The Pedestal (46 page)

I power off the Viseon wall and collapse in a heap onto the couch.

The silence afterward is heavy with dread. To lighten the mood—and because I feel that I’ve patiently waited my turn—I spend the next ten minutes recounting every detail of my abduction and subsequent release for Tim’s wide-eyed amusement and awe. When I’m finished, I sport my newly stitched wrist as evidence.

He whistles. “That kind of sucks. At least you get Astrid Electronica back though, right?”

I can’t help but groan.

Tim looks at me blankly. “What’s wrong with Astrid? She’s awesome.”

There are simply no words, so I wave off the subject and mumble, “Forget it.”

For a moment, Tim looks ready to push it—because the sweet Astrid is so worthy of defending, I guess?—but his face abruptly slips into dismay.

“Aw, scrap,” he moans. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

I do not. “Other than an end to the peace and quiet I’ve come to know and love?”

“It means that we just lost our edge, man; everything we’ve been working toward to get Keith is about to be derailed.”

“Um, what do you mean?”

“Think about it, Wilson. Everything you do is gonna be on the record now. All your programs are going to automatically log—even if you don’t tap the codebank—and if Keith bothers to check up on you—which you know he’ll do—he’s gonna get very suspicious, very quickly.”

He’s right. So great is my frustration that I find I can only nod. Speaking of Keith, he’s been very busy spinning more deception since I rejoined IDS. First, he assigned me an accounting code—which I have no business possessing—and began using my code to sign off on minor company transactions around the office—receivables and supply orders, for example. My guess is that he’s trying to breadcrumb a verifiable history of my involvement with corporate accounting, thereby establishing my reasonable access to the documents and procedures generated by our GFL transactions. I must say, Keith’s being much more careful now than before. Clearly, in my absence over the past year, he’s had plenty of time to dwell on how he’d do things differently if given a second chance.

Seeing my name tied to things I’ve had nothing to do with makes me sick to my stomach. My window of opportunity is closing rapidly. I’m stricken with urgency to vindicate myself, to somehow outsmart the deathtrap I so willingly stepped into. I just wish I knew how.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You know, there is one thing you can do,” Tim says with a smirk. “But you’re not gonna like it.”

I leave a contact request for Mitzy, knowing full well that she won’t respond. I have to do something. It isn’t just about me, either. My loneliness takes a backseat to panic, considering the impending blood plant pandemic, and—

>>Oh, silly Wilson ... you’re so cute when you exaggerate. Did you mean to say ‘impending blood plant
epidemic
’?

Sheesh, even Marilyn is overconfident.

The point is that I’m desperately driven to warn Mitzy—even when logic says that warnings are completely useless now. Honestly, what would I say, anyway?

“Sorry I ruined your life, but you should really avoid purple- and red-hued vegetables. Oh, and you might want to cut any kind of seed from your diet altogether.”

I invited Mrs. Grace over for coffee and cake, and she’ll be here any time. I’m not merely stretching my social wings here—and no, I’m not suddenly a baker; I had the cake delivered. I may not be able to warn Mitzy, but I have an opportunity to do so for Mrs. Grace and I mean to take it.

Mrs. Grace is gushing over my physical recovery, and I have to admit that the praise feels good. It’s weird—the more in shape I get, the more powerful I feel. I know I’m only a man, yet I sense something much larger building in my depths, growing stronger and preparing to someday rip its way to the surface. Until that day, I’m content to catch an occasional glimpse of myself in a passing mirror and see for myself that I’ve indeed left behind the skin and bones that was my former self.

We eat cake and sip coffee, and I do the best I can to broach the subject on my mind with tact and decorum—because Mrs. Grace demands nothing less. She’s seen the newscasts, just as most of us have. No, she’s not worried. Dallas is a long ways away. Her composure feels brittle, though, as if a little calculated pressure might cause it to collapse altogether—and that’s not at all what I want. Yet, how can I communicate the horror I know to be true without destroying the peace upon which Mrs. Grace seems to be precariously balanced?

In the end, I realize with sadness that, for all the mounting power of my physique, I’m completely helpless. In fact, the only real power I possess in this matter is to spare Mrs. Grace the gory details of this nightmare. Because if there truly is nothing any of us can do, every day she remains swathed in blissful ignorance is a precious gift.

IntelliQ has advanced to a new stage of testing on our nexus portal. If things continue at this pace, we’ll be in business within the month. Company morale is higher than it has been in a long while.

