Demolition Man Page 11

  Furthermore, Dr. Cocteau knew for a fact that Spartan did not have all the skills to operate at peak efficiency in this new world. That, more than anything, would slow down this unpredictable police officer.

  But the worst thing that had happened, the most humiliating event of all, was the sudden appearance of Edgar Friendly and his ragtag band of followers- right before Cocteau's eyes. And Spartan had refused to do anything about it. In fact, he had demonstrated a distinct sympathy for the Scraps. That was not a promising development, and the Mayor-Gov would have to take steps to make sure that Spartan's empathy did not increase.

  Therefore, it was not surprising that Cocteau was not in the best of moods when he finally got back to his office in the government center. Associate Bob trotted dutifully at his master's heels, well aware of the Mayor-Gov's black humor and wondering what he could do to alleviate it.

  Cocteau stepped into his darkened office. "Lights," he ordered.

  But the computer did not respond, and the room remained wreathed in sepulchral darkness.

  "I said lights!"

  From the dark came a cackling laugh. "Nahh," said Simon Phoenix. "I changed that. Just for the hell of It. Now you gotta say illuminate."

  The lights clicked on, and Dr. Cocteau and Associate Bob were shocked and chagrined to see the master maniac sitting behind the Mayor-Gov's desk, his dirty boots squarely up on the pristine blotter.

  Phoenix laughed again. "Illuminate!"

  The lights turned off, and in the darkness Cocteau could be heard groaning in exasperation.

  "Isn't that nicer?" asked Phoenix, teasing the two men. "Go ahead, Doc, you try it."

  "Illuminate," said Cocteau acidly. The lights blinked on. "Very well, Phoenix. Let's stop playing."

  "Raymond, buddy," said Phoenix, his voice full of mock sincerity. "That's why I'm here. We have a lot to talk about, right?"

  "How did you get in?" Cocteau asked.

  Phoenix shrugged and laughed again. "I wish I knew. Pass codes, routes to secret underground kingdoms. It's all in the computer." Phoenix shook his head in wonderment. "Check this out-I punch in one code and the machine goes, 'complete access to the industrial data grid interface.'" He flashed the two men a big grin.

  "And I don't even know what that means," he said. "Not bad, huh? Not bad for a man who didn't know how to use a fucking toaster." Needless to say, Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau's private office was not equipped with a morality box.

  "Now you do," said Cocteau.

  "That's right. I've been meaning to ask you about it. But I want you to know that I like this. I like it. I like it a lot. Makes life so much easier."

  Cocteau attempted to keep his calm demeanor, but Phoenix was annoying him mightily. "Your skills were given to you for a reason. And not for your personal amusement. Try to remember that."

  "I never forget it, Ray, baby."

  "Your job is to kill this disharmonious and disruptive young man, Edgar Friendly."

  "Check," said Simon Phoenix.

  "And once you have done that, you are to put a stop to a revolution before it precipitates. Which is what you were cryo-rehabbed to do."

  Phoenix shrugged. "Yeah? Maybe I got a memory lapse, but I don't remember putting an application in for this particular gig. What did I do to get it?"

  Cocteau was matter-of-fact. "It is a job that simply cannot be done by anyone else in San Angeles. No one is equipped, psychologically, to perform it. Barbaric skills such as yours are no longer needed in this society."

  Phoenix took his feet off the desk and leaned forward to confront the two men. "Ahh," he said, "I would have to say you're wrong there, bud. Clearly, skills such as mine are very valuable these days. I think you've misjudged the situation." He sounded like a regional manager of some big corporation, dressing down a field salesman.

  "Let's discuss, Raymond. Let's explore our options here. Find out what's really going on."

  Cocteau shook his head. "All you need to do is kill Friendly and not allow his band of miscreants to wreak havoc anymore-surface-harassing havoc."

  The Mayor-Gov was still fuming over the sudden appearance of the Scraps at the Taco Bell.

  "Your ineptitude allowed it to grow worse tonight. Not fifty yards from where I was standing Edgar Friendly and his rabble attacked a food van. You were supposed to prevent this. And you didn't."

  Phoenix stared hard at the man, his eyes narrowing. Associate Bob was getting a little nervous- was there a chance that this maniac could explode and harm them both.

