Awakening to Judgment: The Rimes Trilogy, #3

Prologue

[Classified message incoming]

[Source: Plymouth colony, ERF Battalion, Colonel Jackson Rimes, Commander]

[Recipient: Earth, United Nations Compound, New York City, New York, United States of America, Representative Deepa Bhatia, Special Security Council, Indian delegate]

[Transmission date: 29 September 2174]

[Playback initiated]

Representative Bhatia. Thank you so much for your July communiqué. It’s always good to hear from you. Well, normally.

Colonel Rimes is handsome, broad-shouldered, and muscular. His hair—normally cut close so it’s little more than a shadow on his cinnamon scalp—is longer than normal, the black curls going gray. A crescent-shaped scar is white on his right temple. His eyes are pale brown, growing closer to amber with each passing year. He sits in his headquarters office, a modest room with none of the indulgences typical of someone in his position.

The proposed cuts to the ERF Budget outlays for 2175 are… He waves at something that only he can see. Well, troubling. I know the war with the genies has officially been declared resolved, but I feel it would be dangerous to take the metacorporations at their word that no further genetic engineering efforts are ongoing. Even if they never spend another dollar creating one more genie, they still have hundreds enslaved or at least unaccounted for, despite signing the Mumbai Accord.

He shifts in his seat as his brow creases. Frankly, the genies aren’t my greatest concern, Representative. I know the Special Security Council has been under pressure to reduce tensions with the metacorporations, but the hard reality is that they continue to agitate and bully in the colony worlds. You’ve seen the IB reports. It’s not just proxies. There have been times when the metacorporations have used armed intervention. What happened on Bermuda wasn’t an aberration. Maintaining the military budget—especially for the ERF—sends a clear signal that this sort of continued intervention and intrusion will not be tolerated.

He rubs the crescent scar and seems to fight down a fit of fury. Even after all these years, he struggles with what’s in his head. Finally, he relaxes and says, War’s the last thing we want, and projecting strength is the best way to avoid war.

"I hope to hear in the coming weeks that you and the other members of the council have managed to convince the full body of the Security Council of the importance of the military and the danger posed by weakening it. We have won so much before. It would be a tragedy to endanger it all now.

I look forward to hearing from you again, Deepa. Sometimes it seems like you’re the last voice of reason.

[End message]

1

13 June, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.

O’Hara Towers stretched two hundred meters into the Atlanta sky, and reflected morning sunlight that gave off an intensely pink rainbow. The towers were twin, ruby-colored glass structures that hugged an advanced composite framework three times stronger than steel. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet, and already the temperature was approaching thirty degrees Celsius. All along Moreland Avenue, smartly dressed, freshly scrubbed pedestrians doused with sweet, flowery scents and sporting European fashions that accentuated their athletic bodies, hustled on their way to work. Everywhere, stylish haircuts easily caught the eye. The beautiful people stared into the distance while chatting into exotic and alluring earpieces. Their voices combined with the hum of the everyday activity that made Atlanta the jewel of the South and became a distracting cacophony.

Jennifer Credence had eschewed the tube system’s last kilometer. It was a pragmatic thing to do, better than waking early to try to squeeze in a workout, but regret was visible in every angry millimeter of her long, sharp face, a face that hovered somewhere between cute and plain without ever settling.

Credence was dressed fashionably in a bright yellow dress that was sleeveless, low-cut, and tight, but not uncomfortably so. The fabric ran to mid-thigh with two parallel green lines running vertically from left shoulder to hem, intersected by matching lines just below her breasts. She wore practical shoes with slightly raised heels that accented her toned calves enough to gain an occasional glance without endangering her ankles. Her short, light-brown hair was streaked with blond. She moved casually, unhurried, as if unwilling to break a sweat—something requiring near-mystical skill in the clinging air.

In a city of twenty million, Credence was alone, relatively speaking. Since exiting the tube and making her way onto the street, she bumped shoulders with someone an average of every six steps approximately. Anywhere other than the O’Hara district, the crowds were impossibly thick, a constant crush of humanity. But only the elite ventured into the district, where the buildings glittered diamond-like in the bright sunlight, and public trash receptacles had marble facades.

Among those elite, Credence walked with confidence, seemingly soaking in the serenity.