I’m immune.

Among other things, I’ve been busy stressing about IDS and what to do about Keith. Even with everything else going on, I feel a constant anxiety chewing away at my resolve. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this up.

The secret program I’ve been toiling with for weeks now—just as Tim predicted—has proven to be completely useless now that my NanoPrint is back in play. My implant doesn’t necessarily expose my actual programming, but it logs my time investment automatically, and Keith is already showing signs of unease. There’s no doubt he’s keeping tabs. If he’s highQ—and deep down, I have to acknowledge that he wouldn’t have gotten where he is today on stupidity—he won’t need to understand exactly what I’ve got in the works to see a red flag waving.

Man, I hate this. I feel a noose closing around my neck, and as much as I desperately need to breathe, I remain convinced that if I don’t find a way to bring Keith to justice, no one ever will. I’ve got to take him down or die trying.

I could call Inspector Rackley, I know. Actually, I’ve considered it more than a few times, and all things considered, I think he’d believe me. But the kind of proof he’d need to secure a conviction simply doesn’t exist, except in a form that incriminates me. Besides, the moment Rackley starts poking around, Keith will lock things down. If Grogan was here, he’d probably slip Keith a blood plant seed and call it a day.

Me? I’m just not that blasphemous.

What I really need is incontrovertible evidence of what’s going on—anything less will only doom me.

In the back of my mind, Tim’s words whisper and I’m unable to shush them.
You know, there is one thing you can do. But you’re not gonna like it.
Chock it up to old-fashioned greed, but I’m not ready to put my own money on the line as bait. I may not have earned eleven million credits, but I’m having a hard time imagining a future without them. Besides, let’s assume everything goes as planned: Keith makes a grab for the money and lands behind bars, where he’ll spend the rest of his life lamenting his long-lost Maybelline.

What’s to become of those eleven million credits?

Well, they’ll disappear into some evidentiary slush account with nary a peep. Eventually they’ll find their way into some politician’s greedy pockets.

So the question is, is it worth it? The answer should be obvious. Of course it’s worth it!

But, still.

I’m leaving Mitzy another contact request—I know, I’m probably breaking all kinds of unspoken laws of romance, and perhaps even a harassment law for good measure—but my need to protect her has become swollen beyond my grasp on common sense.

When she answers and my Viseon wall flickers to an image of her face, I hiccup in midbreath and manage only to stare mutely at the screen.

“Wilson, you have to stop this,” she says. Her eyes are pained and intense; she’s dressed, but it looks as though she was interrupted while doing her makeup. She looks beautiful to me—even the unpainted half of her face.

I want to tell her how sorry I am, how truly miserable I feel for causing her pain. I want to tell her that my life has been a flavorless gruel but for the few moments I spent with her. Yet if my motives are pure—and I believe they are—I can’t squander this opportunity.

“I know, Mitzy. I just need a second, okay? Then I’ll be out of your life forever.” Then because for all my talk of pure motives, at heart I’m still a lonely man, I add, “If that’s what you want, I mean.”

She rubs her temples with her fingers—never the effect I hope for with women, but one I apparently bring out in them—and sighs.

“Wilson, please.”

“Just listen for a second, okay? Do you remember what I told you about Mars? The plants, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Have you been watching the news lately?”

A pause. “You mean ...”

“Afraid so.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s bad, Mitzy.”

She leans forward a little, eyes glassy with worry. “Define
bad
, please.”

“End of the world bad.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t even know how to sugarcoat it.”

Mitzy swallows, and I see my fear mirrored in her face. “Is there anything we can do? To protect ourselves, I mean?”

I want to sow a little hope here, to give Mitzy a reason to chin-up, if not to trust me. But I know how cheap and transparent my platitudes will sound, and if these are to be my last words with her, I want them to be the truth. However ugly the truth may be.

“No. I’m sorry.”

She nods with bland detachment, and then begins to sniffle. “I have to go to work,” she says. “Don’t call me again, okay, Wilson?”

Tears spring into my eyes, but I nod my agreement. “Okay. Take care, Mitzy.”

“I will.”

“And Mitzy?” I croak. Her eyes are wet, but they abruptly harden.

“What?”

“I—I’m just so sorry. For everything. I never meant to hurt you.”

She swallows and clears her throat. “I know,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter.”

My screen darkens, revealing my grief-stricken face in its reflection.