Total Recall (19 page)

“What do I do?” he asked.

Edgemar opened his hand, revealing a small pill. “Take this pill.”

“What is it?” Quaid was not so dull as to miss the fact that an imagined pill could not do anything the imagination couldn’t.

“It’s a symbol. A symbol of your desire to return to reality,” Edgemar explained. “Inside your dream, you’ll fall asleep.”

And wake up in reality? That had happened before, when he had fallen down the alien tube on Mars and woken in bed with Lori. That had its appeal! He picked up the pill and contemplated it. He could appreciate the rationale: in life a person took a pill to get well. In a dream he took one to
want
to get well. The effect could be similar.

“You should know, Mr. Quaid, that Rekall will provide you with free counseling for as long as you need it. In addition, if you sign a release, we’ll agree to a large cash settlement.”

“How much?” The question was automatic, though he hardly cared. The larger question was whether he wanted the reality he had known on Earth or a continuation of this crazy-quilt adventure on Mars. The answer should have been obvious, but the memory of Melina, and the hint of something else, something so important that—

“A hundred thousand credits. Maybe more.”

Lori brightened, becoming hopeful. “Think about it Doug. We could buy a house.”

Instead of the conapt on the two hundredth floor. That, too, had its appeal. Maybe a vacation in an undersea dome.

“Of course,” Edgemar said, “this all hinges on your taking the pill.”

On the verge of succumbing to their logic, Quaid grew suspicious again. Why should it all hinge on his taking the pill? Why couldn’t he merely declare, “I’m through with dreaming! I want to return to reality and Lori!” and be there? On rare occasions he had had what he thought was called lucid dreaming, where he came to realize that it was a dream, and could control it somewhat. Generally when that happened, though, the dream lost its substance and he woke. So instead of hauling in a lucid sexpot, he woke with a hard-on and nowhere to put it. That had been back when he was a teenager, before Lori. Still, the principle was there: if he couldn’t break out of the dream without the symbol, why should it work
with
the symbol? Why were they so eager for that symbol?

“Let’s say you’re right,” Quaid said. “This is all a dream.” He raised the gun to Edgemar’s head. “Then I can pull this trigger, and it won’t matter.”

He started to pull the trigger. Here was a test that meant something. If this was not a dream, Edgemar would be exceedingly eager to avoid this test!

“Doug, don’t!” Lori cried.

But Edgemar remained preternaturally calm. His eyes and voice expressed his unselfish concern for his patient. “It won’t make the slightest difference to me, Doug, but the consequences to you would be devastating. In your mind, I’ll be dead. And with no one to guide you out, you’ll be stuck in permanent psychosis.”

Was it possible? Psychosis was a disease of the mind. Could his own act determine which way his mind went? Would shooting Edgemar be his decision to avoid reality, rather than any tangible act to embrace it, such as taking the pill?

“Doug, please let Dr. Edgemar help you!” Lori pleaded.

His finger on the trigger, Quaid was torn with doubt. He knew he could do it, and splatter the doctor’s brains. But did he
want
to? If that meant that he was locking himself into a dream of violence and uncertainty and frustrated love?

“The walls of reality will come crashing down,” Edgemar said. “One minute you’ll be the savior of the rebel cause, then, next thing you know, you’ll be Cohaagen’s bosom buddy. Until finally, back on Earth, you’ll be lobotomized.”

Quaid was totally demoralized. It had to be true: if he really was in a semicoma back on Earth and could not be brought out of it, they would lobotomize him. There was no point in maintaining a vegetable. It was uneconomic. A lobotomized man might not be very creative, but he could handle a jackhammer. So he had better guess right; it was disaster to go with illusion, either way.

“So get a firm grip on yourself, Doug,” Edgemar said firmly. “And put down the gun.”

Hesitantly, Quaid lowered the gun. If this was a dream, and he shot someone, he would die (or be lobotomized: same thing) instead of the other person.

“That’s right. Now take the pill, there you go . . .” Edgemar paused as Quaid’s hand slowly took the pill. “And put it in your mouth.”

Quaid put the pill in his mouth. It tasted exactly like a pill. But of course it would, in a dream as well as in reality.

“And swallow,” Edgemar continued, as if talking a blinded pilot down to a landing.