Decades before, Atlanta had been wrecked both financially and physically by the country’s economic collapse and powerful storm systems birthed by climate change. Its rebirth into a full-blown metropolis had led to it taking on the nature of other American metropolitan areas. People became invisible to each other, granting a sense of privacy where it rightly shouldn’t have been possible. Combined with the absence of significant automobile traffic, the result approached the quiet of a forest. The people of this urban forest did everything they could to advertise their success and significance. In the world they occupied, conspicuous excess was no simple badge; it was life.

Credence was a few feet from the O’Hara Towers’ main entrance when the throaty growl of a powerful engine shattered the morning calm. She turned, and one of the city’s giant maintenance vans accelerated from an alley and turned onto the street. She shivered as the terrifying monstrosity—a hulking, polished, jet-black machine—approached. Twin banks of grilled and hooded fog lamps ran above and below the smoked glass bubble of a front window. The main headlights were similarly hooded and recessed. The vehicle gave off a bug-like, vicious, and malevolent impression. It cruised down the road and turned out of sight, a solitary machine on the virgin blacktop.

Credence entered the building’s lobby, and her shivering intensified. Air-conditioning kept the building’s spacious atrium below twenty-one degrees, and the maintenance van’s growl slinked through the front door’s seals. She waited for the security scanner mounted on the black marble wall to flash its approval, blinking as if her nerves had been shaken by some trauma. One of the guards glanced at her. She smiled. He looked back at his bank of displays, disinterested. When the scanner blinked green, she walked to the escalator at the west end of the building. Although there were four lift cars, the morning rush always overtaxed them. They were already overflowing with passengers fresh from the tube system as they ascended from the basement.

Credence turned to watch the lift cars as she approached the elevator. Their running lights glowed pale amber inside the red-tinted plastic tubes, giving the passengers a strange, gold aura. Some people described the effect as souls rising from the fiery depths of Hell toward Heaven, a quaint myth in a time that needed none. She shook her head.

People queued up at the escalator; she fell in at the rear. There was always room for someone willing to press tight against the brightly colored, amorphous blob of shuffling humanity. A gleaming set of garnet-colored onyx marble steps with red obsidian trim ran between the up and down escalators. The escalators themselves were a combination of black metal and scarlet rubber. Everything was designed to accent the experience that was integral to the O’Hara Towers.

Credence shifted on the escalator, brushing at her hair with apparent anxiety as she eyed a man a few meters back of her on the escalator. The man was the office technician. He’d stayed behind her since she stepped off the tube several moments earlier, although she hadn’t reacted to him until now. He was middle-aged, athletic, tall, and handsome, with cinnamon skin and curly, black-and-gray, close-cropped hair. A white crescent scar stood out on his right temple. He seemed to be focused on something in the display of his earpiece.

Prototyper, Credence mouthed as one might a wish or a prayer.

The company hadn’t been able to fabricate components for two days, and that was going to impact the bottom line soon. The prototyper was the key to their success.

At the sixth floor, Credence got off the escalator and headed for the lift. She stopped and took a breath, smiling. A subtle sweetness emanated from a planter set just in front of the elevators. Azaleas, viburnum, and gardenias were in full bloom. She paused, barely acknowledged the maintenance man as he came to a stop in front of the elevator, and twisted her feet playfully.

Something about the feel of solid ground under her seemed vital to Credence. She never stopped talking about how living in a penthouse apartment and working in the upper reaches of the city’s tallest skyscraper had a way of leaving her feeling vaguely uneasy and disoriented. She always laughed it off and attributed it to a childhood case of acrophobia, long since conquered.

You think you’ll get the prototyper fixed today, Neil? Credence asked the maintenance man. She thought his name was Neil but could never be sure. He was maintenance, lucky to even have access to the towers. And yet she seemed oddly embarrassed that she couldn’t be sure of his name at the moment. Mostly, it seemed she was annoyed that she couldn’t tell whether to be embarrassed or not. He was maintenance, after all, not one of the important people. Still, it was quite apparent that the matter of his forgotten name bothered her at some level.

Jared. Jared O’Neill, he said. His voice boomed out deep and powerful even when he spoke quietly, as he was doing now. I’ll give it another go, Miss Credence. I found another possible solution last night and ordered the part. It should arrive today. Odd no one has a prototyper to generate a replacement part.

