Total Recall

CHAPTER 11 Help

Richter and Helm strode angrily out of the station and stepped through the rain to their car. Richter was fuming. They had lost the quarry after all, and then gotten nabbed by the subway security men because their guns had set off the alarms again. They had had to show their IDs to get out of it. That would look bad on the records. Not to mention the four additional lower-echelon agents lost. That made eight total, plus a civilian or two. What a smell that would make for all concerned! The first takeout had been bungled by Harry, obviously a duffer who shouldn’t have been assigned in the first place. But this time it was Richter himself, and he would get no credit for just about succeeding. “Just about” was just about good enough for a demotion!

He hated the man who thought he was Douglas Quaid. He had never liked him. There was something about him he didn’t trust, but Cohaagen just couldn’t see it. He’d promoted the sonovabitch, for Christ’s sake! Richter snorted with disgust.

But he hadn’t started hating the bastard until Lori had been assigned to play the role of his “wife.” After all his Beauty and the Beast jokes, that had been almost too much to bear. And now that the man had eluded and humiliated him, that hate had festered into something white hot and barely controllable. He would see the man’s brains splattered across the landscape before he was done, and it still wouldn’t be enough. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get the chance to see the man sweat before he died.

They climbed into the car. Helm took the driver’s seat, Richter the passenger seat, where the equipment was. The rain on their clothing quickly steeped the interior with its pollution, contributing to his foul mood.

The dashboard was filled with elaborate tracking devices, electronic maps, and communications equipment. Richter furiously turned knobs and punched buttons, trying to get a reading on the quarry. Damn it, the tracking was supposed to be continuous; what was fuzzing it? Was the equipment glitching? Guess who’d get the blame if a bad tracker let him down! He knew Cohaagen didn’t see eye-to-eye with him on this procedure, and if the man got a pretext to take him off the case—

The radio came to life. “Six beta nine, we have a transmission from Mr. Cohaagen.”

Richter looked at Helm and groaned. Think of the devil!

But he couldn’t avoid it. “This is Richter. Patch it through.” He wiped the rain from his face and smoothed his hair, though it didn’t do much good. Modern science was wonderful, but at the moment he wished they hadn’t invented a way to set aside the limitation of lightspeed, making virtually instant communication between planets possible. Then Cohaagen would not be able to second-guess him on this mission, while a chase was in progress.

The video monitor lighted, flickering, then showing a grainy image of Cohaagen’s face. The man was neither as handsome nor as well spoken as he was on broadcast interviews, no surprise. He fixed on Richter, scowling. “What the fuck are you doing, Richter?”

Richter put on an ingratiating smile he knew fooled no one; it wasn’t meant to. “Trying to neutralize a traitor, sir.” And that’s the correct term! Chew on that, sir!

Cohaagen’s scowl expanded into open anger. “If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t have dumped him on Earth!”

Richter smoothed out his own features, playing the obsequious underling, again without any concern for belief. “We can’t let him run around, Mr. Cohaagen. He knows too much.”

“Lori says he can’t remember jack shit.”

“That’s now,” said Richter. “In an hour, he could have total recall.”

“Listen to me, Richter.” There was static on the line, but not enough to blot out Cohaagen’s words. “I want Quaid delivered alive for re-implantation. Have you got that? I want him back in place with Lori.”

Over my dead body, Richter thought. It was all he could do to keep himself from tearing the video monitor out of the dashboard and hurling it from the car.

“Did you hear me?” Cohaagen demanded. Richter reached over and twisted a dial, causing the reception to break up. It would be impossible to tell from the other end what had caused the disruption.

“What was that, sir? I couldn’t hear you.”

Cohaagen glared. “I said xtr + b… lsw… rojwf…”

Richter intensified the interference, deliberately preventing himself from hearing Cohaagen’s orders.

Helm gazed impassively out the windshield into the rain, affecting not to be aware of anything. He didn’t like having the quarry slip the noose any better than Richter did.

