Vickers (Corp.s.e.)

TEN

THERE WERE STEAKS and beer at the Desert Inn. On the way out of the inner sanctum, Vickers had sworn that he'd never eat again but when he actually smelled frying from the motel coffee shop that served as the officers' mess, he realized that he was starving. He'd been living on coffee, pills and scotch for close to three days. By the time he'd loaded a mess tray with two sizable steaks, a double order of fries, two eggs and four slices of wheat toast, his mouth was actually watering. The only snag was that he didn't get to eat the meal in peace. Halfway through, Victoria Morgenstern sat down at his table.

"So you're out."

"I didn't know it was going to be so difficult. I thought once things were squared away you'd start evacuating those people."

"You can't hurry these things. Those people have a lot of adjusting to do."

"Hurry things? It took four hours of screaming bloody murder before they'd let me out."

"That was a mistake. You were absolutely exempted from the containment order."

Although both Contec and the army had refused to enter the bunker in a combat role, neither snowed any hesitation in taking control and acting as virtual jailers once the situation was under control. Suddenly Victoria was making up the rules and Getz was enforcing them. Specially flown in admin teams set up shop on the first level and, backed up by armed troops, they started opening files and handing out ID cards. It had suddenly been decided that the evacuation of the bunker would take place on an individual basis and only after each individual had been thoroughly screened. The key points were "stability, adaptability and attitude" and the process threatened to take months.

"What is this containment order shit, Victoria?"

"What are you complaining about? You and your friends are all out and free, aren't you?"

Indeed, when Vickers had talked his way out he'd managed to bring Parkwood, Yabu and Eggy out with him. They were at another table eating without interruption. Vickers jabbed angrily at his steak.

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it? That's strange coming from you. I thought all you cared about was number one."

"I spent a long time in that place. For most of the people in there it's been a nightmare. They've been through enough. The last thing they need is being hung up in a whole lot of bullshit bureaucracy."

"I have every compassion for the people in the bunker but…"

"That's a lot of crap. You never had compassion for anyone. You don't do compassion."

"We can't just let those people loose. A lot of them are crazy. They need all the help they can get."

"Sure, and you're going to keep them penned up in the bunker while you help them."

"You're not thinking. I'm telling you we can't just turn them loose. The problem of who actually employs them and who owes them back pay is almost insurmountable."

"I knew it would all come down to money in the end."

"You've been taken care of. Contec's picking up your tab without question."

"They damn well better."

Victoria did her best to look placating. It hardly suited her.

"Try and look at it from our point of view. There's no way we can just dump nearly four thousand badly fucked up individuals back into the world without credit lines, jobs or anything. The first stop would be Las Vegas. Can you imagine how the Vegas authorities would react if we did that?"

Vickers very carefully put down his fork.

"And who are the Las Vegas authorities these days?"

Victoria looked at him sharply.

"What?"

"I was wondering who was minding the shop now that Herbie Mossman's dead."

For a moment she avoided his eyes.

"As a matter of fact, we are."

"Contec?"

"Without Mossman and the personal loyalty he commanded from his staff, Global Leisure started to come unglued. There was a merger."

"How convenient."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I was never too happy about the Mossman assassination. I was also struck by the fact that when I came out the first time, nobody was particularly interested in what had happened."

Victoria's answer came a little too quickly and neatly.

"It was old news by then."

"I got the impression that everyone knew about it. When I asked about it, the army told me to go see Contec and Contec just got close-mouthed."

Victoria Morgenstern looked as though she was sucking on a lemon.

"You know the story. Herbie Mossman got into the bunker at the start of the crisis. You know what he was like. He was so pathological about preserving himself that he wouldn't even breathe the air. Lloyd-Ransom thought that he'd try and take over and had him killed."

"That's what Lloyd-Ransom told me. I didn't believe him, either."

Morgenstern's face became properly impassive.

"So what outrageous theory do you have, Mort?"

