Alex Bobl - Memoria

“Let Shelby explain,” Gautier looked down at her wrinkled hands.

“Easy,” said Frank. “Freedom of movement in exchange for lands and all the assets. With one reservation,” he glanced over at all who were present, “The program is planned for twenty-five years. The Presiding Council and the administration come to a secret agreement…” He turned to Max. “I’m sorry, sir. I meant to tell you all about it while still in the boxing club, but then Barney came and I never—”

“You mean, another twenty-five years, and the reservations will disappear,” Max crossed his arms on his chest. “All thanks to an agreement between a handful of people.”

It was Max’s turn to shake his head in disbelief. “That’s the way to do it,” he glanced at Maggie next to him, “without as little as asking anyone if they wanted it or not. Then again, the powers that be never bother.”

The girl stared down at the table, quiet and reserved. She was rather like a fifth wheel in their company. Too many things had been said not meant for her ears, and everyone seemed to realize that, Frank included. But once started, the argument couldn’t be stopped.

Max turned to the Steel Lady. “You hoped to keep the agreement a secret. Easy enough to do, considering not so many people knew about it in the first place. A lawyer from each state, the heads of government, possibly, the President, plus a couple dozen camp leaders… a hundred, hundred and fifty in total. Not many, considering the stakes: twenty-five years of change for the better, restoring the migrants’ position in society… Twenty-five years is a figure to be reckoned with. You’ve nearly made it, too.”

He paused. “The problem was, Memoria had a plan of its own. And most likely, your secret agreement was part of it. They only made it in order to lull you into a false sense of security while Memoria was getting their Vaccination up and running. You must have a mole or two nosing about. Memoria’s people have studied you well, each of you.”

Silence fell. Frank held his breath watching the others. Nicholas Floyd stared in front of him, drooped and crestfallen. The news of the agreement between Gautier and the government seemed to have shaken him to the bone. Lionel Batford, one hand still under the table, squinted at his cell phone, tapping a number in.

The gray-haired Steel Lady seemed to have aged another ten years in the past half-hour. Her hands shook. The flame in her eyes had faded.

“Frank, with your permission?” Max looked up at him. “I’ve got something else to say.”

“If you wish.”

“You should have told us about the secret agreement when you met us yesterday. We’ll leave it for the moment. But before we see the tape and learn more about the Vaccination project, there’s something else I need to know. Have any of you — of the camp leaders or their entourage — have any of you ever heard of mind locks and mnemocapsules? Were they mentioned at all during those talks yesterday at Memoria? Have you heard these names before?”

Gautier raised her sunken face at him and shook her head. There was nothing left of the Steel Lady in her.

“Put your phone away, Lionel,” she gnarled. “Nicholas, go find out what’s taking the engineers so long.”

The phone beeped acknowledging a text reception. A gun shot resounded from under the table. Maggie cried out. Blood trickled out of Gautier’s open mouth onto her chin. She tumbled off the chair clasping the wound in her stomach. The coach jumped up.

Lionel Batford did the same, the gun in his hand trained at Floyd. Before Floyd could move, Batford shot him twice.

Max rushed to the girl to shield her from the shots. A bullet hit his chest. Frank lunged forward and slammed the chair on Batford’s hand holding the gun. Batford cried out and dropped the weapon. Frank buried his fist in the man’s face, and Batford collapsed on the floor.

Frank picked up his gun and ran past the table to the door. It swung open, people bursting in.

“He did it!” Wiping the blood over his face, Batford crawled to the wall. “He shot us! He’s got a gun!”

Several people grabbed Frank’s shoulders forcing him down. He knee-kicked one of them. The attacker yelped and released his grip. Another one tried to take the gun away. Frank jabbed his left elbow into the man’s chest and received a hearty hook to his jaw in return. The blow made his head reel, letting out hundreds of stars before his darkening stare. He growled as he struck out at the attacker’s ribs, all the while feeling someone trying to wriggle the gun out of his hand. Finally, he managed to get up, throwing the attacker down onto the floor.

The gun lay under his feet. Frank’s right arm didn’t obey, its hand burning in agony, its forearm stiff as if it had been fitted with a steel rod. Familiar sensation: many years ago, this had been the kind of injury that had got him out of the ring for good. A couple of fingers broken, probably — not that it mattered any more. He kicked the gun under the table, avoided somebody’s lunge and parried another one’s left hook to his jaw, simultaneously kicking somebody behind his back.

“Frank!” Maggie screamed.

He was too busy to answer. He couldn’t even turn to take a look. He had to get to the door and lock it, whatever it took. Then he’d deal with these people, and then — he didn’t know what would happen then. He didn’t care. He clenched his teeth and kept fighting. This was what he’d learned from his coach, now bleeding to death somewhere under the table.

He finally realized he’d been fighting three people in total: the three young men in the gray pickup truck who’d brought them there from Oprah’s house. The driver wasn’t with them — he must have stayed with the truck. One of the three writhed on the floor clutching at his stomach after Frank’s knee kick to his solar plexus. Another one didn’t move at all, unconscious after the hook to his jaw. The third one leaned against the table edge trying to get up. Frank stepped forward and punched the man in the temple knocking him out.

“Behind you!” Maggie screamed.

Too late. A chair crushed against Frank’s back and disintegrated. Frank collapsed on top of his injured arm, yelped with pain and tried to kick the attacking Batford’s leg. The man stepped aside, two loose chair legs still in his hands, and took a swing at Frank. A chair leg hit Frank’s throat, stopping him breathing.

Batford grasped the other chair leg with both hands and raised it over his head aiming its sharp splintery end at Frank’s chest.

A gunshot shook the room. Batford doubled up. His eyes, full of surprise, froze on Frank’s face. He dropped the chair leg and started to turn around. A dark spot grew on his back. He stepped to the door, teetered and collapsed. On the other side of the room, something heavy clanged against the floor.

Frank turned his head. Maggie stood by the opposite wall. She covered her mouth with both hands, staring at the dead Batford. The gun lay at her feet.

From behind the door came shouting and the stomping of many feet. As he scrambled upright, Frank tried to speak to Maggie but could only manage a croak. The pain in his larynx made him hiss; he swallowed, grabbed a chair and dragged it to the entrance.

He barred the door with it and tried it. A chair was no barrier for one or two fit men, but all Frank wanted was to play for time.

He looked back. A recovered Maggie leaned over the coach under the wide window. Tears flooded her face. She was whispering something that sounded like a prayer.

Frank ran up to them and knelt next to his coach looking into his eyes. The man was dying. Max couldn’t see his student, but he moved his bloodied lips trying to say something. But nothing came out.