Pulling The Dragon's Tail (24 page)

“No. I’m going over to Dugan.”

“Don’t! If you get too close to Dugan, the
scanning devices will register a positive hit if their scanners are
searching for a male of your description with a CCR!”

It was too late. Nate was already bending over
making an adjustment to Dugan’s programming.

“Mr. Kristopher.” The voice was a bit
gravelly-sounding, and a statement more than a question.

“Es! Help! “With heart pounding, Nate turned
around to face the questioner.

He was surprised to observe a young man, slight
of build with short brown hair and a slight mustache. The man was
well-dressed in slacks and a white collared shirt.

The man cleared his throat. “Mr. Kristopher, I
presume?”

“Dugan, scan results?”
Well it ain’t
Herschel
.

“I detect no weapons.”

The man gazed at Nate, waiting for a reply. Es
stealthily bumped into the stranger, grabbed his arm, and squeezed
it tightly. “Make any noise and I will kill you,” she hissed.

“Ow! God that hurts!” The man squirmed in her
grip.

Es quickly let go of his arm and placed a weapon
against his back.

Nate demanded, “Who are you?”

The man replied grimacing, “I’m seeking you, Mr.
Kristopher. I’m a reporter, but that’s not why I’m here.”

Nate and Es glanced at each other.
Has it
finally occurred?
they both wondered.

“In here!” Es pushed the man through a stairwell
door. The seldom used stairwell was empty. She shoved him down to
the floor in front of steps leading up to the next floor

The man finally found his voice and turned
around to face Es. “Will ya ease up, man, or whoever you are!” He
stared at the transhuman. “I’m no threat to you. Geez!”

Finding his anger, Nate exploded, “We’ll decide
that!” and pushed an angry finger in the stranger’s face.

“I have friends all over P.C.,” said the
stranger indignantly.

“I bet you do!” Es glanced out through the
stairwell door window. Campbell and Dugan entered the
stairwell.

“Who are you?” demanded Es.

“My name is Thatcher Grady. And if you mistreat
me any further, I’ll call the authorities.”

“I would strongly advise against that,” hissed
Es.

“Give us some ID,” demanded Nate. He examined
the computerized card handed to him. He read out loud: “Thatcher
Grady, WorldWide NetNewsNow.”

“Our assailant is a scrawny, wet-behind-the-ears
reporter?” exclaimed Campbell.

“Assailant?” said Thatcher Grady, dumbfounded.
“And I resent scrawny.”

“Shut up!” ordered Nate.

“But,” Thatcher protested, “that’s not the main
reason I’m—” He quickly closed his mouth when Es raised her gloved
fist his way.

Es interjected. “We’re very vulnerable if he has
accomplices. Dugan, scan the airport layout. Any place we can go to
have a real private conversation with our reporter friend, Mr.
Thatcher?”

Thatcher smiled weakly, noting the titanium,
blue-gray teeth that Es flashed. “That’s Mr. Grady”.
Maybe this
whole trip was a frickin waste of time. Looks like all I found was
a bunch of common thugs
.

Nate was silently thankful that Es was on his
side.

Dugan said, “Down five levels some currently
unoccupied rooms exist.”

“The sex shops?” asked Thatcher, apparently
quite familiar with the city’s layout.

“Unoccupied at this time of the day due to
cleaning. Scheduled to open at seven p.m. local time,” Dugan
informed them. “Exit the stairwell and turn right. The closest
unoccupied room is due south twenty-three meters.”

“I got the coordinates. Thanks, Dugan.”

“You’re welcome, Es.”

Nate was under too much stress to consciously
notice this subtle, but important, step in Dugan’s language: small
talk.

They hurried down the stairs, encountering
nobody. Es peeked out of the stairwell door and looked left and
right. “Only a few robo-maids cleaning up the sticky floors,
tidying up for the masses of hormones to follow later. Let’s
go!”

Hurrying to the room that Dugan had found, Nate
asked, “How long do we have before we’ll be noticed?”

With her robotic arm firmly gripping the skinny
arm of the reporter, she replied, “Should be a while. Security
cameras and sex don’t mix well.”

Moments later they entered the dim windowless
room. It was shallow, but extended to the left and right ten meters
each way. Tables and chairs were scattered about. Es shoved
Thatcher toward the floor, bloodying his lip against a chair. “Now,
who else is here with you?” she demanded.

