Total Recall (12 page)

“What’re you doing here, Stevens?” Richter asked. “Visiting your old pal Quaid?”

“What are you talking about?” Though dazed, Stevens recognized Richter, the Agency enforcer, the kind of thug that gave the organization a bad name. Stevens leaned on one hand, propping himself up as best he could, but he knew that he was doomed.

“Do I have to explain?” Richter raised his foot and brought it down on Stevens’ widespread hand. Stevens screamed as the bones in his fingers snapped. Helm shut his mouth with another well-aimed kick.

“Where is he?”

“Can’t say,” Stevens mumbled through blood and broken teeth. “Classified.” Evidently, the ploy with the towel had been successful, and they had lost the quarry. Let him stay lost. Stevens didn’t intend to take his friend down with him.

Richter ground his heel into Stevens’ hand. The pain jolted straight up his arm to his shoulder.

“You can tell us, Stevens,” Richter said soothingly. “We’re on the same team.” He bounced casually on Stevens’ mangled hand.

“Okay, okay!” Stevens wheezed. “Just call Cohaagen; get clearance.” Furious, Richter stomped on Stevens’ shin, cracking it against the edge of the curb.

“Are we clear yet? Hunh?” he taunted.

Stevens rocked in agony. He knew he couldn’t take much more. Suddenly he felt a faint flutter of hope. Helm’s attention had been diverted by something; he elbowed Richter and pointed.

“There he is!” Richter peered into the distance and saw Quaid walking past a JohnnyCab stand on the far side of the mall. He had something white wrapped around his head and was carrying some sort of bag. Richter smiled malignantly. Yeah, Quaid was holding the bag, all right.

Gun in hand, Helm took off in pursuit, but Richter lingered, looking down at Stevens’ crumpled form. Bending slightly, he tapped Stevens on the shoulder. The man looked up, into the barrel of Richter’s gun.

A shot sounded.

CHAPTER  12
Johnny

Q
uaid had the satchel, but he still had nowhere to go. He walked down the street in the rain, no longer noticing it. He hoped the bag had what he needed, whatever that was. It seemed like a very slender thread on which to hang his life.

Suddenly, he heard a sound that had of late become all too familiar: someone had fired a gun. He supposed it wasn’t
that
unusual in this neighborhood, but he’d been through too much already to take it for granted. Looking for the source of the sound, he saw two men racing toward him. They were too far away for him to see who they were, but he didn’t wait for introductions. He turned and plunged into a waiting JohnnyCab, ducking down and trying to hide his head.

Johnny turned to the back seat and smiled his patented smile. “Welcome to JohnnyCab. Where can I take you tonight?”

“Just drive!” Quaid snapped. “Quick!”

The mannequin paused, then spoke with the same friendly tone. “Would you please repeat the destination?”

Quaid glanced back through the rear window. The two men were close enough now for him to make out their faces. They were the two goons who had been after him at the subway station. They must have traced him here despite the towel!

“Anywhere!” he exclaimed, still looking back. “Go! Go!” He saw Richter draw some heavy artillery and aim it. “Shit!”

Johnny did not move. Neither did the cab. “I’m not familiar with that address,” he said.

Now Helm had his own gun out and was taking aim. They were still half a block away, but those guns looked like young cannons from here.

“McDonald’s! Go to McDonald’s! Now!” Richter and Helm started firing. Still the cab didn’t move.

“There are fourteen McDonald’s franchises in the greater metropolitan area. Please specify—”

Enough was enough. Quaid knew that if he didn’t get moving in seconds, he’d be done for! He grabbed the mannequin and wrenched it from its moorings, dragging the thing into the backseat and taking the steering wheel with it.

Bullets shattered the back window. Quaid wished briefly for the old days, when all vehicles were required to use shatterproof glass or plastic. He leaned over the driver’s seat and reached awkwardly for the joystick on which the steering wheel had been mounted. The cab lurched forward.

Johnny’s head spoke: “Please fasten your seat belt.”

Without the steering wheel, Quaid barely had control of his vehicle. How was he going to manage?