"I figure Lloyd-Ransom was doing his last job for the old firm. It's my guess that Contec, probably you, either stampeded or lured Herbie into the bunker and Lloyd-Ransom had instructions to kill him, thus opening the way for the takeover. Of course, Lloyd-Ransom had his own plans but that's history. Nobody knew what he had in mind when the original orders were given. Even as things turned out, it must have worked quite well. Sure you lost a bunker for eighteen months, but you got Global."

Victoria's mouth curled into a tight little smile.

"That's quite fantastic."

"Isn't it just?"

"And complete nonsense."

"Maybe."

"You don't have any bright ideas of circulating this wild tale, do you? Like giving it to the media or anything?"

Vicker grinned.

"Who? Me? You know I wouldn't do a thing like that. I'm a good Contec corpse; I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"I'm very glad of that." Victoria stood up. "I'll leave you to finish your meal in peace."

Vickers looked down at his plate. His appetite wasn't what it had been when he'd started. "Yeah."

"You're taking some time off?"

"I figure I deserve it."

"You'll find that your credit's been taken care of."

"That's nice of you."

"It's the least I could do."

"Right."

"I'll expect you back in New York in a month. I hope you can manage not to get into trouble."

Vickers sat in the cocktail bar in the Las Vegas airport. He was working on his fourth large scotch. For the first time in as long as he could remember he had absolutely nothing to do. He felt lost. He was very aware that he was pouring booze into himself to fill a yawning psychological emptiness. He couldn't quite grasp the fact that it was all over. The idea of time off was meaningless. He had homed in on the airport almost by instinct, but beyond that he didn't have a clue where he wanted to go. His only solid idea was, after all that had happened, he absolutely didn't want to stay in Las Vegas. There was something horrifying about the moving crowd in the Hawaiian shirts and leisure clothes. They were so dumbly, obliviously alive.

Not that he'd made any real effort to get out of town. He hadn't booked a ticket, he hadn't even looked at schedules. His first impulse had been to head back to New York. New York, however, meant work, maybe another contract, the possibility of more deaths. For the moment that was out of the question. He'd considered staying with Joe Stalin, except that Joe Stalin probably thought that he was dead. He couldn't face the prospect of explaining all that had happened since they'd last seen each other. At the same time, the idea of a holiday was totally absurd. A week earlier, he firmly believed that the world had been burned to a nuclear crisp. It was nearly impossible to accept the idea of laying on a beach somewhere sipping some misbegotten drink that came with a baby umbrella in it while looking at women in tans and bikinis. He felt hollow and the only available solution seemed to be to fill the hollowness with whiskey.

"Give me another, will you?"

The bartender looked doubtful.

"Are you sure about that, pilgrim?"

Vickers' eyes became don't-mess-with-me slits.

"Sure I'm sure."

"Suit yourself."

The bartender poured him another double shot and ran Vickers' credit card through the machine for the fifth time. The Las Vegas airport dressed their bartenders like parodies of Mississippi gamblers, string ties and brocade vests. Vickers wasn't prepared to take flack from anyone in a string tie. As he filled the hollowness with more scotch, it was replaced by hostility. He had a suspicion that as well as being in some kind of delayed shock, he was probably also suffering a multiple comedown from all the mind alterers he'd been fed in the bunker. Why else would the bartender sound like John Wayne? John Wayne hovered protectively.

"Don't care to fly, huh?"

"I don't even have a ticket."

"Think maybe you ought to go home or something?"

Home? For Vickers the concept was weird. The hollowness expanded as he realized that the bunker was the only place that he could think of as home. He was like an ex-con, just out of the penitentiary. Somehow he had to get a grip on himself. His first task was to deal with Big John.

"Listen, I'm just sitting here in your bar getting drunk as a skunk. If you don't like it just tell me and I'll go someplace else, otherwise just keep pouring and if I get out of line, call the cops."

The bartender seemed to be weighing Vickers in the balance. Finally he made up his mind. John Wayne ran out and he was nothing but cold.

"I'm sorry, sir. I really don't think I can serve you any more."