“Hello?” Richter said. “We’ve got sunspots. I’m switching to a different frequency.” How glad he was that such transmissions were unreliable when anything happened on the solar scale!

A blinking red dot appeared on the console tracking device. Helm nudged Richter, and Richter nodded. They had locked in on their man.

“Mr. Cohaagen, are you there?” Richter continued. “Hello? Hello?” So polite, with a touch of perplexity: the recording would show that he had no idea that his orders had changed.

With a contemptuous twist of the dial, Richter ended the transmission. Cohaagen wouldn’t be able to prove anything; interplanetary signals were notorious for interference. A price was paid for violating light-speed. There had been just enough genuine interference to cover his tracks.

Richter allowed himself a small, grim smile. He turned to Helm. “Fuckin’ asshole. He shoulda killed Quaid when he had the chance,” he said. Now he, Richter, would do it instead, with pleasure. They had locked on to the quarry, and no sunspots, real or fake, would interfere.

Helm gunned the car into traffic, splashing water on commuters walking out of the subway station. Their protests carried faintly, music to Richter’s ears. He put a hand up over his shoulder and hoisted one finger, signaling them, though he knew they couldn’t see inside the car. The gesture gave him satisfaction anyway. Too bad he couldn’t show the same signal of respect to Cohaagen.

Quaid had decided not to go too far. They would be expecting him to flee the city, so would be racing to cut off the exit points. Therefore he remained close—but not too close. His alternate self had deserted him; it manifested only when immediate, effective action was required, such as killing several men in several seconds. He was on his own, and that satisfied him for now.

He got off the train a few stops down and went into a lavatory. He looked a mess, all right! He slopped water across his face and hands and dabbed at the worst of the stains on his shirt, though not much could be done about that. He had a bright idea, squatted, scraped his fingers along the floor near the wall, and got a good load of dirt on them. He rubbed this into the shut, covering the remaining bloodstains. Now he looked mostly filthy, like a tramp, not like a refugee from a slaughterhouse. It would have to do. He combed his hair back and assumed an expression of dullness, as if he were just a tired laborer returning from a hard day in the sewer.

He boarded another train, trying to make it difficult for die goons to trace his route. But he couldn’t do this forever; he needed to get into some other region. For that he needed money.

He paused at a money vendor near the end of the subway line and got as much cash as he dared: enough to pay for a plane to another continent. The transaction would be traced, and in minutes the goons would be on his tail again; that was why they hadn’t cut off his ID card already. But though he lacked the deadly expertise of his hidden self, he did have some native cunning. Instead of going to the airport, he caught the next train back toward the center of town, and rode almost to where he had started. That should catch them by surprise. He hoped. They might figure that he wasn’t counting on the ID tracer, and was innocently going his way, and wouldn’t do anything unpredictable. He hoped again.

He got off and took an escalator up. He emerged from an archway marked subway onto the ground floor of an ancient 1980s shopping mall which had degenerated into a barrio street scene, complete with bars, flophouses, pool halls, pawnshops, and massage parlors. The mall was crowded with kids on skateboards and bikes, and there were even bums sleeping in doorways. It was like stepping into the past, and he almost felt nostalgia. Life must have been simpler before the planets were colonized!

This was the ideal place to hide. He spied a fleabag hotel across the mall. Cash would be accepted there without question, and he wouldn’t have to show his ID. He’d be able to rest, and wash out his shirt, or maybe pick up other clothing at a secondhand outlet. He was catching on to survival as an anonymous fugitive.

The coast was clear, as it were. He resumed progress and entered the hotel.

Helm drove the car rapidly through the rainy streets.

“Hey, man,” he said. “I bet you’re glad Lori’s off that case.” Richter’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes on the tracking device.

“It’s just a job,” he said shortly.

“Well, I sure wouldn’t want Quaid porking my girl.”

Richter snarled. His hand shot out and he grabbed Helm’s ear, twisting it painfully. The car swerved.

“You’re saying she liked it? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Helm struggled to control the car and to avoid having his ear ripped from his head. “No, no, of course not!” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure she hated every minute!”

