Chapter 3

NO ESCAPE

Lexington had to keep a certain amount of attention on the hallway behind him as he continued to search and bypass the computer security. After reading Reese's file, he set it aside for later in his personal disk. So far, none of the scientists or technicians from the rooms beyond the windows had stepped out into the hall, but he couldn't count on his luck lasting forever.

And the computer security here was good. It took whoever made this program years to assemble, and he was trying to bypass it in a matter of minutes. So far, it wasn't going well.

So he was upset. Barely able to concentrate on what he was doing.

No, that didn't make any sense. Tough systems were a challenge to him, not an aggravation, and sharpened his concentration rather than diminishing it. So why was he upset? He leaned back, away from the screen with its unhelpful rejections of all his most reasonable requests, to think about it.

Even his stomach was upset, and that finally pointed him to the source of his emotion. It was what he'd seen moments ago. The human on the operating table, a quite possibly innocent being maddened by unknown chemicals until it was full of rage.

It was ridiculous. He didn't care about such things. Ethical experiments had no bounds outside of the Layered Cities, and if syndicate scientists decided to work on their own species, that was fine.

But the sick feeling persisted.

That person's life was over. Even if he miraculously escaped its captivity, he would be forever changed by what happened to him. Could he return to his place of origin, his family, knowing he had been violated, knowing what he had been made to feel and do, and still go back to the way of life he had known before? Lexington didn't think so.

He swore to himself. He didn't have time for this. But the images persisted, crowding out the techniques and procedures he needed to use for his current mission, filling him with an unwanted emotion.

Sympathy.

Sympathy for that person who might deserve what he was being treated to. That man on the table brought a collection of tragedy.

Caught up as he was in these thoughts, Lexington still heard the hiss of the elevator door far behind him. He powered down the terminal, grabbed his disk and helmet, and scuttled around the corner to his right before peering back the way he'd come.

A half squadron of Tenlos soldiers, dimly visible in the passageway's gloom, advanced towards him. Their steps were unhurried. Halfway toward him along the passageway, the leader rapped smartly against the nearest window. Having apparently gained the attention of someone beyond it, he tapped the side of his head, an obvious signal for someone inside to get to a comlink to receive his transmission.

Damn it. The had to be looking for him. What had he done wrong? He was certain he'd covered his tracks when powering up the computer terminal.

No, wait. When he'd first popped the cover on the control box inside the elevator shaft and discovered the heavy-duty security there... he hadn't known about that level of security until he'd opened the box in the first place. If there was a sensor on the box itself, a sensible precaution for a set of controls leading into a very secure area, he would have set it off without ever realizing it.

He drew away from the corner. Behind him was another window, this one into an office area, currently unoccupied. He tapped the "open" switch on the control panel on the side. The little screen on the panel read ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.

At the soldier's rate of approach, they'd be on him before he could break through that security and get into that office.

What would it be . . . bluff or fight? There was no way bluff would work; it would only serve to keep him in one place while the rest of the soldiers approached. He readied his rifle.

The lead soldier came around the corner and froze momentarily. "What's your-"

Lexington fired in automatic. His shots took the soldier in the gut and threw him back against the far wall.

Lexington didn't wait for the next soldier to appear. He fired again, this time into the window, shattering it inward, and leaped into the office beyond.

He landed and spun, aiming back through the broken window. Two more soldiers rounded the corner, bringing their arms to bear on the spot where he stood a moment before. Lexington fired again twice, his first shot taking the nearest soldier in the chest. The other dove for the deck, out of sight below the rim of the window, and Lexington's shot missed.

A shrill alarm sounded as the lights in the office began flickering in time to it.

There was another door out of the office, leading in the general direction of the elevator, and its control panel was responsive. It opened into what appeared to be a scrub room, all sinks and lockers and decontamination chambers, with no windows out into the passageway.