  "Ineptitude?" Phoenix said "Now I would say that's a bit of a provocative word, Raymond, wouldn't you?"

  "No," snapped Cocteau, "I wouldn't."

  "You wouldn't?" said Simon Phoenix. "Have you ever been down to the Wasteland, Ray? Has anyone you know been down there? Do you really know anything about what goes on down there? No?"

  Raymond Cocteau and Associate Bob were silent. Phoenix was pleased. Their silence told him all he needed to know. In fact, they didn't know about conditions in the subterranean city inhabited by the Scraps. That gave Simon Phoenix ample opportunity to lie through his teeth-and to scare the good doctor and his lapdog half to death.

  "Well lemme tell you guys . . . it's bad down there-really bad. It's a wonder I got out of there alive. It's gonna be a big problem. Bigger than just one man can handle-even one with my skills."

  "What do you suggest," said Cocteau, tight-lipped.

  Phoenix looked as if he was genuinely sorry to have to suggest this, but. ..

  "I'm gonna need five or six more guys. Five or six, easy. And I hope you got a list. 'Cause, see, I don't wanna defrost no serial killers or mad-dog types."

  Cocteau smiled and folded his arms. He was beginning to understand what was going on. "So you're gonna be the only mad-dog type?"

  But Phoenix didn't care if Cocteau had twigged to his plans. "Exactemundo, Doc."

  "Fine. If that is what's required to resolve this situation," he said, his words clipped. Cocteau turned to Associate Bob. "Take care of it."

  Associate Bob nodded and hurried to do his master's bidding. Cocteau turned back to Phoenix. "I'm telling you this-just get it over with. You're beginning to be more trouble than you're worth."

  "Aww, don't say that," said Phoenix with a chuckle. "You'll hurt my feelings."

  "Perish the thought. I would hate to do that."

  "Good," said Phoenix. He thought for a moment. "By the way, what am I worth. What do I get out of all of this?"

  Cocteau looked grim. He knew it was bound to come down to this eventually. "What do you want?"

  "Well . . ." said Phoenix coyly. "I like to run things. Beyond murder and mayhem, I think I have some really first-rate managerial skills."

  Cocteau tried to humor this frightening, threatening visitor from the past. "Perhaps you could become head of one of the city functions. A supervisor."

  "You mean like garbage, fireman, light and power?" Phoenix shook his head. "Nah ... I was thinking more in terms of real estate management."

  "What are you talking about? Real estate?"

  Phoenix stretched luxuriantly in the huge desk chair. "I'm talking about Malibu, Santa Monica . . . Maybe all the coastal cities."

  Cocteau had no alternative but to agree to meet Phoenix's demands-for the time being, at least. "I'll take it under advisement, Phoenix."

  "We can exchange memos," said Phoenix.

  Cocteau had had enough. "Before we get into the subject of reward, I would like to remind you that you have a job to do first. Once you have neutralized all the threats to San Angeles-and I mean all, Phoenix-we will discuss a suitable remuneration. Just do your job first. Now you may leave."

  But Simon Phoenix wasn't quite ready to bring the discussion to a close.

  "What the hell is Spartan doing here, Raymond?" Phoenix looked really annoyed. "Who invited him to our party? I don't like that at all."

  Cocteau had hoped this question wouldn't come up. Spartan wasn't part of the plan, but he didn'
t want Phoenix to know that-he didn't want to appear less in control than he did already.

  "You finish your business and finish it soon," said Cocteau, "and I'll make sure Spartan gets stuffed back in the freezer. Think of him as a guarantee."

  Phoenix smiled thinly. "A guarantee? A guarantee that I get the job done? Is that what you mean? Listen, Ray, I took care of Spartan once before, so don't worry your pointy little head about that. Okay?" Phoenix stood up. "Now we need these guys thawed out fast. The sooner I get what I need, the sooner you get what you want? Got it?"

  Cocteau nodded. "Whatever you require."

  Inwardly, he cursed Edgar Friendly. That miserable Scrap was the cause of all this damn trouble, and he would pay for that. Pay dearly . . .

  Associate Bob scuttled back into the room. "A list is being prepared," he reported obsequiously.