"It is ironic that if it were running, we could simply create the part ourselves," she said after a moment. She rubbed the back of her neck and seemed to be trying for a certain vulnerability that even she seemed to realize wasn’t convincing.

O’Neill stepped aside as the elevator door opened, allowing her to enter first before following her in and settling in beside her, his coveralls giving off a fresh scent. Their common bond expired, they said nothing the rest of the ride to the fortieth floor. When the door opened, he once again stepped aside to let her out first. At the door to her office, Credence found herself waiting for him to open the door for her. When he did, she thanked him and stepped inside. The office space was large, connecting to the floor above via a private set of spiral stairs. Offices ran along both sides of the hallway. Polished glass walls and transparent aluminum doors provided semi-private space. In addition to her, Credence Concepts employed twelve people. It was a dollhouse in many ways, everything on display for all to see.

Credence walked past the disassembled prototyper to the open door beyond, stopping to watch O’Neill settle onto the carpeted floor behind her and begin laying out his tools. A display embedded in the glass wall announced in brilliant turquoise that the office belonged to Tom DeVries, executive vice president and CFO of Credence Concepts. Credence put on a smile that, unlike the one she’d worn in the elevator, actually reached her dark-green eyes.

DeVries looked up from his desk and offered a smirk. Jenny. His face was calm, something everyone who had the misfortune of encountering the man had learned to read as a dangerous sign. He was slender and nearing fifty, although that fact didn’t show without close investigation. His hair was gold and full, streaked with the slightest gray, combed back and parted down the middle. There were wrinkles, but not many. Refined, handsome, and polished, he made no attempt to mute this key part of his corporate warfare arsenal. He wore a conservative, charcoal-gray suit, a neon-blue tie, and a bright goldenrod silk shirt. The air-conditioning carried his cologne—a light musk he said his wife favored—into the hallway. He’d been using a spicier, sporty scent until recently. I’m glad you swung by. We need to talk.

Credence looked away. Sure, Tom. Why don’t you—

DeVries stood and walked to her side. Her perfume had activated at his attention, hinting at orange blossoms. DeVries reached for her hands, but he stopped when he saw O’Neill working on the prototyper. DeVries pointed a finger at the conference room across from his office, a subtle motion he probably didn’t expect O’Neill to see. Credence sighed softly and followed DeVries.

The conference room was dark and cool and smelled of cinnamon and roses from the prior evening’s session with the Hawaii office. The lights switched on automatically.

Dim, DeVries said. The lights in the room obediently softened. He started to close the door, but Credence stopped him. He settled into a chair along one side of the table.

Credence’s legs trembled visibly. She took a seat on the opposite side. Tom—

I have contacts around the globe and a spectacular resume thanks to the last five years here, Jenny. If Cynthia wanted me to, I could pursue a metacorporate position. The possibilities are endless.

The ZenTek deal is yours, Credence said. We’ve—

It’s over, Jenny, DeVries said. Cynthia wants to try to… He waved a hand, dismissive. I don’t know, make this work.

Sweat beaded on Credence’s upper lip and trickled down her ribs, soaking into her dress. Hot tears tracked down her cheeks, stopping momentarily on her lips before continuing down to her chin.

No commitments, Jenny. We agreed on that from the start. It’s not like we took any vows or anything.

I know. She wiped the tears away. That was my stipulation, remember?

DeVries had made it clear to everyone his marriage was over some time back. A big celebration, a change in routine. Women throughout the tower had quickly picked up the scent, talking about the prey over lunch in the dining facility. Many were put off by fear of being the rebound.

Credence jumped at the sound of a knock; O’Neill stood in the doorway. She seemed startled, as if suddenly realizing he could have been there from the start, could have heard everything. It was as if she’d been so caught up in every move and word of DeVries that she would never have noticed without the knock.

I think it’s fixed, O’Neill said. I’ve got it downloading the latest software now. Should be ten, twenty minutes before its ready to test.

Credence stood and adjusted her dress, her hands shaking with apparent nervousness. Thanks. Tom, why don’t we grab a coffee over at Istanbul?

DeVries glanced at O’Neill with a look that seemed both threatening and thankful, then exited the conference room. Credence followed, still wiping tears from her face. DeVries hovered close to her as they headed for the exit to the main hall.

Miss Credence?

Credence turned to look at O’Neill, clearly annoyed. Yes?

I’ll need your authorization to pay for the part.

