This choice: Infiltrate the Pattersons • Go Back...Chapter #24Another Made Man by: Seuzz   There's hardly any danger of your confederates being discovered up here, since Olympia gets precious little Stellae traffic these days. Frank is the only one who comes up regularly, and that's to see Steve and Connie; Joe and Rosalie drop in every couple of months too. But Patterson, though he doesn't help out so much these days since his marriage, sometimes acts as a switchboard when people are having a hard time getting in touch with each other, and he and Connie look after the old place.
In fact, now that you think about it, the old house—which has been preserved as a kind of shrine—might for that reason make a good blind for ambushing and replacing Stellae.
That decides you, and you call the team back with new orders. Cox grumbles at the early start, and acidly predicts that Plante won't be ready for an hour, but in fact they manage to meet you inside of thirty minutes. It takes three of you—even with Frank's strength—to move the P3 machine inside the house, where you set it up in the spare bedroom. Even after last night, you can't bring yourself to tempt fate by putting it in Charles Brennan's old room.
While White moves the van down to the parking lot of a nearby school, you outline the plan to the others. "They're just chasers," you caution Cox and Muniz, and they look a trifle disappointed, but nod at your explanation. You start to call Patterson, but Plante stops you: "It's best if we prepare the P3 before the new husks arrive," he says.
It gives you a queer turn to hear Steve Patterson referred to as a "husk," but you only ask Plante what he means: "We don't have to wait for the new husks before prepping the implantees." He gestures at Cox and Muniz. You shrug, and tell Plante to go ahead.
He leads your team into the bedroom to the device. It looks very much like the one in the clean room back at Vulcan, but lighter, flimsier, and a little smaller. He directs Cox to lay on the hospital gurney, and when your colleague is settled he plugs some ear buds into a control panel and begins pressing buttons. From a small cabinet built into the machine he takes a translucent disc about the size of a dinner plate, but much thicker, that looks like it's made of a durable polymer. He sets it on the control panel, on a circle the same size as the plate, and presses a button; the disc sinks into the panel until it is flush with it. His fingers dance over a few more buttons; and between the disk, the ear buds, and machinery, for a brief moment you have the vivid—but ridiculous—impression that he's a rap DJ about to bust out some beats and rhymes.
Cox has been blinking patiently all this time, but now he stiffens as the robotic arm swings over his face and descends. Your asshole clenches as the drill bit sinks into his forehead, but Cox instantly relaxes, his eyes losing focus and falling half shut. Cautiously you lean in for a closer look, but there's no sign of blood or even a puckering of the skin. Plante keeps his fingertips on the control board, and frowns down at it with concentration, but only intervenes at a few spots.
You study the machine more closely, though there's not much to see: a lithe but sturdy robotic arm with two joints, connecting the skull of Cox to the black box that Plante is working. You glance over at Muniz, but he looks as nonplussed as you feel.
Minutes pass before you notice a glow from the machine: the disc that Plante inserted into the control panel has begun to turn golden. The change is very slow at first, but it rapidly progresses. Plante notices your interest: "It takes awhile to hone in on the P3," he says, and removes one of the ear buds and hands it to you. From it comes a steady drone that means nothing to you. "It's easier in the lab," he says as you hand it back. "We've extra sensors we can deploy, it's automated to practically run itself." He shakes his head. "So many accidents while we were developing the field unit, so many—" He sighs. "Your team will have to undergo training so you can operate it. You'll hardly want to do to each other what we—" He shuts his mouth, and with a jerk of the head seems to dismiss an unpleasant memory.
Again you look at Muniz; now he looks a little less sanguine when he returns it.
Plante continues to concentrate on the board without moving much, but after a few minutes he makes a flurry of motions, and with a grunt of satisfaction removes the ear buds as the drill withdraws from Cox. He presses a button, and the disc—now gold in color—rises from the panel. He lifts it and hands it to you.
