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

exodus, venturous businesses had swooped on the cheap real estate and demolished much of the old city blocks, making way for their headquarters and factories. Realty King had forged a successful giga-corporation by buying many of the vacated premises, turning them into something attractive, and selling them for a tidy profit. Then they’d swallowed their competition and ballooned into a massive international conglomerate, just like the others. As far as Dan knew, they were the only surviving realtor operating in Australia and the United States. They used aggressive land reclamation practices to entice businesses back to cheap city land. But some of the old-world charm still stood, and a slab of it punctuated the five blocks between the portal station and the surgery. It was a grotty maze of twisting streets and cracked pavement, the perfect setting for what Dan had in mind.

Dan was deliberately leading them through the side streets, staying clear of the places likely to have mounted cameras. So it came as little surprise when an angst-ridden band of adolescents waylaid them.

“Hold it, you up-town fucks.” He was clearly the leader, wearing a spiked leather jacket plucked from the punk scene of the last century, a pair of faded blue jeans and army issue general-purpose boots. There were five in total and the others wore a similar uniform, their badge of conformity.

“This here’s our turf. You gotta pay to pass this way.” He was perhaps nineteen years old, twenty at the most. But big for his age. He must have figured the odds were in his favour, despite the determined streak in Dan’s eyes. He menacingly hefted a metre-long pipe and his friends carried everything from bike chains to machete-like knives.

Dan calmly looked them over. Samantha and Cookie knew about the arsenal he’d tucked inside his coat and felt safe under his protective wing.

“How much do you expect us to pay?” All emotion had drained from Dan’s voice, leaving an icy clarity that only Samantha and Cookie understood.

The teenage gangster had neck-length hair that sheened with grease and he ran his fingers through it before answering, “How about you strip naked and we’ll take what we want.”

“I have a better idea.” Dan took one pace forward and the gang fanned out, flanking them threateningly. “How about you bend over and I’ll shove that pipe of yours where the sun doesn’t shine.”

An alarm shrieked in Samantha’s mind, reminding her that Dan was unstable and possibly capable of carrying out his threat. What’s he doing? The gang edged behind them, closing the ring. Their leader was fuming at the insult, trying to think of a comeback and becoming flustered by his lack of wit.

Samantha reached inside Dan’s coat and pulled out the 8mm modified Colt, aiming it squarely between the gang leader’s eyes. She took a step forward, mustered her courage, and said, “Would you mind getting out of our way?” Her harsh tone surprised even her; she’d never snapped at anyone that vehemently before. “We’re in a hurry.”

Dan whipped his hands inside his coat and extracted both halves of the Cobra-KT, snapped them together, and spun to aim at a fat, surly youth carrying a machete. “Please?”

That was enough.

They bolted for cover, yelling unintelligible insults over their shoulders.

“Nice neighbourhood,” Dan said. “Maybe I’ll buy a condo here.” He disassembled his rifle and slotted the halves back into their holsters before presenting an empty palm to Samantha.

She reversed the weapon and handed it to him grip first. “Sorry.”

He started walking, only mildly irritated that Samantha had borrowed his Colt.

But the silence attacked her conscience until she felt the overpowering need to defend herself. “I just wanted to dissipate the tension.”

“No,” Dan grunted. “You were worried I’d kill one of those kids.”

“Would you have?” She asked. “I’ve seen death in your eyes.”

He didn’t deny it. “Yes: Esteban’s death. But not a bunch of kids, I’m not a ruthless killer.”

“Yes you are. You’re just selective.”

Dan whirled to face her. “Don’t you think he deserves to die?”

Samantha shook her head. “I don’t know what I believe. If you’d asked a week ago I’d have said nobody deserves capital punishment.” She shrugged. “But now… well, I don’t know.”

“He’s above the law you know. If we don’t do anything, nobody will. Nobody can.”

The truth stung enough for Samantha to question the rigidity of her moral code.

“He’s going to torture Jen, he’s going to rape and kill her, and he’s already done the same to my wife. If that doesn’t mean he’s forfeited his right to live on the same civilised planet as the rest of us, then I don’t know what would.”

“Perhaps that’s where we differ,” Samantha said, doggedly standing her ground. “I don’t think we’re civilised at all. And I don’t expect much from people, but I don’t think anyone has the right to take another life. Or didn’t… now I’m not sure.”

“Come on,” Cookie interrupted. “The sooner we get that chip out of your back the sooner we can start looking for Jen.”

We? Dan had never intended for anybody to tag along, but he’d pick the moment to tell them carefully. Another ten minutes and they were standing in front of the surgery. It reminded Dan of the bubbles he used to make from detergent when he was a child - it was one gigantic glass bubble, complete with rainbows of refracted light dancing along its curves. Somebody got drunk in the forties, right in the middle of the glass craze. It sprung from a time when glass manufacturers mastered the complex art of impregnating glass with current-controlled insulation. The marketing team responsible for promoting it had won an award, and Dan could see why.

“Round the back.” Cookie led them past what had once been a neatly trimmed hedge but had since grown out of control. It bordered what had originally been a customer car park. A single rusted shell remained, crouching on tired suspension, a dinosaur of non-quantum transportation. “If we don’t go through reception there won’t be any record of our visit.”

“Good.” Dan approved.

