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A leg sweep from Coombs tripped Keemut. He fell hard, but recovered fast and rolled clear of Coombs’s sluggish follow up. Carson could tell from the way Coombs moved he was hurt. His last counter had been telegraphed so clearly Carson thought even his non-combat schooled instincts would have been able to avoid it. The two rose to their feet and circled each other. Keemut alert and focused, looking for an opening, and Coombs ready, but his strength flagging from the damaged visited upon him. What Carson was witnessing should have been unthinkable. It was supposed to be impossible for a Sim to turn against a human. Each Sim had a hardwired behaviour inhibitor installed before inception. As a soldier, Carson assumed, Keemut would have had exception subroutines allowing him to bypass these restrictions, but he could not believe for a minute these provided Keemut with the clearance to attack his commanding officer. Unless, Carson thought, Coombs’s behaviour had triggered some kind of override, meltdown, or preservation hierarchy that deemed the CO to be out of control. Could Keemut have come to a justifiable conclusion that Coombs had to be stopped? That the man’s irrational and sadistic violence was unacceptable? A straight-fingered jab from Coombs opened up Keemut’s forehead and blood from the gash dripped into his eyes, which had been what Coombs had been aiming for. However, Keemut ignored the wound and stepped into Coombs to deliver a palm strike to his jaw. The blow lifted the man onto his toes and unhinged his knees. As he began to fall, Keemut spun and hammered an elbow into the side of Coombs’s neck. Then drove his knee into Coombs’s stomach. Coombs folded over into Keemut’s embrace; the soldier slid an arm around Coombs’s neck and, with the flat of his hand braced against the man’s head, snapped Coombs’s spine. The crack of bone echoed through Carson’s head. Out of respect, Keemut hung his head and stood a silent, momentary watch over the body of his CO. Then, wiping the blood from his eyes he crossed to Carson and pulled the line cord off Carson’s wrists. “I am sorry you had to witness that, Mr. Carson,” Keemut said, helping Carson to his feet. “Please understand this outcome was not my intention.” “Then what was?” Carson asked. He was still stunned by what he had witnessed. “Ahoo-Kolldip did not deserve to die,” Keemut said, as if nothing more was needed to answer Carson’s question. “So you killed your CO?” “No. I executed Commander Coombs because I became fearful for your safety and for the safety of all nonhuman organic life, although I believe my actions will prove futile.” “I don’t understand?” Carson said, although he thought he was beginning to. * The actual trip out of the camp proved uneventful. The mono arrived on schedule and they boarded without incident.
When they disembarked at gateway station, Carson and Keemut were
separated. Keemut was collected by a group of Military Police
for debrief, whilst Carson was ushered into a At the external checkpoint, as the pod was cleared for exit, Carson glanced back at the station and saw BCI security swarming all over the mono, weapons at the ready, checking for stowaways. Mek wranglers milled around the HGV transports, idling on the platform ramps, whilst officers and the MPs rushed about barking unheard orders. The organised chaos made him realise how tired he was and, once the pod hit the Central beltway and accelerated up to cruising speed, Carson closed his eyes. They’d be in London within the hour and he thought it best to make the most of this down time; think things through. He had no idea what would become of him once he reported in. Did the Government even need the pretence of his report on the camps now? Who knew? Not Carson. He was certain whatever justification they’d needed in order to introduce the Herod Act was now so unnecessary as to be redundant. His only chance lay in telling them what they wanted to hear and then, once he was out of their hands, to publish the truth. Anything else and Carson had a feeling he would be disappeared: just one more casualty of the ill-fated mission. There was, of course, the risk the Government would not want any uncontrolled witnesses to the events within the camp. Without Carson, they would be free to say anything they wanted without fear of contradiction. He had to hope their desire for his unbiased corroboration would save his life. After all, that was why he had been included in the first place. The warm, comfortable leather crash couch, the droning hum of the engine and the speed-blurred monotony of the beltway lulled Carson towards sleep and it was only the pop of the driver’s door unsealing that awoke him outside Government HQ. * His debrief had been as arduous as expected, but he had come through it plan intact and, thirty-six hours after being released from the holding cell, he had the completed e-transcript ready for upload. A draft had already been submitted for government approval and been received back authorised for worldwide release. The fact his finished story resemble neither the authorised draft, nor the story Carson had relayed to Knoll and his little SIS helpers during his fourteen-hour interrogation in that hellish cubicle on the twentieth floor, just made Carson smile all the more. The bastards deserved everything that was about to happen to them. Mallory had set him up in a safe house in Cambridge so he could ride out the shit storm when it hit. The controversy and public outcry alone could well mean the end of the camps, although Carson also hoped it would bring about an end for the careers of bigots like Knoll, John Bartley and his father, right honourable, Laurent James Carson. The transmit programme was up and running on Carson’s Tablet, the story encrypted and ready to go, all he had to do was hit send and it would uplink to the Planet Wide server farm and from there distribution would be instantaneous. Within minutes of Mallory releasing it the story would be beyond suppression or censure. Carson stood up and crossed to the kitchen. He refilled his cup from the carafe on the countertop and sipped the dark brew. The hot coffee pushed aside his fatigue and, once more, he thanked Mallory for buying the real stuff and not the god-awful syncaf most people used. Without it he would never have made it to deadline. He took another sip and headed back to the desk, cup in hand. The ready light blinked green on the Tablet. “Send transmission,” Carson commanded. “Confirmed,”
The machine answered, all synthetic femme fatal vocal tones. “Transmission
sent. Receipt acknowledged.” |