Vickers had a compact.32 auto in a shoulder holster under the jacket of his brand new suit. For a moment he was tempted to shoot the bartender. In an instant of clarity he realized that there was a certain logic in not turning the entire bunker population loose en masse. They were all at least as crazy as he was. He resisted the urge to homicide and instead swallowed what was left of his drink in one burning gulp.

"If that's the case, fuck you."

"You have a nice day too, sir."

He slid off the barstool and started a little unsteadily in the direction of the check-in machines. The Intercontinental Pyramid dominated the skyline beyond the nearest expanse of panoramic glass. He remembered how he'd rappeled down from the fifty-fifth floor and the urge to get the hell out of Las Vegas became overwhelming. Then the voice came from behind.

"Hey Mort, wait up!"

Vickers twitched. He had to fight down a reckless impulse to go for his gun. He slowly turned. A woman in a red dress was hurrying after him. Her outfit had the kind of wide shoulders and narrow skirt that were fashionable before he'd gone into the bunker. A tiny matching hat with a veil was perched on the top of her short dark hair. What was this all about? Then he recognized the face.

"Johanna?"

He'd never seen her in makeup and real clothes. She was really quite stunning.

"What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get out of the bunker?"

"I've had more gracious receptions."

"I'm sorry; I'm drunk. The bartender just refused to serve me any more booze. I'm not sure I'm quite ready to be back in the world. How are you doing?"

"I think it's fabulous."

"Fabulous?"

"Yeah, fabulous. I can wear clothes again, makeup. I had my hair done and a facial. I've had about a hundred showers. Unrationed water is quite a novelty. You can't believe what a relief it is to be out of that blue uniform and have space to move around."

"How did you get out? I thought they were only letting people out in ones and twos."

"I got myself to the head of the line."

"How did you do that?"

"I told them that I was your girl friend. I figured that after carrying a torch for so long I ought to make some use of you. You'll be flattered to hear that your name actually cut some ice."

"I'm a fucking hero."

"You're a fucking bastard."

"Really?"

"I spent more than one night pining for you."

"It was an impossible situation."

"Not for you men it wasn't. Sexually you were in hog heaven."

"Jesus Christ."

Vickers turned and started to stagger away. Johanna put a hand on his arm.

"Wait, Mort. I'm sorry. Don't go off this way."

Vickers halted. His legs suddenly felt weak. A wave of self-pity threatened to engulf him.

"I'm sorry too."

Johanna raised an eyebrow.

"Do you actually have anywhere to go?"

Vickers stared at her blearily.

"Go?"

"Or are you just planning to hang around the airport drinking yourself unconscious?"

Vickers squinted belligerently at her.

"I've got a thousand places to go."

"You really don't know what to do, do you, now this adventure's at an end. You look like a little boy lost."

"I don't need this." Her expression abruptly softened. "Do you even have the approximation of a home?" Vickers swayed, his smile was lopsided. "I've got some new clothes and an awful lot of money. That's all I need.

"Why don't you come to Los Angeles with me. Contec is putting me in the Beverly Wiltshire while they figure out what to do with me. It could be fun. You can relax, work out some of the knots."

Vickers was very tempted but he wasn't quite ready to admit it.

"I don't want to go to Los Angeles. There are too many people who don't like me in LA to make it very relaxing."

"That's a pity. I don't like to see you drunk, wandering around on your own like this."

The only word was vulnerable. He didn't want to be drunk and wandering around like this either. "I… why don't you come with me."

"You don't know where you're going." Details of a flight to Rio came up on the Faxcast. "Rio. Come to Rio with me. We can lay on the beach and look at the sky."

"Rio?"

"The plane leaves in forty-five minutes."

"What about Contec? I'm supposed to go to LA."

"I can square anything with Contec. Contec loves me."

"You're sure."

Now Vickers was becoming expansive. "Sure I'm sure."

He held out his arm. Johanna hesitated just long enough and then she sighed and took it. Arm in arm they walked toward the Amjet check-in.

"Do you really have a great deal of money?"

"A great deal."

"That's nice."

"Isn't it."

"Maybe we could even make love in the toilet of the plane."

Vickers shook his head.

"It's going to be a long time before I do anything in an enclosed space."