As well as he had to, he thought grimly, as bullets whizzed past his ears. He gunned the engine and tried to maneuver the sensitive joystick into a left turn down a side street. Another window shattered and he jumped, sending the cab into a spin. He was flung to one side as the cab turned in a neat circle.

Richter and Helm poured on the gunfire. Windows exploded around Quaid as he tried to regain control of the cab. He jerked the joystick in the opposite direction—and it broke off in his hands!

“Shit!” The cab stopped spinning and sped onward, leaving Richter and Helm behind. For a moment Quaid thought he was in the clear. Then he glanced through the windshield.

He was headed directly for a concrete wall.

“Prepare for a collision,” Johnny said calmly. “Prepare for a collision.”

Quaid felt hysterical laughter fighting its way out as he struggled to reach the nub of the joystick, but it was quickly replaced by sheer terror. The car was completely out of control and the wall was getting closer by the second. A crash was unavoidable. He opened the door to jump to safety.

Then he remembered the satchel! Clinging to the doorframe with one hand, he reached back into the cab and hauled the satchel from on top of Johnny’s smiling face.

“Prepare for immediate impact,” Johnny said, unperturbed.

Quaid leaped! This, too, his body knew how to do; a stunt that might have killed an amateur hardly bruised him, as he tumbled clear and rolled down an embankment, hanging on to the satchel as if for dear life. Seconds later, the cab smashed into the wall and exploded in flames.

Quaid was safe, for the time being. But Richter would soon be after him again, when he discovered there was no corpse in the JohnnyCab. Quaid had to lose himself better than he had before, and stay lost.

He climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darkness.

Richter and Helm pulled up short as the cab exploded. The rain was still coming down, but it could do little to extinguish the great gouts of flame that flared from the ruined vehicle.

They gazed at it, catching their breath while savoring the destruction. All kinds of mayhem were nice, but fire had its own special appeal. Helm started forward, but Richter held him back.

“Not yet,” Richter said, offering Helm a cigarette. “I like my meat well done.” He lit his own cigarette, then turned to watch the barbecue.

Meanwhile, below, Quaid was climbing over a fence, satchel in hand, unobserved. This was the industrial section of town. He headed into the comforting concealment between two brick buildings. With luck the goons would be distracted by the smashed cab above long enough, and would lose his trail entirely. He ran on, gaining confidence. Now he needed to find a private place, out of the dreary rain, to check the satchel. He put a hand to his head, holding the ragged turban in place; he was lucky he hadn’t lost that during his encounter with the wall!

Helm had gone for the car and radioed for backup. Now he, Richter, and four other agents watched as two firemen foamed the smoking wreck and searched for remains. One of the firemen backed out and crossed over to Richter.

“Nobody home,” he said, with a shrug.

Richter and Helm looked at each other in amazement.

“Maybe he burned up,” Helm said.

Then the other fireman called out from the wreckage. “Wait a second! I’ve got something!”

Richter and Helm approached eagerly as the fireman dragged a charred form from the foam. It was the smoldering remains of the mannequin driver. The ghastly head turned.

“Thank you for taking JohnnyCab,” it said brightly. “I hope you enjoyed the ride!”

The quarry had slipped the noose again! Enraged, Richter smashed his fist into the Johnny head, cracking its jaw and shutting it up. He grimaced and drew his hand back quickly. The damned thing was hot!

An agent ran over to him. “We picked up a reading at the cement works,” he said. “It’s weak, but it’s him.”

“Move!” Richter shouted.

CHAPTER  13
Hauser

Q
uaid zigzagged through the industrial complex, trying to stay out of sight while exploring for a suitable building. He wanted something that was deserted but not too obvious as a hiding place.

Quaid had been in such places many times on the job. He was familiar with the acrid smell of chemical waste leaking from rusting drums; the sight of tangled, outdated machinery; the oily orange and green scum floating on the surface of each puddle. He knew better than most people how many factories had closed down since the war with the Southern Bloc had heated up. With the big money going into weapons manufacture, the production of ordinary items had all but ceased.

