There's Only One Quantum (10 page)

“Affirmative,” the officer said. “Identify.”

Just then, the second pursuer reappeared, heading straight for Coe.

“Pull up!” the officer commanded. Then, seemingly to the second pursuer, the officer said, “Stand down...”

Coe pulled up, quickly ascending; the first pursuer did the same.

The officer said, “Last warning—”

The hovercar suddenly opened fire on the patrol vehicle. The policeman returned fire from its side-mounted automatics. One of the bullets seemingly struck an on-board computer, because the hovercar spun out of control and crashed onto the street below.

“Craft down,” the officer said. “I repeat: craft down. First responders needed at the intersection of Tilbury and Arch Avenues near the public water slide...”

A stray radio signal cut into the transmission:

...our unprecedented third decade of global peace, we offer mediation and arbitration services to corporate and political entities, alike...The Blue Consulting Firm, a Fleetwood Armistice Company...bringing peaceful resolutions to all disputes for over a century. Who says there are no winners in a successful resolution? Not Blue... The Blue Consulting Firm...Blue People are happy people...

The second pursuer closed on him in the rear view screen. There was no driver.

“It’s empty,” Coe said.

“Affirmative,” the officer said. “The downed craft was unmanned, as well. It was a drone—”

Coe recognized the tip of a warhead peaking out from beneath the belly of the hovercar. He gave his seat belt a tug, hastily tightened the straps. “Eject,” he said.

The hovercar asked in its polite, aristocrat voice, “You have requested to eject an occupant, Coe, Scott S. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“By affirming yes, you understand and agree to release and hold harmless Dynamic Motors LLC and all its subsidiaries, past and present, from any liability resulting directly or indirectly from this action, Coe, Scott S?”

The dual missiles launched from the speeding hovercar.

“Yes...fucking eject...now!”

As the top of his hovercar lifted off, and his seat propelled skyward, he could still hear the on-board computer calmly recite its disclaimer. “...and by ejecting from the craft, you acknowledge that you are leaving an unpiloted vehicle and assume any and all liability stemming from—”

The hovercraft exploded before the computer had finished. The missiles had found their target.

Coe momentarily tumbled through the air above the city, strapped to his seat—rolling, pitching, and then plunging—before the parachute in the seat successfully deployed.

Nine.

(Translated from French): Biotix
is a French nanomedicine company, based in Annecy, specializing in innovative nanoparticle technology. Biotix is dedicated to developing new treatments and therapies to maximize cellular growth and human potential.
Biotix
technology has the potential to cause a paradigm shift in how we view life, longevity, and ultimately—mortality. Specifically,
Biotix
technology may soon overcome the current limitations of the accepted length of human life, and some point in the near future, extend the human life infinitely. In the past, Biotix has played a seminal role in the cure and systemic treatment of the world’s most deadly viral strains and bacterias. Biotix is a subsidiary of...

Jansky seemed to relish the coffee from the paper cup. He sipped it carefully while not spilling any of the rain that was collected around the brim of his beige fedora. Both Coe and the police detective stood near the beige Ford with the caved-in roof where the remains of Coe’s hovercar seat still remained—its final resting place marked by the flowing parachute, that doubled as a cover to blanket the instantly-totaled sedan.

“Maybe it was the fella with the bird head,” he said, and Coe could not tell if he was joking.

Coe stared at what was left of the hovercar: twisted steel; smoldering cab; a melted steering wheel.

“Not having a good week, are you?” the detective asked.

Two men, wearing gray flannel suits, black raincoats, and holding briefcases, appeared staring out dispassionately from beneath a pair of matching black umbrellas.

“Mr. Coe?” the one asked.

The other said, “We’re Locksley and Shackleton.”

Jointly they said, “We’re house counsel for Quantum. We’ll need you to come with us.”

Jansky stopped drinking his coffee long enough to say, “Now, wait just a minute...I’ve got an investigation to run here...”

“We’ll take over from here,” either Locksley or Shackleton said with a hand on Jansky’s shoulder.

“But this is official police business—” Jansky said, the rain finally rolling off of his hat.

The lawyer withdrew a card from a sterling case and presented it to the detective who proceeded to read it, his lips silently mouthing the words. When he had finished, his shoulders slouched with an undeniable look of resignation.

“Now then,” the lawyer said. “Off we go.”

The other lawyer placed his hand atop of Coe’s shoulder and directed him toward their own hovercar silently idling 18 inches from the ground on the street not more than 100 feet from them. Coe cast a final glance back at Jansky who stood helplessly watching them go.

