Freedom Incorporated - Peter Tylee (best biographies to read TXT) 📗

have to die. A flame of hatred kindled in Dan’s inner darkness.

He retrieved his cuffs and tightened his grip on the Colt before edging toward the entrance. Damn you! He knew who it was. He knew exactly who’d killed the crazy old fool. He peered outside, eyes locking onto anything that looked remotely dangerous. The park was empty. Impossible. He knew the Raven was close; the rain was too heavy for a long-distance shot. At fifty-metres a capsule might penetrate a dozen raindrops, and nobody could accurately predict where it would land after that. And that’s why I’m still alive. He gingerly felt the gash on his neck. It wasn’t bad; the nick had barely broken his skin. But if the glass had shattered…

The world outside was a plethora of movement. Every leaf jiggled cheekily in the rain, all vying for Dan’s attention. He tried to scan beyond the noise, seeking something out of the usual. He didn’t know the Raven well enough to predict where he’d hide. And he may not wait for me to leave. It was a chilling thought. The last thing Dan wanted was a shootout with a lunatic.

He heard another capsule shatter above the patter of rain and sheltered his eyes from flying shards. It could have come from anywhere within a 120-degree arc. Damn. It was beginning to look as though he’d have to dash for safety, a dangerous prospect considering he had no idea where to lay covering-fire.

One of the good things about late twentieth century architecture, at least in Dan’s current frame of mind, was their insistence upon skimping wherever they could. Few things were made to last unless someone stood to profit from ensuring it would. And nobody was keen on spending unnecessary money on public property - such as a toilet-block. The wall separating the women’s toilet from the men’s was barely above head-hight. There was ample room to vault it and Dan wasted no time tucking his pistol into its holster and clambering to stand on the nearest toilet.

A puff of dust mushroomed into the air with each hand he planted on the bricks and a few moments later he was in the men’s toilet - quite literally, having stepped in the men’s urinal.

The rear of the toilet-block butted against a CityRail fence. Someone had painted a crude skull on its rusted links and it served as a stark warning to anyone foolish enough to trespass on the tracks. The rails were at the bottom of a 20-metre drop with sheer walls. A poorly concealed trail to Dan’s right slipped under a section of the fence where someone had yanked the wire from the ground. Dan supposed a local brigade of teenagers, who no doubt thought the skull was hilarious, did their secret binge-drinking somewhere in the artificial canyon.

Dan wetted his lips and the creases on his brow deepened to a frown. There was only one thing he hated more than losing control of a hunt: betrayal.

“Never again.” The words slipped out before he could keep them in check. He abandoned the cover of the toilet-block and dashed into the rain, wondering if he’d feel the sting of poison exploding in his flesh. An acidic droplet rolled into his left eye, which watered uncontrollably. Upon reaching the fence he sank to his buttocks and slid forward, forcing his body through the tight squeeze. Thick reeds concealed the entrance from all but one oblique angle and they scratched his cheeks, ears and hands. Then his coat caught on a protruding wire. He angrily wrenched to his right and heard it rip. With another furious twist, his coat tore enough to allow gravity to finish the job and he slid off the ledge. Only when it was too late did he give any consideration to how he would slow his descent. The teenagers who’d created the hole had also provided a rope, but Dan didn’t see it in time and had no clue where he should reach. His back grated across the jagged rocks and a searing pain spread to his skull when an outcropping struck his coccyx.

He twisted and groped for the reeds that lined the embankment but the leathery plants just sliced his hands and snapped at the base. With a final desperate attempt, he dug his fingers into the rushing wall and splinters of dirt dug deeply under his nails, but his descent continued. He landed heavily, one of the tracks smacking him across his upper shoulders and knocking the wind from his lungs. If he’d landed a little closer he’d have broken his neck, closer still and his brains would be leaking out of his ears.

He lay there stunned, unwilling and unable to move. But then the track started to vibrate. He rolled onto his front, scraping his knees on the foundation of basalt rocks, and staggered to his feet. After briefly arching his back to alleviate the pain he backed into the scrub at the base of the slope.

A stiff breeze buffeted him a second before the train screeched past and he used a forearm to protect his face from the swirling water that gusted along with it. Dan counted the carriages by the whooshing sounds. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the train was gone, seeming to take with it all the viable oxygen. The vacuum that remained sucked Dan forward and he stumbled onto his knees.

Meadowbank station was only two-hundred meters away and he limped toward it.

The adrenaline was gone, consumed by the pain, but the flame of hatred remained. In a way he’d always had it, he’d just chosen to forget. But now that circumstances had forced him to remember, Dan didn’t intend to let it escape.

*

The Raven approached on light feet.

He was obsessed by the goal and would never rest. Not until the task was complete. Such was the omen he’d received.