The next door opened just as readily into the operating theater. The medical technicians there had ceased their ministrations of their human experiment and were watching the activity on the other side of the window. The last of the soldiers passed by, heading toward the scene of action Lexington had just left.

A high-caliber bullet went over Lexington's shoulder and hit one of the technicians in the back of the head. Lexington saw the man, his head now a mass of blood and brain matter, topple forward as slowly as if sinking into heavy oil. The other technicians turned towards him in similar slow motion.

He spun, firing before he could even see his target. A soldier stood in the open doorway between the office and the scrub room, a perfect target, and Lexington's unaimed shots took him in the legs. The man toppled over with a shriek.

Lexington slapped the near control panel and the door slid shut. He turned back to the technicians; they already had their hands up. One couldn't take his eyes from the bloody mass that had once been the head of his colleague.

It would take just one blast to blow out the near window. He could leap through and get back to the elevator before the three soldiers still mobile were likely to catch up to him. That was it, then. But as he traversed to aim at the window, he saw the man on the table looking at him. He couldn't believe it, it was Reese. No-one could look just like him. His hair and eyes were the same since Lexington last saw him. But the eyes... they seemed to be holes leading to a world of pure pain.

He hesitated, then pulled out his military knife from a belt pouch. He cut through Reese's ankle restraints, then went to work on his wrist straps.

"Don't!" shouted one of the technicians, his eyes wide. "That's not a Human anymore, he's a killer-"

"Right." Lexington finished with the last strap, then backed away.

The technician who'd spoken bolted, got to the doorway, and slapped the control. The door opened, and the technician caught a bullet just beneath his gut. He folded over, still alive, and began screaming.

Reese rolled up off the table, tubes still gruesomely inserted into his skull. He glared with malevolence at Lexington, then turned towards the remaining technicians and advanced on them. The rolling carrier holding the bottle of drip chemicals tipped over and was dragged along. Reese spotted something through the door, probably the soldier who last fired, and paused, obviously trying to decide the best course of action.

Reese turned his head to meet Lexington's gaze, "Go... now!"

Lexington hesitated in thought, then fired at the window, blowing it out, and leaped through the hole he'd hade. There was nothing between him and the elevator door. He dropped his knife and dragged out his disk as he ran.

Then there was pain, an agony so intense he couldn't even tell where it began, and he was falling . . . slamming down onto the passageway floor.

Pain bent him as though he were a puppet in the hands of a malevolent child. He could see, and even barely understand, the spot on the back of his left thigh where a bullet had cut through the stolen armor and the flesh beneath. He could see the soldier who'd shot him; the man was advancing at a walk, his rifle ready for another shot.

And then there was the elevator door, too far away for a man reduced to crawling.

They had him. They had him, and they had his disk, which contained everything Saitoh would need to know about him, Roger, Reese, Kylia... and their mission here.

Hands twitching from the pain, he held his disk out before the barrel of his gun, and squeezed the trigger.

***

"Now," Saitoh said over the iced pastry that was their dessert course, "To the matter which has led to our meeting."

Roger sat back, assuming a false expression of contentment. "Please."

"I am about to embark on a mission. It will be a large-scale military engagement."

"You're going to attack your CES enemies?"

"That is correct. I anticipate AC and carrier response and need all the AC support I can get . . . especially considering my recent losses." He made a growl of that last statement. "But if you are as effective against my enemies as you have been against me, I will have lost no strength in efficiency." An aide appeared over his shoulder and whispered to him. His expression did not change, but he rose. "I must attend to business for a few moments. Menniker, please continue this briefing." He took a few steps away with his aide.

Menniker smiled, an expression suggesting he'd be happiest if pulling wings off of insects. "It's a refueling and trade station belonging to the Corporate Sector Authority. In its warehouses is a considerable quantity of material we need. Critical supplies. We also need time to load that material into our cargo vessels. Not a lot of time, but enough time for the corporate defenses to begin sending squads of MTs . . . and to bring in more squadrons from combat carriers arrayed around the area."