“No emotions, huh?” asked Nate.

“I am not angry,” insisted Es. “It is rational
to be very firm with the criminal element.”

“Criminal element!” protested Thatcher.

“Easy, Es!” Campbell cautioned.

Wiping his lip on his sleeve, Thatcher said,
“What she said!” He scooted backed against the wall, then stood up
and tested his arm.

“If Dugan detects any transmissions or attempts
by you to communicate, you are a dead reporter!”

“Please folks! Give me a chance, will ya? I
don’t know who your entourage is, Mr. Kristopher, but they’re a
tough crowd. Especially your TH bodyguard there.”

“Thatcher Grady. You know, I think I’ve seen him
on Net broadcasts,” Campbell pondered aloud.

“Finally, a voice of reason! But please
understand that I’m not here as a rep—”

“Then why are you here?” His cockiness angered
Nate.

Thatcher drew a deep breath and continued,
“Well, after sixty years of secrecy, my good man, I guess I
should’ve expected this reaction. So…here goes. Mr. Kristopher, I
believe you were, um, are, part of an experiment begun by the
infamous Dr. Mitchell Hilliard, and…”

Campbell winced at the notorious term applied to
her grandfather.

“…by extrapolation, that would put you at about
a hundred years of age, give or take a decade. And—”

“I think you’re mistaken,” said an equally
determined Nate.

“Hey, I didn’t expect to find a grizzled old
man. So far your wrinkle-free appearance basically meets my
expectations,” Thatcher smirked.

“Should I kill him now?” threatened Es

Calling her bluff, Thatcher returned the verbal
volley, “Ah, why this reaction if I’m not correct?”

“Because you’re an aggressive, diminutive,
irritating, and meddling reporter!” responded Campbell.

“Hmph, I’ve been called worse, believe me.” And
belying the fact that he was one person against four, he asserted,
“Keep in mind that anything you do or say may only seal my
contention that I possess the truth about you.”

They moved further away from the door as Dugan
stood sentry. Es and Nate whispered in the corner, keeping an eye
on Thatcher.

Campbell retrieved the Registry of Violent
Thoughts computer from her hip pocket and aimed it at Thatcher.

“Must not be a gun. I’m still alive. For a
middle-aged woman, you appear to be quite the techno geek.”

She wondered at his audaciousness. “My, do you
always charm the women that way? And besides that, do you have a
death wish?”

He sighed heavily. “Ya know, I’m actually known
to be quite easy-going, even charming. Just ask my ex-lover. Except
when I’m accosted and accused by a kangaroo court of unspeakable
crimes! My only crime, a teeny, weeny crime; I followed clues for
years. I didn’t give up, whereas others had. Then two weeks ago I
got the lead of my career; a frail, possibly psychotic centenarian
in Benson, New Hampshire.” He paused for emphasis. “Theresa
Zealand.”

Nate whirled around.

The aggressive reporter went for the jugular.
I have nothing to lose except my life. I’m damn sure I’ve hit
the jackpot. If I die now, then I die. I not only found the Alpha
Group, but I found
him! For a moment, he studied the face of
Nate and felt sure the truth he was seeking was there on that face
and in his DNA. “I can go on and on, if you’d like. All I need is a
chance to explain myself.”

Es offered, “We don’t have the luxury of
negotiating with him.”

“Hey guys! If I wasn’t a hundred percent correct
about everything I’ve said, you would’ve simply walked away from me
the moment I introduced myself. You would’ve hurled an epithet my
way, probably thought I was soliciting funds for that loony CHOFA
religion.”

Nate chuckled out loud. “Consider your foot
officially inserted into your mouth!”

“Or up his ass!” Campbell glared.

Thatcher glanced at the Abraham medallion around
Nate’s neck. “Whoops. Sorry. Consider one foot in my mouth and the
other one up my—”

Dugan interrupted. “Danger coming down the
hallway!”

Es took charge. “Everyone over here! Against the
wall!” Whispering to Dugan, she added, “What can you tell me about
the creature in the hallway?”

“It is not human.”

“How tall is it?”

“Approximately point nine meters in height.”

“A robot of some sort,” she contended.

They all held their breaths. Nate could feel his
heart pounding. The door handle jiggled.