Messages arrived in his mind, two of them. But neither assigned with high enough priority to distract him from the goal. He entered the toilet-block cautiously, sweeping the stalls for Sutherland before focussing on his prize. Sutherland was gone. Good. A shiver ran the length of his spine when his ethereal senses told him Dan had just used a portal in Meadowbank station. He relaxed, holstering his Redback.

He took no pleasure from his work; it was merely something he had to do. Slowly he drew the implement from his belt and twisted it to the muted light, watching as his reflection danced along the shiny metal surface.

The Raven dragged Adam by his feet to the middle of the floor and slashed the clothes that covered his back. He paused for a moment, carefully selecting the correct position, and then plunged his instrument into the corpse. The horrific sound of grinding bone echoed from the walls as he removed the correct vertebrae, the one that contained the microchip. And that was his prize, the only part he needed to return. The stains on the floor and the state of the toxin-infected corpse never bothered him; they were anecdotal. This was his job. This was why UniForce paid him well.

A wicked smile gleamed in his eyes. On second thoughts, he did take pleasure from his work.

*

Tuesday, September 14, 2066

22:15 Coffs Harbour, Australia

Jen sipped her lemon water.

“It just doesn’t work like that.”

She took another swallow, gulping the last of the bitter fluid before her temper made her say something she’d regret.

“And it’s about time you realise it,” he said. “I just want what’s best for you.”

She believed that. How could she not? Her father had always wanted the best for her. Yet somehow, he always managed to misdirect his efforts. “If that were true you’d let me discover what I need to do on my own,” she said sharply, cringing at her unintended tone. Her tongue was often her curse - she tended to say what everyone else in a room was thinking but had the tact not to mention. She’d never been good at tact; it was a mystery to her.

“I just don’t want to see you struggle the way I had to.” His untrimmed eyebrows had turned grey five years ago and were now talcum-white.

“I won’t,” Jen retorted.

“Then find yourself a job.” John Cameron pleaded. “Start now, before it’s too late.” He paused, not wanting to press too hard. He knew he had to manage Jennifer carefully. “I can make some calls if you’d like?”

“No!” She slammed her glass to the table and made the cutlery jump. “I know you mean well but I will never go to one of your interviews. Don’t you see?” It was her turn to plead. “I’d rather live in the gutter. I’m different, I just can’t do it, and I won’t. It’d kill me.”

He sighed, taking the napkin from his lap and setting it aside. “Then how?”

She cast her eyes to the tablecloth. “The same as grandpa.”

John Cameron’s skin flushed at the mention of his father. This was precisely what he’d been trying to avoid through years of careful planning and parenting. His worst nightmare was sitting across the table. No, please. He couldn’t bear the thought of another activist in the family. His father’s activism had scarred his childhood and he didn’t want that kind of life for his daughter. He knew the world had problems, but he also knew there were limits to what one person could achieve. It came down to quality of life. Why can’t she see that? He studied her carefully. Stubborn child. He still thought of her that way - like a child.

Jen stood and skirted the table to kneel in front of him. She took one of his aging hands in both of hers, squeezed it, and said, “I have to do what I think is right.”

He nodded. “I know.” She thought she could see a thickening to the sheen over his blue eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of. The world has changed since your grandfather’s day. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I won’t.” But her smile looked strained. “I promise.”

He grunted. “That’s not something you can promise. Just be careful, deal?”

She smiled more strongly. “Deal,” she said, squeezing his hand a second time. “I have to go now.” And she fled to the bathroom before he could protest. There she stood, mesmerised by her reflection in the mirror. She was glad that she’d inherited her father’s eyes, and very glad she’d inherited her mother’s nose. Jen’s rich chocolate hair swayed around her shoulders. There was something almost regal about the way she held herself, a confidence that came from the realisation she was doing the right thing. Other than that there was nothing remarkable about her, she was dressed like a typical university student - jeans, brown hiking boots and an oversized collared shirt. When she finally shattered the trance and opened the door, her father was waiting for her beside his portal in the foyer.

Jen dug into her pocket for the microchip selector. The name on the tag read Elisa Turner but she’d been using that alias for too long and she pressed the next-identity button. Two other names flashed on the display before resting on Susan Beaton. That’ll do. She made a mental note to change them all, she hadn’t used a new identity for months and that was a mistake.

“Bye Dad.” She accepted the mandatory farewell hug and pecked him on the cheek.

“Take care.” He watched as she stood on the platform, smiling at him as she flashed away.

*

Tuesday, September 14, 2066

19:37 Carnarvon, Western Australia

Deep down, Jen knew her father was wrong. He was trying to protect her the only way he knew, and she loved him for it. But they were