The Nexus Series: Books 1-3 (23 page)

“It’s an
emergency, for crying out loud!” snapped Dizzie.

“
Very
well.  The caller is inside the Governmental Complex
.”

They looked at
each other.

“What are we
waiting for?” said Bradley, dashing for the conference room exit.

The others were
right behind him.

“Track the caller
on the GoCom security cams,” Dizzie ordered Sherlock over her shoulder as she
ran.  “Send the feed to my mobile!”

“
Of course,
Desiree
.”

They burst out of
the conference room, circled the HQ balcony, and tumbled into the elevator
lobby.

“Wait!” Dizzie
ordered suddenly.

The others looked
back and saw her staring wide-eyed at her phone’s screen.

“What?” asked
Corey.

“We have to
hurry!” Bradley insisted, reaching out to push the button that called the
elevator.

But the elevator
was already descending.

8

“SHERLOCK,
stop the elevator,” yelled Corey, “and get security here right away!”

“Wait a moment,”
said Holiday.  “Sherlock, is Mr. Dillon armed?”

“
He doesn’t
appear to be, sir
,” Sherlock said from the speaker of Dizzie’s phone. 
“
He passed through the metal detectors on his way here with no problem
.”

“Thank you. 
Let him come.  I’ll call for security later if need be.”

“
Of course,
sir
.”

Holiday received
five severe looks.

“We’re ready for
him,” the director said.  He drew a gun from beneath his coat, then drew
another from his other hip and handed it to Corey.

The elevator
doors opened.

He was fairly
tall and wore stylish clothes and an expression of confidence.  His ears
were somewhat pointed, his dark eyebrows drawn severely over penetrating eyes,
and his goatee immaculately trimmed.  “You won’t need your weapons,” he
said calmly.  “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“Then what
are
you here for?” Bradley asked him.

“To turn myself
in.”

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” said Holiday, not lowering his weapon so much as a millimeter,
“allow me to introduce you all to Mr.
Holbert
Dillon,
assistant chairman of the board overseeing our department.  Or, should I
say,
former
assistant chairman of the board.”

“I submitted my
letter of resignation this morning,” Dillon confirmed.  “As for the
illegally obtained items, you’ll find them in my apartment if you didn’t
already last night.”

“We didn’t want
them,” Corey said over his weapon, “we wanted you.”

“And here I am to
oblige.”

“After avoiding
us all night last night,” said Amber.  “Why the sudden change of mind?”

“I didn’t think
you would discover who I was; I really didn’t,” replied Dillon.

“You set up
surveillance in your own apartment to watch for us,” countered Jill.

“To watch for the
police, actually.  I assumed they were the ones who chased me around town
last night.  I doubted they would find me, though there was always a
chance.  My contingency plan was to disappear somewhere in the city. 
It wouldn’t be so hard to do, of course.”

“But you didn’t,”
said Bradley.

“No,” Dillon said
slowly.  “I discovered it was you who were on my trail, not merely the
police.”

“You could have
kept running,” said Amber.

“It’s difficult
to escape from Sherlock,” he replied.  He smiled ruefully in Holiday’s
direction.  “Possible—but difficult.  I wouldn’t have lasted long.”

THE
two of them spoke alone in the director’s office.

“We’re on the
trail of some very dangerous people,” Holiday said severely.  “You know
that.”

“So you told me
at the meeting,” Dillon said emotionlessly.  “I’ve no connection to them.”

“I never said you
did.  But the source for your shipment was one of their sources as well.”

“It was never my
intent to get in your way.”

“Whether it was
your intent or not, we’ve lost valuable time.”

“I tried to tell
you, Director.  It is far too easy to smuggle illegal devices into
Anterra.  Every time you confiscate one of them, there will be two others
that you don’t know about.  Who knows what these criminals you’re after
have been doing while you’ve been devoting your resources to finding little,
insignificant me.”

“Your actions are
no more legal than theirs.”

“I don’t dispute
it.  But you’re only trying to reassure yourself.  You know I’m no
danger to anyone.”