Richter gave Helm’s ear another cruel twist and then released it. Flushed, he turned his attention back to the tracking device, which zoomed to a more detailed map section. “Circle twenty-eight. Top level,” he said without expression. And then he smiled. The old Galleria… Of course. Quaid thought he could hide by dodging back into the slum.

“Know something?” he asked Helm. “I think he hasn’t caught on that he’s bugged.” But he was, all right. Indeed, it had been that bug that first alerted them to Quaid’s visit to Rekall. The alarm had sounded when the man had gone off his normal route, and they had made a quick trip there to question the Rekall staff and dispatch them.

Helm skidded the car around a corner, keeping his eyes on the road and rubbing his ear.

Quaid went to his hotel room. It was about what he had expected, which wasn’t much. It was separated from other chambers mainly by plasterboard. If he cared to listen, he could hear what was going on in nearby compartments: the clinking of glasses, a shrill argument, an all-night poker game, the thudding of heavy sex, and plenty of video noise. That made this the perfect place to hide in.

But he had no sooner closed the dirty curtains at the window than the phone rang. He didn’t answer. But it bothered him: why should anyone be calling here? Was it for last night’s tenant? In which case maybe he’d better answer it, and try to pretend to be that man, in that way concealing his own presence. Still—

On the fourth ring he stepped to the side of the screen so he couldn’t be seen and hit the answer button. He didn’t speak. If they asked for a name, he’d use that name. He peered slantwise at the screen, staying clear of its pickup.

All it showed was a man’s hand blocking the lens. Well, that was another way to do it!

“If you want to live, don’t hang up,” a gruff male voice said.

This didn’t sound like a wrong number! Quaid stood still, not hanging up, but also not speaking.

“They’ve got you bugged,” the caller said. “And they’ll be busting down the door in about three minutes unless you do exactly what I say.”

Quaid, staying clear of the pickup, searched his clothes for the bug. Like a damned fool, he had never thought of that!

“Don’t bother looking. It’s in your skull.”

Quaid looked around, spooked. “Who are you?” His identity was obviously no secret from this caller.

“Never mind. Wet a towel and wrap it around your head. That’ll muffle the signal. It’s not a strong one.”

“How’d you find me?” He had to assume that this was a friend and not an enemy. Why should an enemy warn him?

“I’d advise you to hurry.”

Quaid saw the sink on the other side of the room. He walked in front of the videophone to get there. There seemed to be no point in hiding now.

“That’ll buy you some time,” the caller continued approvingly. “They won’t be able to pinpoint you.”

Quaid felt like a fool, but he wetted a large towel and began to wrap it around his head. He managed to form a clumsy turban, though it dripped down the back of his neck.

Helm guided the car, homing in on the signal generated by Quaid’s bug. The tracking device changed from a detailed map to a general map of the area. The blinking light grew dim.

Richier stared. “Shit!”

“What is it?” Helm asked.

Richter fiddled with the tracking device and whacked it a few times. “We lost him!” How the hell? Maybe he was taking a shower. Richter knew that water could mess up the signal. He clenched his fists in his lap. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, but he could learn. Quaid couldn’t stay in the shower all night, and when he came out…

Helm kept driving.

Quaid re wrapped the wet towel, making a better turban, but it still dripped down his neck.

“That’s good enough,” the caller said. “Now look out the window.”

Quaid went to the window and cautiously pulled aside the curtain. He peeked outside. This was no skyscraper; he was not far from the pavement.

“See the phone booth by the bar?” the caller inquired from behind him.

He looked across the limited landscape and located the bar, then the booth. A mustachioed soldier of fortune was looking right back at him, holding up a doctor’s satchel.

“This is the bag you gave to me,” the soldier said.

“I gave to you?”

“I’m leaving it in the booth,” the soldier continued. “Come get it and keep moving.”

Quaid saw the man begin to hang up. “Wait!”

The soldier paused. It was evident that he wanted to keep moving, too. “What?” he asked impatiently.