Quaid hesitated. Edgemar and Lori watched with great anticipation.

“Go ahead, Doug,” Lori said.

But he was racked with indecision. Suppose this
wasn’t
a dream? Then the pill might be—in fact, probably was—a knockout dose, or even lethal.

Then he saw a single drop of sweat trickle down Edgemar’s brow.

His Hauser-reflex took over. Abruptly he swung his gun at Edgemar and fired.

The plastic explosive in the plastic gun sent the plastic bullet straight through the man’s head. Blood splattered in a dense circle on the wall.

Then the bloodstain exploded, blasting Quaid backward through the air. A big hole appeared in the wall. He had guessed wrong! His dream world was crashing down, exactly as Dr. Edgemar had said it would!

Then he struck the far wall and sank to the floor, dazed. Four Mars agents stormed through the hole in the wall and grabbed hold of him.

But this wasn’t the end of the dream! This was the confirmation of the Mars reality! They had not attacked him before because they were trying to catch him alive, to find out what he knew. When the pill didn’t do it, they burst in to grab him physically. It was perfect sense!

Reassured, he started to fight back. They were trying to handcuff him, but he elbowed a jaw, dislocated a shoulder, and shoved and kicked his way out of their grasp. He pulled clear of an agent who was holding his foot. They weren’t using guns, they were trying to wrestle him down!

Hands touching the floor for balance, he staggered toward the door. He was about to get away, and to hell with the dream!

But there was someone before him. He looked up. Lori blocked his path. Oh, okay. He started to move again—and her foot smashed his face.

He staggered, hurt more by her antipathy than by the blow. He didn’t want to strike her again! It had been bad enough back on Earth.

He had paused only momentarily, but that gave the others time to grab him and restrain him. He tensed, ready to heave the ones on his arms into each other, headfirst.

Then Lori kicked him in the testicles, and the planet went up in pain. He stopped resisting; there was nothing but the agony, and her treachery. She had said she loved him!

As if from a distance, somewhere beyond the radius of pain, he heard her talking. “That’s for making me come to Mars. You know how much I hate this fucking planet!”

No, he didn’t. He had thought it was just a pose to discourage him from wanting to go there. Evidently not everything about her had been an act.

The agents cuffed his hands behind his back. He was helpless. Then Lori kneed him in the face, knocking away most of the rest of his consciousness.

Vaguely, he felt himself being dragged to the door. Lori had done him one favor at least. She had finally convinced him of her true feelings toward him. He would never again be deceived by her. Not that he was likely to get the chance. His consciousness faded out.

Lori spoke into a wireless videophone.

“I’ve got him,” she said, smiling as Richter’s face appeared on the screen.

“Bring him down,” said Richter.

Lori puckered her lips in a silent kiss. “Ciao.” The transmission ended.

He’d rather have killed the man, but at least Lori had been able to take him alive, satisfying Cohaagen’s order.

CHAPTER  19
Escape

O
utside the Hilton Hotel, Richter and Helm waited in a car. Richter clenched his fist with satisfaction. He’d rather have killed the man, but at least the bitch had been able to take him alive, satisfying Cohaagen’s order.

“Take the service elevator,” Richter said. “We’ll meet you.” Already Helm was piling out of the car. Richter followed him, and they ran inside the hotel.

Quaid came blurrily awake. He was being dragged to a service elevator. Two guests and a bellboy with a luggage cart stood to the side, not interfering. He must have been out only a few seconds—just long enough for his balls to settle down to a bearable level of agony.

They propped him up while waiting for the elevator. He stared at the floor, offering no resistance, just trying to get more of his consciousness back. His eyes focused on something nice. After a moment he realized that it was Lori’s legs. Too bad her heart didn’t match the quality of her body!

He also noticed that she wore an ankle sheath, with a knife. There was no doubt now that she was a pro! How could he ever have been fooled by her?

The elevator doors slid open. There was a burst of gunfire.

Huh? Had they shot him after all? He didn’t feel anything.

Then the agent in front of him fell. The man’s face was a study in surprise. Quaid hadn’t been killed—the agent had. What was going on?