Roger whistled, "You're after valuable cargo. What is it?"

Menniker shook his head, "That's a secret . . . until you're at the mission site."

"What we need to know," Saitoh said, returning to his seat, "Is how many Armored Cores you can bring to bear in support of this mission."

"Six," Roger said. He noted that Saitoh's merry demeanor now seemed forced.

"Only six?"

"We fight like twenty."

"You fight like thirty. And we'll pay you like thirty."

"Meaning..."

"Your commission is four million credits, deliverable immediately upon completion of the mission. We try to keep Global Cortex and those blood-hungry mongrels out of the picture for expenses."

Roger tried to keep from displaying the surprise he felt. That was a fortune, enough to purchase at least three new ACs with replacement supplies! "And if your mission fails, no payment at all?"

"No, you get the entire amount regardless... assuming you don't let me die in the engagement."

"I'm still impressed. If I didn't know Crimson Tide's abilities, I would suspect you were overpaying us."

Saitoh dropped his false smile, "I am overpaying. I predict that some of yours, and some of mine, will die in the engagement. I intend to pay enough that all our pilots go into battle eager to succeed, happy to risk their lives. Comforted that if they die, their widows and children will be amply compensated. After all, money tames humans just like food tames dogs."

Roger considered it. "I'd be happy to earn still more. I have more Crimson Tide members than I do ACs. Many with technical proficiency. Many with other skills."

"Intrusion skills?"

Roger smiled. "I was right. You're going to position a team before your army arrives."

Saitoh shrugged, "We obviously think alike. Yes, of course."

"I have intrusion experts. Some with experience with both LC 086 corporate and other LC systems."
"And also," Menniker interrupted, "you have her." He extended one finger towards Reese.

"And her teacher," Roger said.

Menniker looked surprised. "Her . . . teacher?"

Reese brushed her hair back, her signature gesture, and looked miffed.

"Her teacher. Deadliest unarmed combatant I ever met. Another woman, deceptively sweet in appearance, which makes it easy to insert her into most environments. Not her equal in piloting . . . but I once saw her kill eleven armed CSA guards. She herself was unarmed."

Saitoh and menniker exchanged glances. Saitoh said, "Surely you're exaggerating."

"He's not," Reese said, her first words since they sat. "Medisa, that's my teacher, started on one with a shot to his spine that compressed the spinal cord and apparently damaged a couple of his vertebrae, all of which partially paralyzed him. Broke a couple of his fingers too, just for fun. You know how female Reeses are. Then-"

"Reese, please." Roger made his voice admonishing, but inwardly was pleased by Reese's improvisation. "Do forgive her. Combat is her only love."

"Quite all right," Saitoh said. "You will provide me with dossiers on Crimson Tide members that have technical skills so I can evaluate possible roles for them?"

"I will. Just give me a way to send them to you."

"Menniker will give you a set of satellite times and frequencies before you leave."

"And as much data as you can give us on this mission so we can run our own simulations?"

Menniker produced a disk from a pocket and slid it over to him.

"Would you be averse to a small commission now?" asked Saitoh.

"Not at all."

Saitoh stared back toward the security foyer, the route by which Roger and the others had entered. Two soldiers were advancing, dragging a third soldier backward between them. The third man was limp in their arms and had no helmet on. His hair was a dirtied chestnut brown.

"I must be sure of your ruthlessness," Saitoh said. "I know you're capable of killing in fair combat, but I want men... oh, yes, and women... who can kill under less adverse circumstances. So, If you'd please shoot this man for me?"

The soldiers dumped their human cargo by the foot of the table.

The man they had carried was Lexington. His eyes were closed. There was a bullet wound on his right leg. His chest rose and fell in regular rhythm.

Roger swallowed the bile that tried to crawl up his throat and hoped that he had not gone as pale as he felt. Lexington, you idiot. you've killed us all.