“Front seat,” the other lawyer said.

“Which one of you is Locksley?”

“He is/I am,” they said, and Coe determined the lawyer who had furnished Jansky with the business card was, in fact, Locksley. “Shackleton, I presume?” Coe said to the lawyer escorting him into the hovercar.

“Watch your head,” Shackleton said, and helped him into the craft.

“There’s been a breach,” Locksley said, when they were airborne and looking down at the rooftops and the puddles of water collecting atop them. He was seated in the back seat. Shackleton was driving.

“Another breach?” Coe asked.

Shackleton made a slight, but audible, noise with his teeth.

“Information regarding Quantum products and services currently in development,” he said.

“Things we naturally want to keep and safeguard from our competitors,” Locksley said.

“Understandable,” Coe said.

“The most recent breach occurred this week,” Shackleton said, and Locksley added, definitively, “The day you joined Home Office.”

“I see,” Coe said. He looked out at the rooftops. He could make out details on them: condensers; chimneys; and fire escapes. On one, there was a woman huddled in a doorway to a stairwell, smoking a cigarette.

“We have cause to believe you are involved in the breach,” Locksley said.

“Responsible for, even,” Shackleton said.

“It’s almost creepy how you do that,” Coe said to them.

“Who did you speak with on the vid phone outside of the cafe in the piazza?” Shackleton asked.

“Who did you speak to on the vid phone on Barge Avenue?” Locksley asked. “The Canal District?”

“You’ve had me watched?” Coe asked.

“Everyone is watched,” they said.

“What did you tell them, Mr. Coe?” Locksley asked.

“Tell who?”

Suddenly a gun was in Shackleton’s free hand. It was pointed at Coe. Locksley leaned forward. He also had a gun. They looked to both be .45s if Coe knew anything at all about guns. He was conscious of the weight of his own gun still strapped to his ankle and concealed beneath his trousers, but also aware that any move to retrieve would result in his being shot.

“You’re not attorneys,” Coe said.

“This?” Shackleton said, looking briefly down at the gun. “It’s a hearing aid.”

“We’ve got a proposition for you, Mr. Coe,” Locksley said. “The guns are just to be certain you hear our deal.”

“I’m in a hovercar flying high above the city. What else do I have to do but listen?”

“We want you to carry out an assassination,” they said.

Twilight had turned to dusk. The lights downtown were on. Vid screens, advertising cosmetics and televisions and hovercars and any other thing you couldn’t possibly live without, flashed and flickered for the army of marching nomads on the streets below.

“You want me to kill someone?”

“Assassinate,” they said.

“Semantics,” he said. “Who?”

Locksley laughed. “Very good. Excellent sport, isn’t he? Jumps right in, feet first.”

Shackleton said, “Obviously, the keyword here is
assassination
, meaning the target is someone of substance.”

“A world leader?” Coe asked.

“Politician? Oh, no,” Locksley said. “No one bothers with that anymore.”

“I mean, really,” Shackleton snorted.

“Corporate?” Coe said.

“Arturio Golden,” Locksley said.

The name meant nothing to Coe.

“Steele,” Shackleton said. “Owns fifty-one percent of the company.”

“He’s holding up the deal,” Locksley said. “Doesn’t want to part with his shares.”

“Quantum wants to buy Steele?” Coe asked.

“Not directly,” Shackleton said, sounding annoyed. “Horizon, Inc.”

“Who is owned by Galaxy-Star/Tunisia,” Locksley said. “Who is owned by Aire, LCC.”

“Who is owned by...” Shackleton said.

Locksley said, “Drum roll, please.”

“Quantum.”

“Exactly,” one of them—maybe both of them—said.

“And what if I don’t want to do it? I’m not in the killing business,” Coe said.

“You have a moral objection?” They had morphed into one identity to Coe, now.

“I’m not a killer.”

“Assassin.”

They laughed.

“I have no choice, do I?”

“Everyone has a choice—there’s always a choice.”

“You’ll kill me,” he said. “That’s my choice, isn’t it?”

“You’ll kill yourself.”

A letter was produced. It was in Coe’s own handwriting.

To whom it may concern:

I murdered Susan Blanchard in her apt. We were lovers. We had an online relationship. When she ended the relationship, I was infuriated. I used resources at my disposal at Quantum to locate her physical whereabouts and I went to her home to ask for a second chance. When she refused, I used a marble bookend to strike her repeatedly against the head until she died. I am unable to live with what I’ve done, so I’ve decided to kill myself. Please forgive me.