“I know nothing
of the sort.”  Holiday took the former board member in a cold, steel-gray
gaze.  “What are your motives, Mr. Dillon?”

He shook his
head.  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“But you’re going
to tell me anyway.  If you’re as innocent as you say you are, your
statement can only help you.”

Dillon returned Holiday’s
gaze for a long moment before responding.  “Do you ever read science
fiction, Director?”

Holiday didn’t
respond.

“Many generations
before ours have foreseen what we have here on Anterra,” Dillon went on. 
“Countless books and films have been made about an advanced society like ours,
ever-watched by electronic eyes, a place where the government constantly keeps
tabs on everyone and everything, where all information is public, in order to
prevent any potential danger.  There’s a common thread in all the
stories—every one of them.”

The director
still didn’t respond.  He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Those in
possession of such power are never the good guys, Director, always the
villains.  A lack of privacy inevitably leads to the undoing of a society,
not the protection of it.  Our artistic creations have always predicted
it.  Now we’ll see it come to pass—unless something drastically changes.”

“Something like
you smuggling illegal devices onto MS9,” Holiday suggested.

“My actions are
but a small sampling of what will happen.  Privacy is an inherent right,
Director.  It is not in the government’s place to give or take it.”

Holiday sat
forward again.  “Well, as riveting as this conversation is...”

“I don’t want my
love letters to my fiancée to be accessible to others,” Dillon stated simply.

Holiday paused.

“When I journal
my darkest thoughts and struggles,” the former board member continued, “I do so
as a mode of release.  I know I’m not alone.  They’re for me, and not
for anyone else.”

The director sat
back again, a softer look on his face.

“I don’t want
photographs of my daughter to be stored on a government computer,” Dillon went
on, gaze drifting distantly.  “Every other weekend.  That’s all I
have with her.  That’s all the courts would give me.  Twenty-four out
of twenty-eight days, photographs are all I have of her.  I want them to
be mine.  Mine alone.”

Holiday sighed
and pushed a button on his desk.  “Just because these things are on file
doesn’t mean—”

“That they’ll
ever be accessed by anyone else,” Dillon finished.  “I know.  Should
that console me, Director?  Would it console you?”

Two uniformed
guards appeared in the office.

“It doesn’t
change the principle of the matter,” Dillon said.  “I told you
you
wouldn’t believe me.”

Holiday watched
silently as the guards escorted him away.

BEHIND
a panel in his office wall was the hallway to Holiday’s residence.  He
stood reflectively in his bedroom now.

At last he opened
the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed.  He set aside a thick book
with a worn leather cover.  Beneath it was an old shoebox.  He set
the shoebox on the bed and lifted off the lid.

He always kept
his favorite picture of her on top—the first thing he saw whenever he opened
the box, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so.  Her hair
fluttered in the wind; behind her stretched the channel off the Cornish
coast.  He’d snapped it with a disposable camera, and finally developed it
in the village—what was the name of that little place?  It had been so
long ago.

This wasn’t the
original photo, of course.  It was a scan, reprinted on digital paper to
be legal here on Anterra.  It wasn’t the one he’d held in his fingers back
then, the one she’d held in hers when he’d handed it to her.  He’d asked
what she thought of it. 
I’m making a weird face in it
, she’d said
self-consciously.

He’d thought it
was beautiful.  Still thought so.

Beneath the
photograph—the
copy
of the photograph—there were letters. 
Dear
Giles
, the first began,
How I miss you!  It seems like you’ll never
be home
...

It wasn’t the
original letter either, not the actual page to which she had touched her
fountain pen and written in her delicate hand.  Just another scanned copy.

The original had
been burned.  She’d written it back home on non-digital paper, a special
flowered stationary she’d purchased in that same village.  Would he still
recognize the brittle feel of the paper if he could hold it again?  Would
it still smell faintly of her perfume...?

His cell rang in
his pocket, startling him into the present.

“Holiday.”

“Director, it’s
Janice Moeller.”

“Yes, Janice?”

“The
interrogation is set for Room G in half an hour.”