  "You see, Phoenix. We are doing everything in our power to accommodate you."

  Phoenix nodded. "Good, Ray. That's good. Illuminate."

  The lights clicked off, and Phoenix chuckled madly, delighted at even this small piece of mischief.

  "Illuminate!" snapped Cocteau-but to his immense surprise the lights did not come back on. "Phoenix, what little game are you playing?"

  Phoenix giggled in the dark. "Nah, I repro-grammed it. The password isn't illuminate anymore. It's something else. And I guess you'll have to find out." The door slammed, and Dr. Cocteau and Associate Bob stood alone in the dark.

  "What a distasteful fellow," said Associate Bob.

  Cocteau had had enough. "Oh shut up, Bob," he snapped.

  "Yes, Dr. Cocteau," said Associate Bob meekly.

  1 6

  John Spartan expected that Lenina Huxley would be a little standoffish when they met up the next morning. After all, he had committed the unpardonable sin of suggesting an unprotected act of fluid transfer-with touching and kissing and all that good outlawed stuff.

  Indeed, Lenina Huxley was all business when they met early the next day at the police cruiser.

  "Good morning," said Spartan pleasantly. He was carrying a leather bag over one shoulder.

  "Detective," said Lenina Huxley with a nod, chilly and distant.

  Spartan walked around the side of the car to the driver's door and got in behind the control panel of the police vehicle.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I've got to learn how to drive this thing sometime," he said with a shrug.

  Lenina Huxley made no objection to his taking over the controls. There were other things she wanted to get across to her new and unorthodox partner. She took a deep breath. "I understand that we are to work together, and I think it better if we agree that the events of yesterday evening are better forgotten," she said solemnly.

  "Fine," said Spartan.

  But Lenina had more she wanted to get off her chest. "I understand that our ways are alien to you, and that despite my industrious study of your era, I too have failed to bridge the gaps between our two disparate cultures."

  "That's okay," said Spartan. From the bag he produced a flawlessly knitted sweater made of bright red wool.

  "This is for you," he said, handing it to her. "I had to guess at the size, but it looks about right. It's a peace offering, okay?"

  Lenina Huxley had expected a number of responses from Spartan, but this one took her completely by surprise. "What a lovely sweater," she said, holding it against her. "Beautifully made."

  Spartan pushed some buttons' on the control console, and the car eased into traffic, humming along smoothly. Spartan shook his head. "I don't know what they put in cryo-slush," he said, "but as soon as I thaw out the first thing I want to do is knit. I don't get it."

  "You knit very well," said Lenina, giving him a verbal pat on the back.

  "I know," he said. "That's what so strange. How come I know what a zipper foot is, a shuttle, hook and bobbin, petit point. I could weave a throw rug right now with my eyes closed."

  Huxley laughed. This was one mystery she could resolve. "It was your rehab training," she said.

  Spartan shot her a look "My what?"

  "Your rehab training. For each inmate a computer designs a program that draws on innate skills of the cryo-prisoner. It takes a scan of your genetic disposition and assigns a skill or a trade based on your unique makeup. It really is quite ingenious."

  "Really," said Spartan, unimpressed.

  "Yes," said Lenina with a nod. "Once it has decided your natural predisposition, it implants the knowledge and desire to carry out whatever training was assigned. The computer has created a master seamstress in you, John Spartan."

  "I'm a seamstress?" said Spartan, dumbfounded. "Seamstress. That's just great." He turned toward Lenina. "How come I come out of cryo-prison and I'm Betsy fucking Ross."

  "Knitting is a valuable skill," said Lenina as primly as a schoolmarm. "And research shows that knitting can reduce heart rate, stress levels, and high blood pressure."

  "That's not the point," said Spartan. "Phoenix comes out of prison, and he can access computers, operate all vehicles, find the locations of every damn thing in the city-and he's three times stronger than when he went in. Now, would you care to tell me what kind of rehab program that might be?"

  "I don't know," said Lenina. "I cannot explain it."

  "Well, could you get me a copy of that program? Let's see who juiced this guy up."

  Lenina thought for a moment and then leaned into the computer screen and madly began punching codes. The first three responses were predictable.

