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

warmly as before. “Past your bedtime I think, come on.” He offered a hand, helped her up, and guided her to her bedroom - but refrained from helping any further. “I put a towel on your pillow. You probably remember where the bathroom is.”

She nodded, still a bit dazed. “Thanks.”

“Goodnight Jen.”

“Night,” she said, smiling sincerely in reply.

He pulled the door shut and drifted to his own bedroom, croaking a laugh when he heard the rattle of Cookie’s keyboard drifting from the study. Doesn’t that man ever rest? He wondered what could possess someone so completely that he or she would pass through all the barriers a human body naturally threw against such a foolhardy marathon.

Then he remembered.

And his spine stiffened.

*

The silence was eerie. It slithered through the trees and Dan tuned to listen for the ghosts he knew were hunting him. They’re out there… in the darkness. He couldn’t see anything; his night vision was destroyed. But he could feel them watching him, waiting for the right moment. He shook the feeling away, shivered, and began to march, obsessed with reaching his goal. It’s not far. But what lay between him and his destination terrified him. Whatever it was, lurking in the dark. It wasn’t human. But it wasn’t beast either. Dan knew it wanted to drink his liver juices, feast on his flesh, and cast him into the abyss for eternal torture.

He swallowed his fear and stumbled forward, the undergrowth clawing at his boots and whipping his face. Razor-like thorns tore his clothes and shredded his skin. They gouged deep, broke from the vine, and remained fixed in his bloodied tissue for him to dig out later with his knife.

A twig snapped to his right, perhaps 50 metres into the gloom, and he reworked his grip on his knife and steadied himself for the imminent attack. Fear clutched his windpipe and stole his breath while tensing his muscles to breaking point. Not like this. He gritted his teeth for the third and final assault on his mental reserves and commanded himself to keep moving - his only chance for survival. Run. His body obeyed. He sprinted, the blood deafening in his ears as he crashed through the bush. He waved his useless knife in front of his blind eyes, eyes that opened wide at a terrifying thought: I’m going the wrong way. He spun fast, but not fast enough, and he shattered his nose to a bloody pulp by crashing against a tree that he hadn’t seen until it was too late.

He clutched at the stinging mass of pain in the middle of his face and spat at the taste of blood, not surprised when three teeth failed to report to his tongue. They lay like tokens of the horror to follow, gleaming white enamel in the surrounding dark.

It’s not a tree. It had bark-like skin and was solid enough to knock him over, but it was no tree. It was the epicentre of his fear. He slashed wildly with his knife, surprised when it plunged deep into soft flesh and a woman gasped. He looked more closely. Katherine?

Dan woke with a racing pulse to find himself soaked in sweat.

He’d entwined his fingers around his sheets and drawn blood by biting the inside of his cheek. He willed himself to relax and, in time, his breathing returned to normal.

Three AM. Dan moaned, disgusted to realise he’d probably had as much sleep as he could get. The pattern was familiar, the nightmares the same. And he was thoroughly sick of it.

Instead of lying uncomfortably on his sweaty sheets, he rose and ambled to the kitchen in the dark. He had no need of light to find his way, not with such an accurate mental map of his underground abode. No sounds came from the study; Samantha had finally coaxed Cookie to bed. Good, Dan approved. They need the rest.

A glass of water numbed his lips and caused his teeth to ache, but it quickly eased his sweat-induced dehydration. So now what should I do? His question had nothing to do with the remainder of the night. He was pondering long-term options and wondering where his twisted life would turn next.

He had his evidence. Why am I not in America now? Handing it over and demanding retribution? It didn’t make sense. But very little made sense at three in the morning. Dan gingerly ran a pair of fingers across his bruised back, then twisted left and right until his spine cracked in protest. It still hurt on the apex of random breaths. The injury made him think about the Raven, and where he might be. A splatter of doubt was raining in his mind. Would he do it? Would he kill the CEO? It depended on how insane he really was. Nah, the sensible part of Dan’s mind reasoned. Nobody’s that crazy.

He looked long and hard at the bottle of sleeping pills he’d stashed in the kitchen, wondering whether they were worth taking. Last time they’d knocked him unconscious for 20 hours and left him with a splitting headache. The pimply doctor at one of Xantex’s prescription houses had assessed Dan’s insomnia as chronic and severe, denoted him as a potential candidate for their new sleeplessness cure. When the memory flooded back, Dan wondered why he’d never flushed the pills into the sewer. The experience had numbed his nervous system and his 20 hours of dreamless sleep - unconsciousness - hadn’t left him feeling refreshed. If anything, it had agitated him further. Xantex had a solution for that too, a never-ending cycle of drugs to combat side effect after side effect. No thanks.

He spent the remainder of the night gazing at his favourite photograph. It was faded at the edges from excessive handling and a crease ran down the middle, but Katherine was as beautiful as ever in Dan’s eyes.

I’m sorry.

*

Saturday, September 18, 2066

04:25 Tweed Heads, Australia

It was colder than two nights ago.

The Raven attacked a crack that had developed in his index finger’s nail. Where did you go? The trail was cold and that made them difficult to track, especially since Sutherland knew all the tricks to avoid detection. The Raven had scanned nearby portals for suspicious activity. Nothing. He’d accessed the public transport department’s database for clues. Nothing. A lock of black hair wisped in front of his eyes, carried by a sea breeze.

The crack widened and split his flesh, tearing a seam wide enough for a trickle of blood to ooze free and run onto his palm. He looked at the single drop diffusing across his skin. The sting was easy to block, he’d long since learned how to filter pain through his processor. While he still registered it, pain never controlled him.

Frustrated, he kicked a rock with his black boot and sent it scuttling across the bitumen. Where the fuck are you? He was tired again - more tired than a quick nap could fix. A bitter laugh escaped his thin lips, carrying the irritation of a dangerous man. Just wait until I find you, Dan Sutherland. He stretched to his full height and spat at the moon before heading toward the nearest portal. You won’t have need of a microchip when I’m finished with you. And as for you, Miss Cameron… the chipping squads won’t find enough of your body to work with.