It meant little to the wealthy, such as those in Quaid’s new tower block. The luxuries they craved were supplied by small, specialized “boutique” factories. Now, as in the past, the rich were getting richer and the poor were getting screwed. The abandonment of the larger industrial centers had meant shortages and deprivations for the average person. It had also made it that much harder for people to find jobs: the new defense plants were almost entirely mechanized.

No wonder so many people were emigrating to work in the Martian mines. Not only were huge bonuses offered, but job security as well. It looked pretty likely that the demand for turbinium would continue to increase for a good long while.

Turbinium was a rare resource, unknown on Earth, but relatively common on Mars, a key ingredient in the particle beam weapons program. Exactly what it was and how it was used was classified information; it wasn’t even listed in most reference works, but it was known that the Northern Bloc’s space-based weapons system depended on it. The stuff was more valuable than diamonds and as long as the war continued, miners would be needed to wrest it from the Martian soil.

Quaid stopped in his tracks as he spotted a likely hiding place: a large, dilapidated factory building in which he was sure he could find a hiding place. Later it would be scheduled for demolition, to make room for a turbinium processing plant, but right now it was deserted. The windows weren’t even locked; there must be nothing in here worth stealing.

He climbed through a window and finally out of the rain, ducking his head to avoid getting the turban knocked askew. He found himself in a cavernous industrial ruin. Water dripped through holes in the roof. Ideal!

He wasted no time. He set the satchel on a corroded assembly-line apparatus and removed the contents, hoping feverishly that they would somehow tell him something about his true identity. Maybe then he would understand why those thugs were trying to kill him.

There were packets of Martian money: lots of it. He whistled to himself as he flipped through the red banknotes. Since Martian currency was valid on Earth, just as Earth credits were valid on Mars, this would solve any financial problems he might have. But at the moment it wasn’t what he needed. He needed something to save his life.

The next items proved to be of more interest. There were two ID cards. One, made out to someone named Brubaker, held a photo of a face that matched his own. His hands trembled with excitement. Was his real name Brubaker? Was Brubaker the man those thugs were after? He scanned the other ID. The photo was that of an overweight, many-chinned woman of indeterminate age. She had to be someone important to him—why else would her ID be in the satchel? He stared at her face, searching within himself for any spark of recognition. Could she be a relative? His mother? A girlfriend? It was no good. The face meant nothing to him. Pushing back a surge of disappointment, he continued to empty the satchel.

There was a weird sort of surgical instrument sealed in clear plastic. Well, the satchel looked like a doctor’s black bag, so maybe this was to make it look more authentic. He could claim to be a specialist of some kind.

There was a strange rubber mold. He held it up and saw that it was an elaborate head-covering mask with some kind of electronic gadgetry imbedded in it that made the mouth move and changed its expression slightly. It matched the woman’s face on the ID. So it had to be a disguise, with identification to back it up. Beneath the mask were yards and yards of a slimy, plastic fabric; part of the disguise, he hoped. He’d need more than a mask—even a fancy job like this one—to transform himself into the woman pictured in the ID.

He delved deeper. There were only a few items left. He pulled out a package of candy bars.

He peered at them, surprised. No, they really were garden-variety candy: Mars bars. Someone must have had a warped sense of humor. Still, they did remind him that he was hungry. Were they safe to eat?

There was a pair of strange galoshes. Huh?

He delved again, and came up with a combination wristwatch and numerical pad. He examined the little instrument, touching one of its buttons.

Suddenly he was startled by the appearance of a dangerous-looking man. The man was staring at him from the shadows about thirty feet away.

There was no time to think. Quaid drew his gun and fired. The man simultaneously aimed and shot at Quaid.

Who was going to drop? Quaid felt no injury, but that could be deceptive. A man could be severely injured and never feel it until he had dealt with the one who had given it to him. He couldn’t examine himself until he knew what the other was going to do.

The other man seemed to have the same idea. Guns extended, they held each other in check.

Quaid took a step forward. So did the man, stepping into the light. He wore a crude floppy turban on his head.

Quaid was astonished. The man was himself! Or rather, a mirror-image hologram, of extremely high fidelity.