“I’m looking
forward to it.”

9

HIS
office was dark, walled and floored with polished black.  It had a single
round window on one side, through which was only inky darkness.  Behind
his desk the wall displayed a modern, stylized outline of an eagle in
flight.  The profile of its head bore a glowing red eye.

The man’s attire
was dark and semiformal.  His long gray hair was tied into a ponytail that
spilled across his back.

The phone on his
desk started warbling.  He picked up the receiver.  “Yes?”

“Forgive me for
not calling sooner.”  The voice that answered was cloaked behind layers of
distortion and affects.

The man
smiled.  “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Give me a status
update.”

“The project is
progressing well.  We’re actually a bit ahead of schedule.”

“Is your location
compromised?”

“We have no
reason to believe so.  Is there a concern?”

“My only concern
is that you feel too invincible and fail to take the necessary precautions,”
said the voice.

“Rest assured we
are doing everything we can.”

“I’m glad to hear
it.  Still, I’d prefer to observe things there firsthand.”

The man
hesitated.  “I understand.  As soon as we’re ready for testing—”

“Sooner,” the
voice interrupted.

“I thought we’d
agreed that, for your own safety, you wouldn’t come here—that we wouldn’t even
reveal the location to you until just before the launch date.”

“That was the original
plan, yes.”

“And I highly
recommend we stick to it,” the man said.  “We can’t risk your coming here,
not when we’re this far along.”

“Very well,” the
voice said reluctantly.  “We’ll speak again soon.  In the meantime,
do everything possible to maintain the safety of the project.”

“Of course.”

The line went
dead.

THE
Korean man who called himself Sketch was secured at the table in the small
interrogation room.  He was clothed in the prescribed drab-gray attire and
wore a black patch over one eye.

“Back to see me
so soon, Director?” he asked in perfect English.

Holiday took the
seat across from him.  “The pleasure is mine.”

“I can’t stay
long, unfortunately.  Regulations, you know.”

“Then let’s get
right to it.”

The Korean man
shrugged.  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Ah, of
course.”  Holiday offered one of his classic smirks.  “It’s a rather
interesting game, isn’t it?  Choosing which tidbits of information to hold
back. Deciding when it’s to your advantage to reveal them. 
Fascinating!  It just so happens I believe now is a good time for some
revelations.”

“Interesting. 
I hope you’re going to make me a generous offer in return for any information I
might be able to provide.”

Holiday
chuckled.  “That
you
might provide?  I was talking about me.”

The man who
called himself Sketch gave the director a sideways look.

“You’re not the
only one who’s been withholding important information, you see,” Holiday
continued.  “I have a few of my own cards that I’m ready to play now.”

“I’m all ears, as
the English expression goes.”

Holiday sat back,
hands folded across his chest.  “I remember the first time I heard of the
infamous crime lord known as Sketch.  Quite some time ago, it was. 
Of course, by now, everyone knows the name.  And the reputation that goes along
with it, too—powerful, ruthless, cunning.  Not that you would know much
about that.”

The prisoner
raised an eyebrow.  “You’re saying I haven’t earned my reputation?”

“I’m saying
you’re not Sketch.”

The Korean man’s
cocky expression disappeared.  He swallowed.

“Oh, you
certainly work for Sketch,” the director continued, “I’ve no doubt about
that.  But we’ve only captured a decoy.”  He leaned close to the
prisoner.  “I assure you, we are still very intent upon capturing the real
thing.”

“You’ll never find
him.”

Holiday
chuckled.  “I won’t argue.  But I haven’t just come to talk about who
you aren’t; let’s talk about who you
are
.  Your name is Kim.”

The prisoner
snorted.  “Just an educated guess.  Half the Koreans on Anterra are
named Kim.”

“But only one of
them is named after his ancestor Hyun Ki Kim, engineer of the United Space
Programs, martyred a few generations ago on one of the first shuttles to MS9.”

Hyun Ki Kim’s
descendant froze.

Holiday loosened
his tie.  “When you were seventeen, you joined an underground movement
known as the Flaming Taeguk.  Your eye was wounded in a knife fight.”