It was surprisingly cold inside the bubble, almost wintry, though it came as a pleasant reprieve from the humid Brisbane air. Cookie weaved a confident path through halls that appeared abandoned. It was clean and smelled like chlorine, but it was dark and Dan couldn’t hear anything to indicate human activity. “Are you sure it’s open on Saturday?”

“The door was open, wasn’t it?”

“Touché,” Dan said, feeling ill at ease. “Lead on.”

They shunned the elevators, which security typically fitted with microchip scanners, and broke a sweat hiking three flights of stairs. Cookie showed them to an antechamber in one of the deserted surgeries and pulled a curtain around their tiny corner.

Scant protection, Dan thought. He frowned, “How many times have you been here?”

“Enough,” Cookie admitted. “Every so often we have to refresh our identities. He has a machine that… well, you’ll see. Stay here, I’ll go fetch him.” He hurried from the room, leaving Samantha and Dan alone.

An uneasy silence settled upon them. Dan had the peculiar feeling that Samantha didn’t like him much. Or maybe she’s scared of me? He couldn’t be sure. Either way the conversation wasn’t flowing as it had with Jen. He simply couldn’t think of anything to say.

Samantha was drowning her discomfort by meticulously itemising everything in the room. She’d pulled the curtain aside with a roll of her eyes seconds after Cookie had departed. The stencil on the glass door read ‘Surgery D’. How many are there? she wondered absently. The walls were white and the tiled floor was as clean as the scrubbers could manager. Thin veins of bacteria, immune to the strong chemicals and disinfectants dumped upon them, flourished in green patches. The only solution remaining was to use a scouring pad and scrape the colony away.

Large laminated charts of human anatomy covered one wall. A massive brain captivated her imagination and, in her mind, she saw little brown men squirming in mud, not carefully labelled lobes. Two hospital beds dominated the centre of the room, a perfect symbol for the fastidious nursing staff that had perfectly aligned the sheets and folded identical hospital corners forward and aft. One had a hole at the front for a patient’s face, designed for procedures where the surgeon needed access to the patient’s back. She remembered her own operation, in a similar room. Surgery B I think. She shivered when she thought about the scalpel slicing her flesh and the pulling sensation she felt when the surgeon removed her chip. She couldn’t go through it a second time.

A short, stout man with a ruddy face and tufts of wiry hair sprouting from his potato-like scalp flicked on the lights and temporarily blinded them.

“This is Doctor Ingles,” Cookie said, introducing them. “This is Dan… uh…”

“Sutherland,” Dan supplied, easing Cookie’s embarrassment at his momentary blank. He accepted the surgeon’s offered hand and shook hard, noticing how limp and sweaty the man’s fingers were. It felt as if he were shaking cold, long-dead fish and wondered whether he’d trust someone with such stubby fingers to operate on his spine.

Cookie turned on the electric shades to make the windows opaque, closed the door, and engaged the lock. It clanked with finality, sending a shudder of diluted panic to Dan’s stomach.

Doctor Ingles smiled vivaciously and said, “So you’ve been chipped?”

Dan nodded.

“And you want someone to gouge it out?”

“Yes.” Dan cringed at his choice of words.

“It’ll cost five thousand.” The doctor eyed his potential patient with a degree of curiosity. “North American Credits.”

Dan cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that? About seven thousand Pacific Dollars?”

Cookie’s analytical mind performed a more accurate calculation. “No, more like thirteen thousand at the current exchange rate.”

If the fee surprised Dan, he didn’t show it. “I’ll also need a chip selector-”

“I know.” The doctor smiled. “They come free with the procedure.”

“And three new chips,” Dan finished. “All with authority to carry weapons internationally.”

Doctor Ingles frowned and raised a thumb to stroke his lips. “That’ll cost extra.” He pondered some more. “Say… double. Call it ten thousand Credits even.”

Cookie piped in, helpfully whispering in Dan’s ear, “That’s twenty-six thousand Dollars.”

“I knew that,” Dan snapped, irritably brushed him aside. “Done.”

“Great.” The doctor opened a drawer from a cabinet at the side of the room, extracted two surgical gloves, and started tying a mask across his face. “Strip to the waist and jump on the table.” He was already dragging a tray of medical instruments across the floor and reaching for the floodlight controls. He pressed a button and a shower of brilliant, white, surgical-grade light blasted the table. It outshone the overhead lights a hundred to one and Dan could only guess how hot it was going to be under the dazzling blanket.

He handed his coat to Cookie and his shirt to Samantha before peeling off his grey skivvy and handing it to her too.

“Ah, you might want to take that off.” Doctor Ingles pointed at the silver chain dangling around Dan’s neck.

He reluctantly unclasped the chain and piled it upon Samantha’s waiting palm. It’d been a gift from Katherine and he couldn’t remember taking it off since her death. “Is this going to hurt?”

Doctor Ingles smiled gleefully. “Oh yes, very much.”

“He’s joking.” Samantha giggled. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

“But I used anaesthetic on you,” Ingles said. “And the administrator confiscated it. She locked it in a safe downstairs and I can’t get any unless you schedule an appointment through reception. I think she became suspicious about my side business when I began rescheduling legitimate appointments, not to mention I was using anaesthetic faster than she could replenish it.”

Dan paused before entering the shaft