“Who are you?” He needed to know the name of this mysterious ally. Everyone he had trusted had turned against him. This man might be the only friend he had left. Quaid had to know who he was.

The soldier hesitated, then spoke abruptly. “We were buddies in the Agency back on Mars. You asked me to find you if you disappeared. So here I am. Good-bye.”

“Wait!” Quaid said desperately. “What was I doing on Mars?” But the phone had gone dead and the soldier had left the booth. Quaid pounded the window-sill in frustration as he watched the man walk quickly away. Yet what he had told Quaid was invaluable. If he had belonged to the Agency, and left it—

But he had no time for conjecture now. He dashed out of the hotel room, holding the wobbly turban on his head.

Richter and Helm circled the mall in the car. The rain continued unabated, stinking worse than ever. Richter banged the tracking device, but it didn’t help. He’s here, Richter thought. I can smell him. He whacked the device again. The interference continued.

Helm made no comment. He just kept driving.

Quaid ran out of the hotel. He looked for the soldier of fortune, but the man was gone. Damn it! Maybe the stranger had saved his life—and maybe he hadn’t. Could he trust him? Suppose he had been safe in the hotel room, and this had smoked him out to where the goons could gun him down? That didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, but then very little of the past day did.

But he was forgetting the satchel. Maybe that would answer some of his questions. He started for the phone booth and was dismayed to find that an old lady had beaten him to it. She had the satchel in her hand.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “That’s mine.”

The old lady regarded him sourly. “I don’t see your name on it,” she snapped.

Quaid took hold of the satchel and pulled it gently. “Someone left it for me.”

The little old lady refused to relinquish the bag. “Let go!” she hollered.

Quaid pulled a bit harder. “Please, ma’am. I need it.”

“Find your own bag!” she replied, clutching the satchel to her chest with all her strength. “You should be ashamed of yourself, you big bully!” A few bystanders had gathered, to enjoy the free entertainment.

Quaid was at a loss. He didn’t want to hurt the woman, but he needed that bag. He jerked it forcefully from her grip, nearly losing his turban in the process.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he apologized. “I’m sorry.” He turned on his heels and ran. The little old lady’s voice echoed after him.

“Fuck you, asshole!”

From a doorway, the soldier of fortune watched. He held his breath during Quaid’s awkward struggle with the elderly woman, and sighed with relief when Quaid gained the bag and ran off. They had been through a lot together, on Mars and Earth both, and the man who was now known as Quaid had saved his life more than once. In fact, it had been that man who had first brought him into the Agency. At the moment, the soldier wasn’t sure whether that had been a blessing or a curse.

He thought of how the Agency had changed since he had been recruited. It had originally been formed to oversee the diverse intelligence-gathering groups of the Northern Bloc. Its mission was to keep the spooks in line and insure that they did not become too powerful for the Northern Bloc government to handle.

Then Vilos Cohaagen had been appointed Head of the Agency. Under his leadership, the Agency had not only acted as watchdog on the other groups, but had gradually absorbed them. The cooperation it received from a wide variety of law enforcement bureaus was deceptive. They cooperated with the Agency because, to a greater extent than anyone imagined, they were the Agency. Cohaagen had the imagination to see what could be done with such a network and, more important, he had the political savvy to make it grow invisibly. No one questioned his actions because no one noticed them. By the time they realized what he’d done, it was too late.

Cohaagen had used the Agency to gather a vast amount of dirt on key people in government. His file on the Chairman was especially damaging. When the time was ripe, he had used the dirt to win his appointment as Mars Colony Administrator. Cohaagen knew that whoever controlled the Martian turbinium mines controlled the Northern Bloc, all of the Northern Bloc, not just a few powerful politicians. Without turbinium to fuel their weapons, the Northern Bloc would be forced to surrender.

The Chairman knew this too, but he also knew that Cohaagen would have to resign from the Agency in order to take up his post on Mars. The Chairman thought that by sending Cohaagen to Mars and naming a successor to head the Agency, he would regain control of it and neutralize Cohaagen.

