Chapter 29
Shaking my head to dislodge the memory of what I’d just seen, I backed away from the sim.
It wasn’t really Kane in there. If it had been, his physical body would have been blank-faced and immobile. And he’d been giving me a nice massage only a few minutes ago…
Oh.
Shit!
Diving back toward the entrance portal, I cursed my lack of forethought. As soon as I had entered the network, my physical body would have gone limp. Kane didn’t know what I was doing. What if he thought I’d passed out?
Although if I was lucky, he’d figure it out fast when I came out of the network…
I stepped out of the virtual portal into a world of pain.
“Cocksucking-motherfucking-sonofaaaaargh!” I clenched my head in both hands in an attempt to keep it from splitting in two.
Shit, I shouldn’t have been able to do that if I’d been muffled by the pillow as I’d planned…
“That’ll teach you,” a rough voice snarled in my ear. “You won’t give me any more backtalk, bitch.”
Keening under the relentless pain, I cracked one eye half-open to see Kane’s scowling face inches from mine.
“Right, bitch?” he repeated, seizing my head in a gesture that probably looked violent to any observers but in fact eased the pressure points in my skull.
The pain combined with the vicious contempt in his voice made my stomach roll with nausea. “Ow… Goddammit… ow… yes,” I croaked. “Whatever you say… Ow…”
“Say it!”
Why was he so angry? I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut to keep them from exploding. “Say what?”
He shook me; not hard, but it was enough to send another bolt of blinding pain through my temples. “Say you’re sorry, bitch!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I cried, ineffectually trying to pull his hands off my head.
“You’re sorry, what?” he grated.
I thought as fast as my throbbing brain would allow. What had I done to deserve… oh.
Was this a dominance play for the sake of the bug?
“Um…” I clenched my teeth and forced myself to say it. “Master.” Sickness climbed my throat, my skin crawling with revulsion at the demeaning words. “I’m sorry… Master.”
“That’s better. Roll over.”
I rolled onto my stomach and he swung astride me again. His strong fingers found the burning knots in my neck and temples, massaging them away.
“Why do you make me do this?” he asked in reasonable tones. “You know I don’t like hurting you, but you keep making me do it. This is all your fault. Why do you treat me so badly?”
His words were so eerily like my abusive long-ago-ex-husband’s that my roiling stomach clenched into a knot and I shuddered under his hands.
His massage slowed and he brushed aside my hair to softly kiss the nape of my neck. I couldn’t help it; I shrank from his touch.
Firm fingers gripped my chin, gently turning my face to his as he leaned down beside me. With an effort I met his gaze.
Strong square features. Steady grey eyes soft with regret.
I sucked in a breath. Not Steven.
This was John Kane, a man I trusted with my life. He had been covering for me, making my outburst of agonized profanity sound plausible to our listeners. Only an act.
I went limp with a sob of relief that I muffled in the pillow.
As he stroked my hair I turned to face him again, letting him see the understanding in my eyes before I kissed him.
“Again,” I breathed, hoping he’d understand what I was doing; and hoping that if the bug was sensitive enough to catch the word, our listeners would think I was enjoying myself and asking for Round Two.
Kane kissed me in return, his chin dipping in comprehension.
Silently blessing his quick thinking, I stepped into the network again.
I whisked down the virtual corridor, rechecking the sims I’d already passed and finding everything as before. At the one that contained Kane, I slowed to a halt. Feeling like a sleazy voyeur, I recreated my invisible viewport and peeked in.
Tawny was in the sim, too, but she was clearly the one controlling the action.
And some action it was. Eyeing Kane’s magnificent nakedness, I had to admit that she had an excellent eye for detail.
Oh.
And an excellent imagination.
…Wow.
I blinked, warmth rising in my cheeks.
Well then. Moving right along…
I tore myself away from the sim and wobbled down the corridor, flapping an invisible hand in front of my face to dissipate the heat.
The rest of the sims were unoccupied, and at the end of the corridor I turned, considering my next move. Was this network connected to the security server?
Nobly resisting the temptation to peek in and get a comprehensive sex education from Tawny’s imaginary tryst with Kane, I bypassed the sim doors and drifted toward a blank corridor wall.
As I had hoped, a brick wall wavered into existence when I approached. Firewall. Perfect.
Unstoppable and undetectable, I slipped through it.
On the other side, streams of data packets zipped past. I hovered for a few moments to study them before diving into the nearest one.
Chasing data bits, I assembled and assessed the information. Email server. Nope. Next.
I switched streams and absorbed few sentences of a private journal on a backup server. Nothing helpful there, but somebody had a serious attitude problem.
The next stream felt more primitive. Low-level machine-language instructions jostled past, and I realized I’d found the automated controls for the heating and cooling systems. Possibly useful later, but not what I wanted at the moment.
Switching streams again, I would have let out triumphant cry if I’d been capable of it in my current form. Security data at last. Surfing along the data stream, I identified one feed after another, all converging on the main server.
I could take down the whole security system from here, including the surveillance cameras.
But I’d do it later; around two AM when everyone was asleep except the guards. The staff likely wouldn’t wake Harchman to report that the surveillance system was down.
I hoped.
Or maybe they’d raise a huge outcry and scramble all personnel to patrol the place until the security server was restored…
Dammit.
I turned for the portal, then hesitated. My top priority was to get to the server room and plug in Spider’s program so the Department could monitor it. But with all our resources consumed by the terrorist threat, how long would it take for the analysts to get to it? If people were being tortured right now, how could I live with myself if I let it go on for even another hour?
I couldn’t.
Mentally bracing myself, I dove into the vast repository of the archive server.