It must weigh thirty pounds. "Careful," Plante admonishes as you gasp with surprise. "It won't break, but you don't want to drop it on your toes."
The thing now looks like it's made of solid gold. It is entirely featureless too, showing no streaks or glitter or breaks. In fact, it's so smooth in color that your eye has a hard time focusing on it. Then you turn it over, and blink at what's on the other side: In ruby-red letters glows the name "Andrew Henry Cox."
It's like the names that float above a Libra mask, except the wrong color.
"Mr. Cox's P3," says Plante. "Now, if you'll help me move his husk, you can call his new husk out here."
"What will you do with him?" Seeing Cox—whose body is limp and lifeless—like this reminds you that you left a body behind as well.
"Put it in a body bag and transport it to back to London," he says. "We'll disassemble it and store the elements, for reconstitution, possibly, or recycling. Raid it for parts."
You feel yourself turn a little green, but Plante seems not to notice. You retreat into the living room to call Patterson.
* * * * *
He walks in after only tapping at the front door. "So what've you got to move that so big that you can't handle it alone?" he asks with a friendly jeer.
"The old bunk bed," you reply. "I gave it a try but—" Out of the corner of your eye you see Muniz appear in the hall. With your third arm you grasp Patterson about the torso.
His eyes bulge and the air blows from his lungs. He only has time to say "What the—?" before Muniz has the injector gun at his neck. You could have handled him without it, but it's less awkward this way.
Patterson goes limp and his head lolls, but you don't drop him. Muniz frowns; you smile back at him, and jerk Patterson—still erect—over to the hall and push him down it. Muniz leaps away like a startled fawn as the unconscious Patterson slides on dragging feet into the bedroom. You follow close behind, and lay him onto the gurney.
There follows an exact repeat of the procedure on Cox: the drilling into Patterson's forehead and the filling of a translucent disc with a golden substance, this one labeled "Steven Perceval Patterson." Plante packs it into the suitcase alongside Frank Durras's P3. Then he puts Cox's disc back into the machine and re-engages the drill. For several long minutes he fusses and frowns over the control panel as the disc drains of color. When it is empty, he pulls the drill from Patterson's head and signals Muniz, who replaces the cartridge in the injector gun and gives Steve another shot.
His eyes open slowly, then shut again. He takes one deep breath and then another, and with deep sigh and grunt sits up. He rubs the back of his neck, and peers up at you. "Dumbass," he sneers.
"Scatterbrain." You stare at each other, then you help him to his feet, and you exchange a loose, manly hug and clap on the back. "You gonna check his mounting or whatever it is?" you ask Plante.
The doctor already has that pencil flashlight out, and after a moment's confusion Patterson half crouches so Plante can shine it in his eyes. Plante quickly declares the transplant a success.
"So what do you need me to do?" Patterson asks as you lead him back into the living room.
"First, get Connie out here."
"Do we want Laverne too?"
"I don't think so. White can go back to London with Plante." You glance back down the hallway. "We should leave the machine here, that'll be your main job, guarding it. Maybe Plante can train you in using it before he goes."
"You're not actually going out after that thing, are you?"
You look back sharply. "Of course I am."
"You don't need to be the perfect dumbass, Knotts. It's not your job anymore."
"Yes it is," you retort. "I got a character to run, and so do you." You raise a finger at him, and he whitens just a little. "Besides, that'll be our first dividend for the bosses." You smile faintly. "Nerio could get some use out of it."
"Out of you too," he says, and looks worried. "If you don't come back— Anyway, you got an out if you want, without breaking character. Joe tried calling you last night."
"No he didn't."
"Your phone was off, he said. I— Patterson didn't pass the message along to you this morning because it didn't mean anything to him, and anyway he woulda figured Dumbass wouldn't change his plans. But Rick passed through and saw Joe yesterday. He's heading to D.C."
"So?"
"Malaika has assigned him to help the Sages, and he's meeting one of them there. They're very interested in the assassination of President Nzingha."  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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