The fool. The Agency’s new leader had been Cohaagen’s puppet. For all intents and purposes, it was still under Cohaagen’s control. And now the turbinium mines were his, as well.

As long as he could hold them. The soldier of fortune smiled. Cohaagen might be an effective Agency Head, but he knew nothing about running a colony. He was so intent on political intrigue that he ignored the welfare of the people on Mars, especially those who worked in the mines. When they protested their deteriorating living conditions, he cracked down on them without mercy. But his terror-tactics were backfiring, creating the revolution that now threatened to halt turbinium production and undermine Cohaagen’s quest for power.

The soldier of fortune shook his head. He was not a politician. He had no interest in matters of state. But, unlike many of the thugs who had recently been recruited, he did have a strong sense of personal honor. The things Cohaagen had ordered him to do to suppress the revolt on Mars were not honorable. He was a skilled professional, not a petty sadist. He wanted out of the Agency and he wanted out fast.

His duty to the man called Quaid done, he could continue to effect his carefully planned disappearance. He had made a promise and he had kept it, at great personal risk. Now he could lose himself again, his promise fulfilled. He sauntered casually into a side street, trying to act like an ordinary pedestrian, but he was nervous. He knew that the Agency was after his friend and would stop at nothing to nail him. He had helped a buddy, as he knew he must, but if the act were ever discovered, it would alert the Agency and put his own disappearance in jeopardy. That was why he had to conceal his identity; the less known about him, the better.

Cruising around the Galleria, Helm saw someone who looked familiar. He nudged Richter and pointed. Richter, too, recognized the man. His eyes condensed to points. What the hell was Stevens doing here? Hadn’t he and the quarry been buddies back on Mars? Were they in on this little game together? Richter would soon find out.

Helms cut the car into a parking space. Swiftly and silently they got out, stalking the man.

Stevens left the inner circle of the mall, his eyes darting nervously into the dimness before him. He turned his head briefly to see if he was being followed—and walked straight into the arms of Richter and Helm. Helm grabbed him and smashed his head against a wall, then landed a few solid kicks to his ribs and kidneys. Stevens slumped on the sidewalk.

“What’re you doing here, Stevens?” Richter asked. “Visiting your old pal Quaid?”

“What are you talking about?” Though dazed, Stevens recognized Richter, the Agency enforcer, the kind of thug that gave the organization a bad name. Stevens leaned on one hand, propping himself up as best he could, but he knew that he was doomed.

“Do I have to explain?” Richter raised his foot and brought it down on Stevens’ widespread hand. Stevens screamed as the bones in his fingers snapped. Helm shut his mouth with another well-aimed kick.

“Where is he?”

“Can’t say,” Stevens mumbled through blood and broken teeth. “Classified.” Evidently, the ploy with the towel had been successful, and they had lost the quarry. Let him stay lost. Stevens didn’t intend to take his friend down with him.

Richter ground his heel into Stevens’ hand. The pain jolted straight up his arm to his shoulder.

“You can tell us, Stevens,” Richter said soothingly. “We’re on the same team.” He bounced casually on Stevens’ mangled hand.

“Okay, okay!” Stevens wheezed. “Just call Cohaagen; get clearance.” Furious, Richter stomped on Stevens’ shin, cracking it against the edge of the curb.

“Are we clear yet? Hunh?” he taunted.

Stevens rocked in agony. He knew he couldn’t take much more. Suddenly he felt a faint flutter of hope. Helm’s attention had been diverted by something; he elbowed Richter and pointed.

“There he is!” Richter peered into the distance and saw Quaid walking past a JohnnyCab stand on the far side of the mall. He had something white wrapped around his head and was carrying some sort of bag. Richter smiled malignantly. Yeah, Quaid was holding the bag, all right.

Gun in hand, Helm took off in pursuit, but Richter lingered, looking down at Stevens’ crumpled form. Bending slightly, he tapped Stevens on the shoulder. The man looked up, into the barrel of Richter’s gun.

A shot sounded.