Credence looked at DeVries. Five minutes. If I’m not at the skywalk by then, go ahead. I’ll meet you there. Order me an espresso, please. An extra shot. I need it. She rubbed at her eyes, which could have been red from lack of sleep or crying.

DeVries hesitated for a moment, as if he were ready to argue with her, then he stiffly headed for the elevator. Credence watched him go, then let out a sigh and slumped. She was nothing more than a shadow of the woman who had entered the tower earlier. Her dress, her hairstyle…everything about her suddenly seemed out of place, alien, another fabrication. She yawned and walked over to the prototyper.

It’s been tough, O’Neill said, his eyes trailing from Credence to the door DeVries had just left through. Sometimes you get so caught up in what you think you’re seeing, you don’t see what’s right in front of you. He pointed to a twenty-centimeter-long cylinder on the floor next to the machine. I kept telling myself, ‘No way that’s broken. It looks perfectly fine, even under magnification. No cracks, no signs of any defects. Perfect.’ I guess that’s how it can be, though. Maybe I wanted it to be perfect?

Credence nodded, apparently still distracted. She looked at the prototyper’s console and flipped through a few diagnostics. Everything read green. She saw the invoice. Five thousand dollars?

O’Neill chuckled. I’m thinking you’re wishing everything was perfect now too?

Credence’s groan was barely audible. She gave a final glance at the machine, then authorized the payment. The invoice glowed happily. MetaConceptual, she mumbled as if in a trance.

That’s the part provider, O’Neill said. MetaConceptual. When he repeated the word, Credence jumped as if an electrical shock had hit her.

She shook her head and slowly made her way to the exit. She stopped at the door as if trying to steady herself or find her balance.

You okay? O’Neill moved toward her, hand extended.

Credence waved him back. Yeah. I’ve been having trouble sleeping. She looked back and blushed. I’ve had the craziest nightmares. Is that stupid?

No. He slowly lowered his hand. Trust me. I understand completely.

Credence opened the door and slowly walked toward the elevator, each step an apparently surprising challenge that she celebrated overcoming by taking another. At the elevator door, she turned and waved at O’Neill, as if she’d expected him to be in the office entryway, watching over her the whole time. The elevator door opened, and she stepped into the car and turned, eyes locked with O’Neill’s as he stepped into the hallway. She put her earpiece into her ear and shivered as the elevator door started to close.

A few moments later, she exited on the thirtieth floor, stopping to catch her breath. She looked around, and her voice rose over the noise of the busy building. Reference system. She craned her neck and leaned on the rail, searching below. Research United Nations records for a corporation by the name of MetaConceptual. Any variation. Detailed.

Her earpiece responded almost immediately, a deep, resonant voice with perfect enunciation. There is no record of a corporation by that name registered with the United Nations.

Search cartel and metacorporation records.

There is no cartel or metacorporate entry for an entity registered under the name MetaConceptual, the earpiece replied.

Credence froze. All around her the world seemed at peace with itself. People walked by, blissfully absorbed in their fulfilling lives. They were the beneficiaries of record prosperity, unprecedented lows in unemployment and crime. War was a distant memory.

What’s wrong with me? Credence whispered.

She watched the people walk past her. She was just like them: brilliant, attractive enough, and successful. The nightmares seemed to be ruining her. There was no escaping that. She scanned the crowd again and edged forward until she had a better look at the skywalk at the end of the hallway.

The skywalk entry was relatively crowded. A mountainous woman in a white, floral dress stepped from the elevators and bumped Credence hard, nearly knocking her down. She turned, looking angry, searching the crowd headed for the skywalk, possibly for the white dress, looking as if she might be uncertain about what she would say but ready to say it when the time came. She moved toward the woman in the white dress, who was entering the skywalk. A few meters beyond her, DeVries leaned against the skywalk’s glass, looking at the ground far below.

Credence’s eyes locked on a man entering the tower from the skywalk. He wore an expensive, form-fitting pullover shirt and cotton pants, the sort of outfit that screamed success and confidence. He was wiry, his arms knotted with muscle. Designer sunglasses hid his eyes. Even so, it seemed that he was watching her.

She staggered, as if her legs were suddenly incapable of supporting her. She closed her eyes and spread her arms. The feeling seemed to pass as quickly as it came.

