Mount Dragon (58 page)

They had filled both canteens and drunk from the spring until their bodies refused to swallow any more. Now, as they rode along the base of the mountains, Carson could feel the coolness slowly creep back into the air. Overhead, a late-afternoon sun hung above the barren summits.

Another fifteen miles to Lava Gate, then perhaps twenty more to Lava Camp. Since most of their traveling would be under cover of darkness, they needn't fear running out of water again. The horses were probably each carrying fifty pounds of water in their bellies. There was nothing like a bad thirst to scare a horse into drinking when he had the water.

He dropped back slightly, watching de Vaca. She sat erect in the saddle, her long legs relaxed in the stirrups, her hair floating behind like a black wind. She had a sharp, strong profile, Carson noticed, with a finely pointed nose and full lips. Odd he'd never seen it before.
Of course
, he thought,
a full biosuit isn't exactly the most flattering piece of clothing
.

She turned. “What are you looking at,
cabrón
?” she asked. The golden afternoon light was refracting in her dark eyes.

“You,” he said.

“What do you see?”

“Someone I—” He paused.

“Let's get back to civilization before you make any hasty declarations,” she said, turning away.

Carson grinned. “I was going to say, someone I'd like to pin to a bed. A real bed, not just a bed of sand. Writhing in ecstasy, preferably.”

“That bed of sand wasn't so bad.”

He sat back in the saddle with an exaggerated grimace. “I think half the skin of my back must be underneath your nails right now.”

He pointed to the horizon. “See that notch in the distance, where the mountains and the lava seem to meet? That's Lava Gate, the northern end of the Jornada. From there, we just aim for the North Star. It's less than twenty miles to Lava Camp. They'll have hot food and a phone. And maybe even a real bed.”

“Oh, yeah?” asked de Vaca. “Ouch. My poor butt.”

Nye sighted down the barrel of the Holland & Holland, checked the brush scope, and secured the magazine. Everything was ready. Placing the buttstock between his feet, he checked the muzzle end for any obstructions. He'd cleaned it a hundred times since that piss-artist Carson had plugged it up, that day in the desert. But it didn't hurt to make sure.

The two figures were now a mile away. In less than ten minutes, they'd be coming into range. Two fast, clean shots at four hundred yards. Then two more to pay the insurance, and a couple for the horses. They'd never even see him.

It was time. He eased the rifle into position, then lay on the hard lava, snugging his cheek into the stock. He began taking slow, deep breaths, letting the air ease out his nostrils, slowing his heart rate. He'd shoot between heartbeats for greater accuracy.

He raised his head imperceptibly and glanced around. The boy was gone. Then Nye spotted him, dancing on a lava rock on the other side of the slope. Far away from the action.

He settled into position again, lining up the sights and slowly swiveling the barrel across the desert floor until the two figures appeared between the crosshairs.

“Don't shoot!” came a voice from behind the guards. “I've got Mr. Scopes on the intercom.” Words were exchanged. The gun barrel lowered, and one of the guards pulled Levine roughly to his feet.

He was led down a dim corridor, past a large guard station, then a smaller one. As the group turned into a narrow hallway flanked by rows of doors, Levine realized he had taken this trip once before: hours earlier, when he navigated through GeneDyne cyberspace with Phido at his side. As he walked, he could hear the hum of machinery, the low susurrus of ventilators and air exchangers.

They stopped outside the massive black door. Levine was instructed to remove his shoes and don a pair of foam slippers. A guard spoke into his radio, and there was the sound of electronic locks being released. There was a hissing sound, and the door popped ajar. As a guard pulled it open, air rushed out, buffeting Levine's face. He stepped inside.

The octagonal office looked nothing like the garret of Scopes's cyberspace. It was vast, dark, and oddly sterile. The bare walls climbed ponderously to the high ceiling. Levine's gaze moved from the ceiling, to the famous piano, to the gleaming inlaid desk, to Scopes. The CEO of GeneDyne sat on his battered sofa, keyboard on lap, looking sardonically back at Levine. His black T-shirt was dirty and stained with what appeared to be pizza sauce. In front of him, a giant screen still contained an image of the parapet outside the garret of the ruined house. In the distance, Pemaquid Point Light was blinking over the dark water.

Scopes stabbed a key, and the screen went abruptly black.

“Frisk him for weapons or electronic devices of any kind,” Scopes said to the guards. He waited until the guards withdrew. Then he looked at Levine, making a tent of his fingers. “I've checked the maintenance logs. You seem to have spent quite some time in that elevator. Fifteen hours, give or take. Would you care to refresh yourself?”

Levine shook his head.

“Have a seat, then.” Scopes indicated the far end of the sofa. “What about your friend? Would he like to join us? I mean, the one that's been doing all the difficult work for you. He's left his signature all over the network, and I'd very much like to meet him and explain the dim view I take of his activities.”

Levine remained silent. Scopes looked at him, smiling and smoothing down his unruly cowlick. “It's been some time, hasn't it, Charles? I must admit, I'm a bit surprised to see you. But not half as surprised as I am by your offer to sign the renewal, after all these years of adamant refusal. How quickly we lose our principles when we face the ultimate test. ‘It is easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them.' Or to die for them. Correct?”