Scott Coe

Coe handed the letter back to the attorney. “How did you manage to have it written in my writing?”

They said, “You’ve been an employee of Quantum for many years. We have enough documents written in your hand. It wasn’t terribly difficult to duplicate. We’ve got every kind of expert at our disposal.”

“Why not use a professional killer then?” he asked. “Why some newly promoted clerk?”

“Their experts know our experts. It’s a push, if you will. Our guys watch their guys; their guys watch our guys. It’s a simple, yet highly effective, way to keep both sides in check. But, a new auditor from Research? No one’s watching you. At least not in that way.”

“And how do you expect me, an ordinary Joe, to pull this off?”

“We’ll supply you with everything you need—a dossier, your target’s itinerary, a highly-sophisticated weapon.”

“She’s not dead,” he said.

“Mr. Shackleton,” Locksley said. “Show Mr. Coe.”

“The photograph?”

“The photograph, Mr. Shackleton.”

Shackleton removed a hand-held communicator from his blazer and passed it to Coe. On it, was a photo. It depicted a woman lying across a sofa. Much of her head and face was beaten nearly beyond recognition. Still, it wasn’t difficult for Coe to recognize the apt from where he had just come, or the woman he’d once known as Janeiro—despite the trauma inflicted on her head. She was wearing the same clothes he had just seen her in.

“And if we can get personal for a moment. You can certainly do much better. A man of your moderate business success should aim a bit higher than,” Locksley said, making a point of scanning a file. “Sometimes pornographic actress, former prostitute, exotic dancer, and cam girl.”

“Drug convictions,” Shackleton added. “Short prison stay, probation violations, DNA trafficking—”

“You get the point,” Locksley said.

“How could she have been murdered if I had only just—”

“Only minutes after you’d left,” they said.

“You were hiding inside her apt?”

“Not us,” they said. “We’re attorneys. This is about as involved as we get in this type of muck. It’s all unpleasant. She was a pretty girl. It’s a shame.”

Locksley removed an attache case from the back seat and handed it to Coe.

He opened it to reveal a rifle disassembled inside, along with a folder marked CLASSIFIED. He fingered the parts of the gun: the stock, the scope, the springs and internal mechanisms. It all looked very sophisticated and very real. He thought of Janeiro—the fictional character with whom he had fallen in love with, now presumably battered and dead in her apt. “She’s really dead?” he asked, though it came out as more of statement.

“She was playing a dangerous game,” they said. “No one signs on without knowing the risks.”

“I didn’t know the risks.”

Locksley laughed. “Didn’t know the risks? It never crossed your mind that as you were agreeing to sell secrets to Steele—and thereby shit all over your long-time employer—that there couldn’t be possible negative reverberations from your ill-informed choices?”

“Chicken or egg?” Coe asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they said.

“I was entrapped,” he said. “I’m just not certain what came first at this point.”

“As your counsel,” Shackleton said, “I would advise you against such retro thinking. There’s really only one thing you should worry yourself with now: a decision. Carry out a simple assignment for which you are almost guaranteed success...”

“Or?”

Locksley leaned over him and poked the gun into his ribs. “Jump to your death.”

“What’s to stop Quantum from killing me after I do it?”

Shackleton laughed. “Obviously we can’t offer you anything in writing due to the sensitive nature of the assignment.”

“But,” Locksley said. “We can give you our word, you will return to normal life with no further threat or involvement from us—provided you never tell a soul.”

“Normal life?”

“Back to your auditor’s desk, back to poking Ms. Hunter,” Locksley said.

“We commend you on your choice,” Shackleton said. “She’s sublime.”

He looked down at the disassembled gun. “What’s stopping me from using this gun on—“ He instantly realized he did not know who the CEO of Quantum was. “Someone from the company.”

“You’ll be watched,” they said. “An expert sniper with a clever peashooter identical to that contraption you’re holding there, will be trained on your temple from an undisclosed location.”

“Don’t make this difficult,” Locksley said. “You’re being offered a free pass back into the fold...all your past transgressions absolved.”

“Was Revis offered the same
assignment
?”

“Mr. Revis was unfortunately beyond salvation,” Locksley said. “Though you should be relieved to know, his death wasn’t an inside job.”

High above the city, the rain clouds parted offering a fleeting glimpse of the setting sun—the first since Coe’s arrival. Despite it’s deadly implications, the gun in his lap weighed nearly nothing at all.

“Okay,” Coe said, as if he really had a choice, and stared ahead at the sliver of orange light dissolving back into the clouds.