“I knew you’d make it this far,” the killer said.
His voice was immediately recognizable.
“No…” I whispered.
Then he took off his celebrity veil, and I stared right at the face of my dearest friend in the world.
Michio Sata.
FORTY-ONE
The Mastermind, Dr. Michio Sata, sits patiently in the waiting area. Anyone passing by, if they bother to look, sees a calm, bemused man, with a strange case strapped to his chest that has a bizarre prism effect. They might guess he’s a kindly old grandfather, awaiting his family’s arrival. Or perhaps he’s simply a people watcher, enjoying one of the few pleasures left in his golden years.
It’s doubtful any of them will guess he’s few hours away from killing them all. Them, and eight million more.
And that’s only the beginning.
Sata has had enough of this world. He’s decided to find another one more to his liking.
But first, he’s going to wipe this one out.
The prospect delights him. But even more exciting is facing the mouse again. Talon. As close a thing to an adversary as Sata has.
It isn’t much fun wiping out all life on the planet if you don’t have to beat someone in order to do it.
Sata can still remember years ago, meeting Talon for the first time. His buddy Teague had done better in classes. But Talon had something about him. Something special. Teague, though an excellent timecaster, was a rather boring, oafish personality.
Talon cares about people. He truly wants to make a difference.
Breaking him will be so much fun.
A child walks by, holding his mother’s hand. He stares at Sata, offers the old man a smile.
Smile while you can, child, Sata thinks. You’ve got two hours left.
The ghoulish thought makes Sata smile back.
FORTY-TWO
“Let me begin by saying you’ll never find Vicki on your own,” Sata’s projection said. “She’s safe, for the moment. But you’ve seen what I’m capable of doing. Unless you follow my instructions, she’ll die. And so will you. Your right arm has been growing steadily number, hasn’t it?”
I looked at my arm, flexing my hand. I had very little feeling left.
“During our kendo match, I hit you above the padding with a well-aimed thrust. The tip of my shinai had a needle in it. You’ve been injected with a nanopoison. Your entire nervous system is shutting down. Unless you get the antidote, you don’t have too many hours left.”
My mind spun, and I began to get dizzy. This couldn’t be happening. Sata couldn’t be the one behind all of this madness. He was my mentor. My friend.
“I’m sure you have questions. You’ll find answers, and your wife, at the space elevator. Vicki already purchased your ticket, but you’ll need your chip to get into the station. Our lift leaves at three. The authorities are looking for you, and will be waiting. I’ve left an obfuscation disk next to the projector. You can stick it to your arm, over your chip, and it will block GPS, and timecasting, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”
I glanced down at the thin round device next to the projector. It went into my utility belt pouch.
“If you miss the lift, you won’t have any second chances. Vicki will die. And so will eight million others. Boise was just a warm-up. Once I reach low-earth orbit, I’m unleashing the device upon Chicago. By four p.m., the entire city will be gone.”
This just kept getting better and better.
“Going to the authorities won’t do any good. When you walked into my house, you activated a slate magnet. The recording on your TEV has been erased. I’ve also carefully hidden five prism balls on the property. You won’t be able to track me, or to prove my involvement.”
“Yeah? Well, what about this recording I’m watching, asshole?”
“This recording will now self-destruct. You should jump away.”
I dove to the side, tucking and rolling, leaving my mouth open to equalize the sudden change in pressure as the projector exploded. It still hurt my eardrums, the blast of superheated air and flames setting my shirt on fire. I came to a rest on my back and patted out the fire on my clothes. I was shaken, upset, wondering what I was supposed to do next.
It didn’t take long for me to figure it out. Sata had left me no other option. I had to go to the space elevator.
That meant getting my chip back.
I logged onto GPS using my DT and tracked my chip. It was moving, which meant my raccoon buddy hadn’t evacuated it yet. I had no idea how difficult raccoons were to catch, but I guessed it would take more than me and my bare hands. To complicate matters, the raccoon was at a location I was unfortunately familiar with: Chomsky’s house.
Boy, I hated that dick.
I was running low on people who could help me, so I called the only number I had left.
“Fuck you, Talon. I’m not talking to you.”
“Look, McGlade, I’m sorry about the sex thing.”
“It wasn’t just the sex. I also got my arm broken-broken trying to save your ass, BTW. And you used me as a human shield. I hate getting Tased, Talon. It sucks the farts out of dead gerbils. And all of this was before I learned you killed half a million people. Not that I have any particular fondness for Idahoans, but fuck, Talon.”
“I didn’t kill those people. And I need your help catching who did.”
“You can bite my ass after I shit myself.”
“You’re a poet, McGlade, you know that? I’ll pay you.”
“Pay me what? Promises and insurance credits I’ll never see?”
“How about a thousand paper books?” I told him, thinking of Zelda’s. “Lots of rare titles. Many of them hardcover.”
There was a lengthy pause. I could picture him adding up the black market value in his grubby little head. “And you have these books in your possession?”
“Yes. I can bring you samples.”
“What is it you need?”
“Do you have animal traps?”
“Of course I have animal traps. What size?”
“For a raccoon.”
“You’re telling me a raccoon blew up Boise?”
“It’s a long story. I need an animal trap, some bait, a patch of living skin, and a sedative with a syringe. Also, bring your Taser. We may have to, uh, subdue the little guy.”
“Nice. You’re a class act, Talon.”
“Bring your Magnum, too.”
“Sit on a cactus and spin, asshole.”
McGlade truly did have a way with words.
“I’ve got more than just the books. I’ve got paintings.”
“Real paint-on-canvas paintings?”
“Yeah. Famous ones, too.”
“What artist?”
I closed my eyes, trying to think of the name I had seen on the landscape scene in Zelda’s bedroom.
“Monet,” I said.
“You’re fucking me with a jackhammer.”
“Where do you come up with lines like that?”
“You so do not have a Monet. You know how much those are worth?”
“Bring the gun. And ammo. I’ll meet you a block away from my house, on the corner of Randall and Monroe.”
“Gimme three hours.”
I checked the time on my DT. “You’ve got two hours. If you’re late, no books or paintings.”
“Two hours? No way. It would be easier to stuff my ass with synthetic cotton and then crap out a knitted-”
“Two hours,” I said, interrupting him. Then I pressed my earlobe and hung up.
It took me ten minutes to find one of Sata’s suitcases and fill it with what I needed. Then I was on the road again, heading back to Aunt Zelda’s. I needed to focus, to plan, but my brain was stuck in a loop. I kept thinking of Sata’s betrayal, and Vicki’s safety. Would he hurt her? What could have happened to him?
I wondered if it was the steroids. Maybe they’d fried his brain.
Maybe I should have paid closer attention. I could remember the classes, the lessons, the countless kendo matches. Good, dear memories. He was like a father to me. Why didn’t I make a better effort to stay in touch with him? Could I have prevented this?