Kim was still
trying to play the tough guy.  “You didn’t think the patch was just for
show, did you?”

“It is,
actually.”  Holiday reached across the table and tore the eye patch
free.  “The robotic replacement works just fine, I’m sure.  If not,
don’t forget there’s a lifetime warranty on it.  Government regulation.”

Kim 
blinked—one real eye and one identical glass imitation fitted with a mechanized
lens.

“You rose quickly
among the ranks of the Flaming Taeguk,” the director went on, undoing the top
buttons of his shirt.  “During one particular heist you shot a young
government agent.”

“My first kill,”
the prisoner reminisced with a slight smile.  “Funny how quickly you can
get so used to taking life.  My second was the next day.”

“Actually, your
first was the next day,” said Holiday, spreading open the unbuttoned top of his
shirt.

Hyun Ki Kim
stared at the revealed scar on the director’s chest.  He hoped the shock
wasn’t written on his face.  “Why are you telling me all this?”

“So you’ll know,”
Holiday whispered, leaning even closer, “why I wouldn’t have a moment’s
hesitation about killing you the first instant I suspect you’re of no more use
to us.”

“Don’t try to
intimidate me, Director.  I know your record.  You’re a boy scout,
not the type to casually knock off a valuable informant like me.”

“Explain to me
how you’ve been a valuable informant thus far.”

Kim didn’t
respond.

“It’s not too
late, of course,” Holiday pressed.  “You’re going to tell us something of
value, Mr. Kim.  You can either tell it to me right now, or you can tell
it to one of our interrogation experts.  You know the type—carries a
briefcase filled with all sorts of charming instruments and substances. 
And accidents have been known to happen during such interrogations.”

Kim kept playing
it cool.  “I’ll tell you something, all right, Director.  I’ll tell
you that your measly little team doesn’t know the half of what Sketch is about
to do in this city.”

“Vague
insinuations are well and good, but we’ll need something a little more concrete
than that.”

“That computer
network you’ve been trying to keep us from building...”  Kim smiled
darkly. “Well, that’s the least of your concerns, believe me.”

THE
same dream again...

One moment her
mother’s boat was there ahead of hers, a small black smudge on the reflective
surface of the lake.

The next moment
it was a blinding blossom of smoke and flame, and a deafening concussion
knocked Jill backwards.  Her boat rocked and swayed.

She sat up,
dazed; shocked.

Flames still
licked the remains of the tiny vessel that had been carrying her mother.

She wanted to
cry; all she wanted to do was cry.

But she didn’t.

Survival
instincts kicked in. 
They were onto us.  Get away.

Jill was a good
swimmer.  She kicked of her shoes and plunged over the side of her boat.

By the time the
fire and police departments arrived at the wreckage, she was back at the
abandoned dock.  She crouched on the edge, a cold, wet, trembling
mess.  But the tears wouldn’t come.

Three years
later, they still hadn’t come.

IT
was before five o’clock when her eyes opened.

She showered and
dressed quickly and headed away from the dorm area.

The elevator lobby
was quiet and empty as usual.  Even the director’s office appeared
abandoned at the moment.  She was glad.  He hardly ever seemed to
take any time to himself.  She often wondered if the man even ate or
slept.

She crossed the
lobby and went through the door into HQ.  Even at this time of morning
there was quite a bit of activity.  About half the cubicles on the open
floor below were occupied.

She headed around
the concrete balcony toward the cafeteria.  Through the glass wall she saw
the empty rows of tables.  It was dark except for a little light from the
back where the kitchen was.  She smelled bacon frying.

The door into the
caf
was unlocked.  Jill crossed between the
tables toward the swinging door to the kitchen.

“Orange juice
doesn’t squeeze itself!” she heard a muffled voice call from in the kitchen.

Jill smiled and
peeked through the door.

“Is that garbage
can eight feet tall,” the voice demanded, “or should we go ahead and take it to
the compactor before we try to shove any more in it?  It’s called common
sense, people!”

