknowledgement that he had won, that he would always win, that his power and ruthlessness could not be overcome.
Moyer’s hands tightened on the edge of the chair. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and tried to still his rage. “How did you…?”
“What, know your wife is pregnant? I have spies too, Mr. Winfield.”
Moyer opened his eyes and concentrated on Perko’s face. Perko wanted an answer, confirmation that Moyer had no choice and he had won, that Moyer had buckled under his threats and would do what he wanted.
“You know what’s wrong with you, Viktor? You want dominion over everything, over a world that doesn’t want to be dominated. You want to change it into what it’s not just to suit you. You are an egomaniac in denial.
“The real world is a dirty, filthy place. Do you know what happens when you separate yourself from the real world, when you put yourself above it? You grow deluded and weak. When was the last time you left this building, left this office and were out among the people? You have no idea what it’s like outside. You are up here sucking in purified air in your sanitized cocoon, and because of it, you have left yourself susceptible to any little bug that comes along.” Moyer started hacking. His face grew hot, and his strength ebbed. For a moment he felt light headed and sure he’d pass out. He clutched the edge of Perko’s desk to maintain his balance.
A shadow of anger darkened Perko’s face. “Look who’s talking you little pissant. You don’t look as though you’ll last out the day. What has living in your real world gotten you?”
Moyer desperately wheezed in a deep breath and drew his lips tight. He glanced up, leaned forward, and huffed out his breath in a tight stream. He felt the satisfying sensation of something thick and almost solid pass by his lips. The yellowish wad of mucus hit Perko’s eye. The boy staggered back.
“You bastard!” he screamed. His expression twisted in horror as if hornets had covered his head. “What have you done?” Perko swiped at his face with his sleeve. He grunted, eyes wide and afraid. Perko’s gaze caught on Moyer and terror turned to rage. “Kill him!” he shrieked, his voice castrato high. “Kill him now,” he screamed at the agents bracketing Moyer. The words sounded odd coming from a boy’s mouth.
The agent to Moyer’s right swung his wand around quickly. Moyer raised his arms and ducked, but not quickly enough. The tip of the wand crackled as it neared his face and then zipped past. A miss. It stuck the other agent who bucked and fell to his knees. He landed on his side convulsing.
The remaining agent withdrew his wand and came to attention, arms at his sides, chin up, faceplate forward, while his partner’s twitching body settled to unconsciousness.
Perko was stunned, and so was Moyer. “Kill him,” he ordered again. The agent didn’t react. “Kill him now,” Perko squealed, “or I’ll have you rehabilitated.”
Perko’s small fists quaked, his face turned scarlet. The agent stood frozen like a pillar of stone, defiant and unyielding.
Moyer rose from the chair cautiously and quartered away from the agent not sure what to expect. He staggered around the desk. Perko blocked his way. Moyer grabbed the lapels of Perko’s housecoat, lifted the boy close and coughed in his face. He then tossed Perko aside. Perko went reeling, and tumbled to the floor.
Moyer leaned down and pulled the disk from Perko’s pocket and sat in his chair. He opened the drive on Perko’s computer, slipped in the disc, and uploaded the virus. When the download bar reached complete, he focused his eyes on the boy. “See you in hell,” he said. “I honestly don’t know which of us will get there first, but don’t wait for me.” He launched the executable.
Moyer stood to leave then reconsidered. He quickly entered a search into Perko’s computer for the name
Pandora
. A series of medical reports flashed on the screen. The most recent was dated the week before. All were forwarded to Perko from someone named Rance Huber.
Moyer rounded the desk to leave and the agent advanced. Moyer stopped. He lacked the strength to fight or run.
“You won’t get far,” the agent said. “Your only chance is if you appear to be in my custody.”