  "Access denied," cooed the computer voice.

  "Drat," said Lenina.

  "Drat?" asked Spartan. "That's some pretty strong language you're using."

  But Lenina ignored the sarcasm as her hands flew over the keyboard. Spartan smiled as he watched her concentrating on breaking the rules-he was glad to see that even here in the future cops were still not above stretching the regulations to the edge of the unlawful.

  The computer denied Lenina access three more times, each refusal making her angrier-"drat" actually became "damn"-and more determined to succeed in cracking the code.

  By a series of subterfuges and outright lies-at one point she identified herself as none other than Chief George Earle-Lenina did manage to get around the security system.

  The computer emitted a high-pitched shriek that made Lenina and Spartan jump.

  "What the hell is that?"

  Lenina was smiling, but Spartan could see that her dark eyes were tinged with fear. "That's the warning. I've entered an ultrasecure zone. The computer will check every possible access code in the next few seconds. If I've done this correctly, we'll be admitted to the restricted files."

  Abruptly, the mechanized scream ceased. The alarm signal was replaced by a calm, female voice.

  "Enter subject name."

  Lenina typed fast. The computer hesitated for a moment as if it couldn't quite believe that anyone had access to the rehab file of Simon Phoenix. But the codes checked out, and a second later the brain spewed out information.

  "Phoenix, Simon," said the computer. "Rehabilitation skills: urban combat, computer override authorization, violence, adept murder-death-kill dexterity."

  Lenina Huxley was shocked; she could only stare at the screen, dumbfounded. "But . . . there must be some mistake. This isn't a proper rehab program."

  "No kidding," said Spartan.

  "These skills were abolished decades ago." She looked at Spartan, her eyes wide. "The Mayor-Gov would never allow this kind of thing."

  "Oh, no," said Spartan. "He'd be shocked, I'm sure, if he knew what kind of faculties his precious cryo-prison was teaching the bad guys."

  "Well, he would," protested Lenina. "This kind of program would create a ... a monster."

  "Create?" said Spartan. "They started with a monster. All they managed to do with this program was make a new improved, state-of-the-art monster."

  "But why?" demanded Huxley. "What would be the point of formulating something-someon
e-so horrible?"

  Spartan shook his head. "Don't know why," he said, "but I can guess who. Who develops these programs?"

  "All programming is done by Cocteau Industries, of course," Lenina replied. "But why would Mayor-Gov Cocteau want to release such a brute savage into our midst? It would counter everything he has ever tried to do. Everything he stands for. It would destroy his dream."

  "That's a good question," said Spartan. "Let's go ask him." He threw the police car into a rubber-burning one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, the kind of spectacular traffic-stopping stratagem unseen in the city since the bad old days of the violent nineties.

  He cut across three lanes of traffic, jumped a bright green grass divider, and slammed onto the freeway lane going back the way they came. A dozen cars on the lane came to screeching halts, and the drivers immediately began hunting for the horns on their cars. They never used them so they weren't quite sure where they were located.

  "John Spartan!" squawked Lenina holding on for all she was worth. "What are you doing?"

  "Turning around."

  "That is not the approved manner," she said sternly.

  But Spartan could tell that she was a little breathless with excitement and secretly pleased with the daring maneuver on San Angeles's normally serene highways.

  She was less pleased with the next phase of Spartan's audacious plan.

  "You are intending to put a question directly to Mayor-Gov Dr. Raymond Cocteau?" she asked in disbelief.

  Spartan nodded. "That's right."

  "No, John Spartan. You can't accuse the savior of the city of a thing like that! You can't charge him with being connected to a multimurder-death-killer like Simon Phoenix. It would be ...it would be rude."

  Spartan almost winced. Police work had come to a pretty sorry state when a cop was afraid to ask a question of a suspect because to do so would be rude.

  "Rude?" he said. "Don't worry about rude. I'll be subtle. I'm good at subtle."

  Lenina looked less than reassured. Nothing she had seen in John Spartan suggested subtlety-except, perhaps, for the red sweater, and he was the first to admit that knitting it had flown in the face of his true nature.

  Associate Bob did not look happy to see John Spartan as the two cops came barging into Dr. Cocteau's outer office.