The big woman
belting out the commands turned toward the door.  The frown vanished
suddenly, and a smile glowed from the beautiful ebony face.  “Well, Miss
Jillian Branch!”  She put down a rolling pin, wiped her hands on her apron,
and called back at the kitchen staff, “Try to get
some
work done while I
step out, will you?”

A moment later
Jill was in the midst of one of Ginny’s long, warm hugs.

“So glad to see
you!” she said, leading the way to one of the tables in the mostly dark seating
area.  “Gives me a chance to get out of that blessed kitchen for a few
minutes.”  She darted a cold look toward the swinging door.

Jill chuckled and
shook her head.  Ginny’s legendary bark was ten times worse than her
bite.  Her kitchen staff unanimously adored her.

“How are you this
morning, Momma?” said Jill.  Ginny insisted on being called Momma by the
young recruits of the department.  Many had lost their parents; others had
little or no contact with them.  Ginny’s nurturing ways couldn’t make up
for the loss entirely, but she came awfully close.

“Oh, I’m fine,”
the cook said with a casual wave.  “Another day.”  She wrinkled her
brow.  “You had a tough night last night, huh?”

Jill shrugged
nonchalantly.  “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ginny
said, unconvinced.  “Can I get you some hot chocolate?”

“Maybe a cup of
coffee?”

The cook eyed
Jill suspiciously.  “How many times have I offered you my gourmet coffee,
just to listen to you turn me down?”

“Today seems like
a good day to try it.”

Ginny’s smile
returned.  “Well, all right, then!  Cream and sugar?”

“Is that how you
like yours?”

“Oh, no, I like
mine just the way it comes out of the pot.”

“I’ll try that.”

A moment later
Ginny returned with a steaming mug and a tray with a small pitcher and
dispenser.  “I brought the cream and sugar just in case,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Careful, it’s
hot.”

“Okay.”

Ginny sat next to
her and began
sipping
from her own mug.

They sat in
silence for a minute or two.

Momma Ginny had a
knack for knowing when someone wanted to talk but couldn’t do it.  She
also had a knack for what to say in such situations.  “I know what it’s
like to have a heavy heart, Jill.”

Jill looked at
her.  “Hmm?”

“I watched my own
mother die before my eyes when I wasn’t much younger than you.”

It was the last
thing Jill expected to hear.  “You did?”

Ginny
nodded.  “It was a white supremacist group who did it.”

“White
supremacist?”

“You’ve heard of
the enslavement of blacks in the early days of the United States?”

“Yeah, I’ve read
about that.  That ended a long time ago, right?”

“Yes it
did.  Over the years, a lot of good has been done for the cooperation of
different races back in my home nation.  But....” Ginny’s eyes drifted.

“But they didn’t
totally solve the problem?” put in Jill.

“Maybe never
will.  There’s hatred bound up in the hearts of people, Jillian. 
Some just can’t put it aside.”

There was more
silence.

“There was a
group in my hometown,” Ginny went on.  “They had a lot of control in that
little village—a lot of say in what went on.  They always let us blacks
know we were the inferior folks.  My mother raised me to call everyone
‘Mister this’ or ‘Miss that.’  The habit has stuck.  But now I
realize it was a way we showed our submission to the whites, just like they had
to in the old days.”

“I like when you
call me ‘Miss Jill.’  It doesn’t make me feel superior to you; it just
feels like...I don’t know, like you’re being respectful.”

Ginny
smiled.  “Things are different up here.  Some of the chief engineers
of the Metropolitan Satellite Project were Africans or African-Americans. 
We’re very respected in this place.  Of course, there’re other
problems.  Look at the way the Koreans are treated here.  Look how
you
half
-Koreans are treated!”

“So that’s how
the blacks were treated in the United States?”

“Usually
not.  But sometimes.  Some places were worse than others.  My
town was especially bad.  They beat my mother so she couldn’t stand back
up.  She died in the hospital a week later.  They beat me pretty good
too, but I was younger back then.”

Jill
swallowed.  “Is that why you came to Anterra, Ginny?”