Levine sat down. “‘To have doubted one's own first principles is the mark of a wise man,'” he quoted.

“That's ‘
civilized
man,' Charles. You're rusty at The Game. Do you remember the last time we played it?”

A look of pain crossed Levine's face. “If I'd won, we wouldn't be here today.”

“Probably not. I often wonder, you know, just how much of your frantic antigenetics campaigning over the years was really just self-loathing. You loved The Game as much as I did. You risked everything you believed in for that final game, and you lost.” Scopes sat up and placed his fingers on the keyboard. “I'll have the papers printed up for your signature right away.”

“You haven't heard my terms,” Levine said evenly.

Scopes turned. “Terms? You don't seem to be in a position to dictate any. Either you sign, or you die.”

“You wouldn't actually murder me in cold blood, would you?”

“Murder,” Scopes repeated slowly. “In cold blood. I suppose such sensationalist language is your stock in trade now. But yes, I'm afraid I would—not to put too fine a point on it, as Mr. Micawber would say. Unless you sign the patent renewal.”

There was a silence. “My terms are one more game,” Levine said.

Scopes looked back in disbelief. Then he chuckled. “Well, well, Charles. A—what do they call it—grudge match? And for what stakes?”

“If I win, you destroy the virus and let me live. If I lose, I'll sign the corn-patent renewal and you can kill me. So you see, if you win, you get another eighteen years of exclusive royalties on X-RUST,
and
you can sell the virus to the Pentagon. If you lose, you lose both the corn patent
and
the virus.”

“Killing you would be easier.”

“But much less profitable. If you kill me, the corn patent will not be renewed. That eighteen-year renewal alone is probably worth ten billion dollars to GeneDyne.”

Scopes thought a moment, letting the keyboard slide from his lap. “Let me counter that last offer. If you lose, instead of killing you, I'll bring you aboard GeneDyne as vice-chairman and chief scientist. It's my original offer, updated, with a salary and stock options commensurate with your stature. We'll turn back the clock, start all over again. Naturally, you will cooperate in every way, and cease these senseless attacks on GeneDyne and technological progress in general.”

“Instead of death, a pact with the devil, you mean. Why would you do this for me? I'm not sure I trust you.”

Scopes grinned. “What makes you think I'd be doing it for you? Killing you would be messy and inconvenient. Besides, I'm not a murderer, and there's always the chance it would weigh on my conscience. Really, Charles, I haven't enjoyed destroying your career. It was a purely defensive move.” He waved his hand. “However, just letting you go back into the world like a loose cannon, to snipe at me at your leisure, is not a viable option either. It is in my interests to convince you to join the company, cooperate, sign the usual nondisclosure forms. If you wished, you could sit in your office here all day, doing nothing. But I think you would find a much more rewarding path in research and development—helping to cure sick people. It doesn't necessarily have to be in genetic engineering, either. Pharmaceuticals, biomedical research, whatever: You could write your own ticket. Devote your life to creating, instead of destroying.”

Levine stood up, facing the huge screen, now blank and featureless. The silence grew. At last, he turned to face Scopes. “I accept,” he said. “However, I need a guarantee that you'll destroy that virus if you lose. I want you to remove it from the safe and place it on this table between us. If I win, I'll simply take the vial out of here and dispose of it properly. If it
is
, in fact, the only vial.”

Scopes frowned. “You of all people should know that. Thanks to your friend Carson.”

Levine raised his eyebrows.

“So it's news to you, is it? From the reports I've received, it appears that son of a bitch blew up Mount Dragon. Carson Iscariot.”

“I had no idea.”

Scopes looked at him speculatively. “And I thought
you
were behind it. I assumed it was revenge of a sort for what I'd done to your father's memory.” He shook his head. “Well, what's nine hundred million when ten billion are at stake? I agree to your terms. With one proviso of my own. If you lose, I don't want you to renege on the corn-patent renewal. I want you to sign the papers now, in the presence of a notary. We'll place the agreement on the table in front of us, along with the vial. If I lose, you get both. If I win, I get both.”

Levine nodded.

Pulling the keyboard back onto his lap, Scopes began typing rapidly. Then, reaching for a phone, he spoke briefly. A moment later, there was a chime; then a woman entered bearing several sheets of paper, two pens, and a notary seal.

“Here's the document,” Scopes said. “Sign it while I get the virus.”

He moved toward a far wall, ran his fingers along its surface until he felt what he was looking for, then pressed against it. There was a snap, and a panel swung outward. Scopes reached inside and quickly tapped a number of keys. There was a beep and a click, and then Scopes reached his hand farther inside and pulled out a small biohazard box. Bringing it to the inlaid table, he opened it and removed a sealed glass ampule three inches wide and two inches high. He carefully placed the ampule on top of the document Levine had signed, then waited until the notary left the Octagon.

“We'll play by our old rules,” he said. “Best two out of three. We'll let the GeneDyne computer pick a topic at random from its database. If there are any challenges, do you agree that the computer should resolve them?”

“Yes,” said Levine.

Scopes flipped a coin, slapped it onto the back of his hand. “You call it.”

“Heads.”

Scopes removed the covering hand. “Tails. I start the first subject.”