Then a woman ran out of the elevator. She had legs as good as Lori’s, and a fuller bosom, and long dark hair. Then, as his gaze made it to the face, he was amazed. It was Melina!

Melina whirled, her gun blazing. In a moment she had mowed down the remaining three male agents, whose hands were occupied with Quaid. She managed to miss Quaid himself. Either he was lucky, or she was an excellent shot.

Lori dropped to the floor, swung her legs, and swiped Melina’s feet out from under her. The gun went flying. Lori grabbed Melina’s hair and yanked back so hard she almost broke the woman’s neck. She wound Melina’s hair around her fist, anchoring the head, and smashed her face into the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. Melina stopped fighting. Quaid knew the feeling, having just experienced it himself.

He squirmed over the pile of agent corpses. His hands locked behind his back, he wrested a gun from a dead hand. The agents had guns, they just hadn’t been using them on Quaid. This time.

Lori pulled her knife from the ankle sheath. She lifted it high, preparing to plunge it into Melina’s heart. But she paused a moment.

Melina’s eyes came into focus. She saw the blade poised above her.

That was what Lori had been waiting for. She evidently knew who Melina was: his dream-girl. She wanted Melina to see it coming. Maybe she also wanted Quaid to see her do it. She was out to hurt him any way she could, and she had found the perfect way.

“Don’t!”
Quaid cried. He wasn’t pleading, he was warning.

Lori turned and saw that he had her in the sights of his pistol. But she also saw that he was contorted, with his hands cuffed behind his back. Could he fire accurately from that position?

Lori’s manner changed, in the chameleonlike way she had. She evidently knew the answer to the question of his accuracy! “Doug . . .” she breathed. “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”

He kept the gun aimed at her.

Lori lowered her knife and brought her hands together innocuously. “Be reasonable, sweetheart. We’re married.”

Yes, so it had seemed, once. But he knew better now. Much better. His gun did not waver.

Lori subtly pulled the knife into the throwing position, holding the tip of the blade. He had no doubt of her ability to hurl it exactly where she intended. He had become her primary target.

“Consider this a divorce,” he said gruffly.

Lori swung her arm back for throwing.

Quaid fired. The bullet struck her in the forehead. The knife dropped from her hand. Then Lori dropped.

He might have let her go, even after her attempt to kill Melina. He hated to kill women. But she had proved her nature right to the end. She was all agent, as brutal as any of the goons, and more dangerous than most. It had had to be done.

Melina sat up, battered and shaken. She had evidently not expected to be bested in combat by another woman. “That was your wife?”

Quaid nodded. He had done it, and knew it was justified, but it still made him sick. Obviously Lori not only had not loved him, she hadn’t even liked him. He had not loved her, but he
had
liked her. He had killed her with a far heavier heart than she would have had if she had killed him.

“What a bitch,” Melina said.

That pretty well summed it up. Eight years—or six weeks’ worth of it—had been wrenched from his experience. It hurt.

Richter pounded impatiently on the service elevator call button. It finally arrived. He and Helm stepped inside. He remained sorry that Hauser hadn’t made a break for it, so that there would be an excuse to kill him—in the line of duty.

Melina crawled painfully over to Lori and searched her pockets.

Quaid watched her. “Drop by on your coffee break?” he asked sarcastically. “Time off from work?”

“
This
is my work,” she replied.

“And The Last Resort, that’s your hobby.” He knew he was being peevish, but he was sick of being left in the dark.

“That’s my cover,” she said. She continued her search.

She was a professional, just as Lori had been. She did whatever she needed to do to protect her true mission. He could relate to that. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I didn’t,” Melina said shortly. She found the key to the handcuffs and unlocked them.

“What changed your mind?” he asked, as if this were a conversation instead of a desperate escape.

“If Cohaagen wants you dead, you might be okay.”

Actually, Cohaagen seemed to have been trying to take him alive this time; the agents could have plugged him anytime, through that wall, but instead waited on the little scene with Edgemar and Lori. He refrained from clarifying that, however. Melina’s reasoning was similar to his reasoning about her: if she refused to deal with him as long as she had any doubt about the nature of his loyalty, she was probably okay. Lori had been opposite, and not just in the color of her hair. Sometimes it was necessary to see who a person’s enemies were before deciding whether that person was a friend.