I started with the smallest files. Only video clips, they panned around people in various poses; standing, sitting, reclining, reaching up, reaching down. They were all smiling and attractive, their garb ranging from Harchman’s conservative staff uniforms to suggestively tight clothing to explicit sex gear. And…
I stared in disbelief.
…a pornographic zebra costume…?
Okay, then.
This must be the source material for Harchman’s spa sims. Skimming through the last of them, I found no torture or evidence of anyone forced to do anything against their will. Then I turned to the full-length sim records.
Measureless time later, my senses had been deadened by a parade of pornography. Harchman and his guests didn’t seem to be using the sims for anything else, and my investigation consisted of an unending cycle of dipping into sim records only long enough to catch the first glimpse of naked flesh and hear the first moan of passion.
But at least it wasn’t torture.
When an unusual record came up at last, I was out and on to the next one before my exhausted brain processed the absence of nudity.
Had that flash of crimson been blood?
Oh no…
Rolling back the record, I watched it from the beginning.
A Remembrance Day service, dark clouds looming ominously above the Battalion Park cenotaph. Poppies glowed against the sepia-toned winter landscape and a military honour guard stood to attention. Elderly veterans with canes and wheelchairs held themselves as tall and proud as they were able. A solemn group of men, women and children surrounded them.
A short man advanced to the cenotaph bearing a wreath, and with disgust I recognized Harchman’s smirking face.
The contemptible little slimeball must have created a sim of his expected moment of glory so he could replay it time and again for his own enjoyment. The crimson I had glimpsed earlier had been the poppies on his wreath.
Revolted by the depth of his self-absorption, I was on the verge of closing the sim when it exploded in a maelstrom of red.
I gaped at the carnage, unable to react or even to think.
Nothing remained of Harchman but a crimson mess on the concrete. His dismembered right hand lay several feet away, still attached to the tattered remains of the wreath.
Corpses sprawled everywhere. None left standing.
A little girl’s body lay motionless in her pink coat and white tights, a tiny broken doll among the dark scattered lumps that used to be men and women.
A single poppy floated silently down to settle on the base of the cenotaph.
The sim ended.
I hung paralyzed in cyberspace, my nonexistent stomach roiling, my virtual heart pummelling my chest.
Just as I was beginning to recover, the next sim began.
A Remembrance Day service…
Immobilized with horror, I watched the sim play out again. This time the explosion seemed to come from a different angle. Again Harchman was obliterated. Different splatter pattern this time. Only his lower leg and foot remaining. Everyone else dead.
Then the next Remembrance Day sim began.
And the next.
After three more scenarios with varying angles of destruction for Harchman, the porn resumed.
My mind still reeling, I watched the entwined limbs and bouncing body parts without seeing them.
No surprise that somebody hated Harchman enough to blow him up. But all those innocent people…
Icy nausea gripped me.
What psychopath had created that sim? Someone cold-blooded enough to not only depict the innocent lives they’d snuff out, but also to revel in horrific details like a dead child in a little pink coat.
It didn’t take a leap of intellect to identify Tawny as having the best motive to kill Harchman. She’d probably inherit part if not all of his vast wealth.
But how could she contemplate killing all those people? Surely evil that monstrous should show some outward sign. I hadn’t gotten that vibe from her.
But it had to be her. The centre of each blast seemed to be Harchman himself, and only Tawny would have that kind of access to him. She must be planning to slip an explosive into his pocket or something.
I studied the file attributes of the Remembrance Day sims. They had been heavily encrypted and the user data was encoded, but that couldn’t stop me. Fading into invisibility, I slipped into the data stream, then searched out the sim file and absorbed its secrets.
Only minutes later I popped back into the sim repository, a feral grin of triumph stretching my lips. James Helmand. Got the bastard. He’d made the sim, but I’d be willing to bet Tawny had given him access to the system. They must be conspiring to murder Harchman and split his vast fortune.
And maybe Riel was involved, too. They would want the ultrasound weapon to wipe out the crowd…
I fought the urge to dive out of the network immediately and report to Stemp. Stay calm. Remembrance Day wasn’t until Monday, so there was still time to stop the slaughter. I’d check the rest of the sims, in case that wasn’t the worst of them…
Nerves strung tight, I rocketed through the remaining sims. They played out without further bloodshed, and at last I dragged my virtual self out of the archive server.
Dreading what was to come, I retraced my steps to hover at the virtual portal.
Time for the next phase of my plan. If everything went well, it would get me in and out of the server room undetected. Once that was done I could report the murder sim when I connected with Spider via the network…
My heart clenched. But if I got caught infiltrating the server room and couldn’t report to Stemp, all those people would die.
Dammit, I’d have to make the terrifying virtual trip to Sirius twice.
I stifled a whimper and stepped through the portal.
Pain crashed through my head, jerking me into a swearing ball.
“Just a reminder.” Kane’s harsh voice penetrated my pounding brain like a hammer-drill. “This is what happens when you cross me.”
His tone was so ugly and hate-filled that terror and pain short-circuited in my defective emotional wiring to explode into violent anger.
Mustering every ounce of control, I forced myself to choke out the humiliating words between sobs of agony and fury. “I’m sorry… Master. I’m sorry… I won’t do it again…”
“Enough.” Firm hands massaged my throbbing temples. “I forgive you. This time. Let this be a lesson to you.”
Trembling with suppressed rage, I concentrated on the slowly-easing pain and faked a grateful tone. “Oh, thank you!”
Breathe. Let it go. It’s only a cover story.
Unclenching my teeth, I closed my eyes and switched to yoga breathing while Kane’s expert massage did its work.
A few minutes later both the pain and my anger had subsided, and I rolled off the bed and plugged the network generator stick into my laptop.
Giving Kane a resigned shrug, I lay down on the bed again and slipped into the internet before I could chicken out.