Her eyes opened again, and she looked back at the man in the pullover. She recoiled. The man wore a black bodysuit and hood that resembled a scuba outfit. Metal-rimmed goggles with glowing red lenses covered his eyes. A bulky, holstered gun rested against the left side of his chest.

Credence gasped even as the man stiffened. She looked around, moving as if in a panic, and seemed to relax slightly once she saw there were no others dressed as he was. No one else seemed the least bit concerned about either of them.

Then the man mumbled something she couldn’t hear and stepped away, reaching for the holstered pistol.

2

13 June, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.

Credence let out an ear-piercing scream and charged the rubber-suited man. Before the gun cleared the holster, she was on him. She grabbed his hand with both of hers. He tried to shove her aside with his free hand, but she drove her shoulder into his chest, temporarily pinning the hand. Almost immediately he began to overpower her, forcing the gun barrel toward her head. She desperately drove a knee into his groin, lifting him off the ground. He gasped and buckled, pulling her closer, and in that instant she shoved the gun into his face and squeezed her fingers over his trigger finger.

The gun emitted a loud, piercing blast, and the top half of the man’s head evaporated in a fine, pink spray. Heavier particles arced away from the twitching body and splattered the ground behind, slicking the floor. The stench of the man’s bowels and bladder evacuating filled the air.

Credence fell away and retched, slipping slightly in the gore. The body hit the wall and bounced forward, sprawling on the floor. The mist of blood now spraying from the head made crazy, dark, patterns on the carpeting.

The crowd around Credence had gone silent, recoiling in horror at the brutality of the murder. She looked at them; they stared back, blank-eyed. She stumbled as if another wave of dizziness had hit her, but instead she shook herself and seemed to stabilize. Finally someone screamed, and the stillness broke. People ran, crawled, and leapt, apparently desperate to get away from her.

No. Credence looked around, eyes distant and glassy. Istanbul. Coffee. MetaConceptual. She mouthed the words over and over again.

It was as if the screaming was somewhere else, and the hot blood on her face and hands wasn’t real. Her trembling fingers clutched at the blood-slicked gun. She looked down at the body, and everything seemed to come back to her.

Tom! She looked past the corpse and the retreating crowd and up the hall to the skywalk.

DeVries stood in the skywalk, oblivious to the wave of panicked onlookers fleeing the scene. They moved around him like waves breaking on an unyielding boulder. He stared at Credence, mouth open, forehead wrinkled.

Tom! She ran for the skywalk. Her practical heels suddenly seemed beyond her ability to manage.

DeVries backed away as she approached the skywalk entry.

Suddenly, the shrieks of the retreating crowd were drowned out, replaced by the groan of structural composites, glass, and steel failing. Credence came to a wobbly stop and watched, incredulous, as the skywalk simply buckled. It started at the center, then advanced to the point where it was anchored to the tower, and then it pulled away from the far building. DeVries stared at Credence, as if what he’d seen her do was somehow more horrifying than his own imminent demise.

One moment the skywalk was there, DeVries transfixed, unmoving; the next it was gone and DeVries with it.

Tom? Credence staggered toward the opening in the wall.

Jenny?

Credence turned at the sound of O’Neill’s voice. She looked at him with an unsteady gaze, as if she were trying to make sense of what she was seeing. He wore the same coveralls he’d been wearing before. He was still a tall, athletic, middle-aged man. Yet she acted as if he were completely different, as if he gave off an aura of menace.

Jared? What’s…? Credence looked at the hole that had been the skywalk.

We need to get out of here. O’Neill took the gun from her shaking hand and stuffed it inside his coveralls.

My nightmare. This is just like my nightmare. Nothing makes sense. Credence swooned slightly. Tom was going to leave her for me. Tom was… Wind tugged them toward the hole.

If you don’t move now, you’ll die never understanding. O’Neill waved for her to follow. "Now."

O’Neill walked to the elevator. His pace was crisp, efficient. Credence struggled to keep up. She looked at her shoes and gasped as if for the first time realizing how cheap and shoddy they appeared.

The elevator door opened and O’Neill grabbed her arm, pulling her after him. She seemed to barely hold in a gasp, and for a moment she pulled against his grip, as if she wasn’t sure about his intentions. He was big, powerful, a laborer among the elite. It was common knowledge the lower classes would be attracted to someone like her—or at least to her wealth. As the elevator door closed, she looked at his coveralls.