“Quickly! Everyone behind the table.” Es grabbed
Thatcher and held his mouth firmly closed with her hand. With the
other she reached into a pocket and withdrew a weapon.

A moment later the door came crashing down. Es
stood up. She fired two shots into the robotic drone. Smoke rose
from it as it came to a complete halt.

Dugan approached it.

“Be careful,” Nate warned.

Dugan safely sniffed it, in a robotic dog sort
of way.

Then Nate turned to Es. “Was that really
necessary?”

Campbell asked sarcastically, “Are you opposed
to killing robots too?”

Es walked over and closed the door to the
hallway. “That probe was a deadly killing machine.”

“Seems like a robo-maid to me,” said
Thatcher.

Ignoring him, she persevered, “You see these two
small barrels? These weapons fire darts. You die a painful death
from the injected poison, like a slow execution.”

“Dugan,” asked Nate, “can you confirm Es’
assessment?”

Peering over the silent drone, Dugan responded,
“It is as Es asserts. The darts are indeed injected with a
neurotoxin.” A moment later, he added, “Es is a good
protector.”

“Can’t argue with that assessment,” Campbell
smiled.

“We’re still sitting ducks,” said a worried
Nate. “What’s the likelihood that other robotic assassins will be
close behind?”

“You’re right,” agreed Es. “There could be more.
I should have known that and kept you farther apart. These types of
drones look for patterns. The mafia or terrorist groups purchase
locker space and lock these drones up in them, waiting for the
signal indicating their target is on the premises. Perhaps seeing a
transhuman, a CCR, and its attendant close enough together may have
triggered a response.”

“So, we’re talking Gideon’s Army?” asked
Campbell.

Es was certain that it was
not
Herschel
Hatton or Gideon’s Army. From her experience she knew this type of
drone was used predominately by another violent group: Red Dawn.
But she wasn’t ready to devastate Nate and Campbell with that piece
of bad news. “We must leave P.C before the homing beacon which the
drone sent before being destroyed can be acted upon.”

“My God! You guys are dealing with Gideon’s
Army?” exclaimed Thatcher.
No wonder they’re so jumpy
. “I
believe I can be of some help.”

“Oh, it’s you again, Mr. Grady. You are starting
to irritate me again!” snarled Es.

“I thought I’d gone way past that when you threw
me to the ground. Look, if I save your butts, I probably save my
butt too. It might even help my credibility with you which I
sincerely want to prove. Your CCR can scan my dataport; I had
nothing to do with calling that drone.”

“I assure you,” asserted the transhuman, “we
will find safe passage without you. But you can certainly prove
useful as a hostage.”

“Ah,” continued the reporter, “but I’ve got
something you surely don’t have. I know this city like no
other.”

“Sex shops, right?” chided an irritated
Campbell.

Ignoring her, he stated, “For instance, the best
way out is not up, but down.”

“Dugan?”

“There are probes closing in one level up.
Security has also discovered something is amiss.”

Nate sighed. “So, Mr. Grady, what do you
advise?”

“The bottom level’s filled with touristy
aquariums, fish farms and crap like that. Robo-gliders go out and
come back every thirty minutes or so. They’re about the size of a
small sub.”

“Yes, and they move at a snail’s pace. We would
be quite vulnerable,” Es replied.

“At the risk of physical harm, I must disagree
with you, my transhuman friend. They’re actually speedy little
demons, and a great place to hide. I’ve done, that is, hide, I mean
gotten away from ...someone.”

“Dugan,” asked Nate, “please confirm the
abilities of robo-gliders.”

“They operate seven days a week, nine a.m. to
six p.m., with a seating capacity of four adults.”

“What’s their speed?”

“Maximum speed is fifteen kilometers per hour,”
Dugan informed them.

“Come on, folks,” insisted Thatcher. “Time’s a
wasting. My journalist badge will get us in. You’re my friends
tagging along, right?”

“And if you are the least bit mistaken, we will
be anything but your friends,” intimated Es.

“Then I die with you. Sheesh! You people over
dramatize everything, but I guess it’s no fun to be dealing with
Gideon’s Army, is it?”

Thatcher was as accurate as his boastful
prediction. Ten minutes later found them on the bottom level,
thirty meters below sea level. He approached a man at the end of a
long hallway. Large portholes lined either side, providing views of
sea life. Thatcher scanned furiously on his dataport, accessing all
his contacts at Poseidon City.