She cocked her head slightly. They’re so clean…

What?

Your coveralls. She looked at her dress and blushed. Oh my god. What… She covered herself where the dress was torn. This is new. I just bought it.

Jenny—

Maybe it’s the elevator light? She ran her hands over all the wrinkles, stains, and frayed fabric.

Jenny, it’s coming back to you, O’Neill said. It was a statement, an assertion. MetaConceptual. Think about it, Jenny. MetaConceptual. Say it.

Credence mouthed the word, but it looked like she was just doing it to cooperate, maybe out of fear. She stared at her shoes again.

O’Neill leaned against the elevator door, and the material of his coveralls shifted as the muscles in his back bunched. We’re in danger.

Credence shifted away from him. What?

O’Neill’s brow wrinkled. What?

You said we were in danger.

"We are in danger, but I didn’t say anything. He put a powerful hand on her shoulder. You need to concentrate."

The elevator chimed, and the door opened. O’Neill stepped out, once again grabbing her arm and pulling her after him. He fast-walked toward the escalator, his pace just short of a jog.

Credence wobbled unsteadily, blinking as if she were dealing with another wave of dizziness. She gasped suddenly as if awakening from a dream.

The carpeting beneath O’Neill’s feet—once plush, vibrant, scarlet—was a tattered and stained ruin. As they neared the escalators, they resolved into greasy, grimy, and unstable platforms. Rather than running in fear like the people who’d seen her shoot the man in the black suit, the people on the escalator shambled around, oblivious. They weren’t the sort of beautiful, successful people who populated the sparkling towers. These folk were plain, unkempt, detached, and dressed in the same castaway clothing she was wearing.

As her eyes scanned the escalator, two more of the men in the scuba suits set foot on the steps coming up.

Keep your cool, O’Neill said. They’re just scanning—

Credence jerked, and O’Neill cursed.

The men turned, focused on her, and reached for their guns.

Dammit! Get down! O’Neill growled as he shoved her away and produced a pistol from inside his coveralls, sighting in on the strange men.

The pistol roared, and high-pitched blasts sounded in return. Blood and bits of flesh sprayed down as the somnambulistic passengers took the worst of the attacks. A moment later, O’Neill offered Credence his hand, tugged her to her feet, and pulled her forward, shoving a path through the crowd.

Credence glanced over her shoulder and gasped, apparently surprised at the devastation left in their wake. The men in black lay on the escalator steps, blood leaking from several wounds. The innocents who had survived the exchange seemed unaware of what had just happened, even while caught in the wash of blood from the dead and wounded.

Credence let out a deep, throaty sound. Wh-what’s going on?

O’Neill hauled her onward. Keep moving.

They surged through the crowd, continuing ever downward until they reached the bottom floor. Rather than take the front door, O’Neill ran for the cafeteria. As they ran, smells became stronger. It was clear that Credence was expecting the enticing aromas of a four-star dining experience, but these odors were more along the lines of a greasy diner. When they entered a narrow hallway, Credence’s nose wrinkled.

"Oh! Is that me? I… She looked around. How long has it been since I showered? I don’t—"

Not now. O’Neill pulled her along. MetaConceptual. Keep it in your head.

Except for a handful of staff working their way methodically through preparations, the cafeteria was empty. O’Neill pushed past a hostess trying to shove them back out, and a moment later they were in the kitchen. Credence gasped—it was a cluttered, unsanitary mess. Kitchens weren’t pristine, organized operations in most instances, but the disarray and filth on display in this room was beyond deplorable. She gagged as rats popped up from inside a stack of pots and pans.

None of the staff seemed to pay the vermin any attention.

A hallway, a sharp turn, and then a door, and beyond the door, an alleyway, and they were outside the towers.

Credence looked around, and her jaw dropped.

See it for what it is, O’Neill said. No rising towers, no glittering glass, no bright sunlight. Okay? This is reality. Graffiti, concrete walls, shattered windows, and dull steel. You getting it?

Rotting garbage cluttered the alley. The stench was smothering in the thick air. Smog obscured the buildings above one hundred meters.

Credence came to a stop. Jared, I can’t go on. I’m…I…

O’Neill gently released her. He reloaded the pistol and scanned the alleyway. Okay. Take a second. Catch your breath. You’ve been out of it for a bit, so you’re probably having a hard time keeping up.

Credence shook her head, and her features became pinched. You need to tell me what’s going on here. Where am I? What’s happening to me? I woke up this morning and went to work. This isn’t right. None of this is right. It’s not where I was. It’s not who I am.

O’Neill chuckled wryly. "It is who you are. You didn’t wake up this morning. You woke up a few minutes ago, when you saw that man for what he was, and he tried to kill you. You’re just now seeing everything as it truly is."

Credence closed her eyes and winced as if she were in pain.

The headache, O’Neill said. Yeah. Don’t fight it. You’re just going to have to push through it. It would be better if we got you somewhere safer.

Credence pressed a hand to her forehead as if to keep her head from exploding. Can’t you give me a straight answer? Just one?

All right. I’ll start with this. My name’s not Jared O’Neill. It’s Jack Rimes.

Credence opened her eyes and gasped. Jack? Oh…the memories. She gasped. We failed?

Not yet. Something went wrong. I don’t know what. But if we stay here, we will fail. Can you move now?

He reached for her again, and she took his hand. The roar of one of the city’s service vehicles echoed through the street outside the alley. Rimes turned and considered his pistol, but thought better of it.

They ran, him leading, her following. He kept a pace she could match, but before long she was gasping. Where possible, they kept to the alleys, using the streets sparingly, and then only when he assured her there were no cameras. He led them through a store at one point, helping her find a pair of running shoes, and then exiting again before the service vehicles arrived. He didn’t have to explain it: their presence was flashing on the Grid.

Finally, Credence seemed to get a sense again of what it was like to run. She had spoken around the office with pride about how toned and fit she was, but as she slipped on the running shoes she gasped at her unshaven, shapeless legs. She started to cry then, but Rimes pushed her on.

Every time she tried to ask a question he held up a hand.

Wait.

She stayed silent, but the growl of the engines of the black, bug-like vans following them was apparently something Rimes heard before her. He kept her moving, and eventually she stopped interrupting their progress and focused instead on their surroundings.

They had just entered another alley when the sound of screeching tires and growling engines announced the approach of the vans. The echoes bounced off the alley walls, rising and finally dying in the smog overhead.

Rimes stopped for a moment, listened, and tried to gauge the vehicles’ positions. He sprinted, and Credence did her best to keep up. They were almost to the end of the alley when one of the vans skidded to a halt ahead of them. Rimes turned and saw another of the vehicles blocking the opposite end.

I hope you remember how to use this, he said as he tossed her the pistol he’d killed the scuba men with. He drew another pistol from inside his coveralls. Small profile. Center mass. Remember? Those bullets are going to tear through their armor like tissue paper. Don’t waste them. You don’t want to be taken prisoner.

3

13 June, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.

Rimes pressed himself against the alley wall and knelt, forcing away thoughts of the day’s heat and the sweat that made the T-shirt beneath the coveralls cling to him like a second skin. He didn’t have time to watch Credence, even though he was worried about her. The way she stank, the condition of her clothes and body…she’d completely let herself go, but he had to trust she would remember what she’d been trained to do.

When the first of the men rounded the corner into the alley, there wasn’t time to think. Rimes’s gun whined, and the man’s head exploded in a red mist. Behind the man, Rimes could hear movement, followed by return fire. Debris rained down from the wall.

The moment demanded every iota of concentration Rimes could muster.

The men in black were capable, and their weapons were deadly, but they weren’t elite. Combat experience—the difference between a steady hand and a wild shot—meant more than weapon design, and Rimes had combat experience. Far too much combat experience. Still, he was outnumbered.

One after the other, the men moved forward, each covering the other, pinning Rimes down with a stream of fire, blinding him with the fine dust of pulverized brick and concrete.

Rimes fell back and let them enter the alleyway, mindful that Credence had no more experience in combat than the men in black. He could hear her occasional screams, but every now and then the pistol roared. She was still up and trying, and that was what he needed at the moment.

Whining guns forced Rimes to the ground just as the first of the scuba men dashed into the alleyway. Rimes took a quick shot, and the man’s right leg crumpled before exploding in a burst of bone and muscle.

Rimes rolled farther back as the man fell to the ground, clutching at the bloody stump. Another of the men ran into Rimes’s sight, this one crouched lower and aiming, but he had his gun trained on the area where Rimes had fired from. By the time the scuba man tracked Rimes to his new