He opened his eyes and confirmed that he was alone. The light was from numerous small sources built into the walls and ceiling. Including the bed he was lying on, the room was provided with a number of comforts, including antique books, lounge chairs, a dining set, a kitchen, and a series of large viewing screens on one wall. There weren’t any windows. It was about twice the size of his efficiency, and a lot more richly furnished. After giving it just a little thought, he decided it was an underground bunker created by someone who had a lot of resources, remembered the Riots, and wanted to be prepared for next time.
With an effort, Chris sat up, keeping his back ramrod straight. He’d had fractured ribs before, but not like this. Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to make plans to fight his way out. He’d also been kidnapped before, and so far this time wasn’t so bad. Except for his ribs.
If it was Bedford’s bunker, he could start with a number of assumptions about it: hidden from the outside world; capable of being secured from the inside, although not currently; variable power sources, including a lot of remote sources of power independent from the grid; good supplies of food and water; and, probably, a system for monitoring what was happening out in the world. He suspected there was also a lock on the outside of the door and a system that allowed them to watch him, in which case they now knew he was awake. The system that allowed viewing the inside of the room might well be a new addition, or maybe not. Bedford seemed to take the long view on things.
Bedford didn’t waste any time. He came alone, closing the door behind him as he entered, and because he was a secretive man, Chris suspected there was no one watching at the moment although there was undoubtedly some security within easy call.
For the first minute, they studied each other. Chris felt a brief chagrin at the disadvantage of sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall, but he supposed it was better than lying across it and unconscious.
He had been prepared for it, but it still surprised him to see how much John Bedford looked like Jesse. Chris had been looking in the mirror for almost 70 years taking for granted the immutability of the face looking back, but he had somehow been thinking of John Bedford as an old man. The slim young man with the face of Jesse Bedford and the hard gaze sat down in an antique leather armchair near the door. He was 103 chrono, 33 biol, but looked 21. A difficult accomplishment, even with the blurring of physical ages that Chris now took for granted.
Chris thought he knew what Bedford wanted. He didn’t fool himself into believing Bedford saw him as anything but a small bump in the road. To a man who would plan the murder of three members of his own family, someone like Chris was barely a blister.
“You’re a self-righteous meddler. First it was your damn pest of a wife whose interference helped make all of this necessary in the first place. Your precious Laws.
You could easily look the other way and no one would even notice. A few simple manipulations by those of us who can afford it, world leaders, the men who really run this country, no one is hurt, and you’ve preserved continuity for a nation that badly needs it.
“I paid for this life. I built it. Who the hell do you think funded the science that created Longevity? The naturals you pretend to care about?”
“You lived through the Riots, but none of it meant anything to you?” Chris asked.
“So there were a lot of people who had no understanding of the situation who reacted with panic. With a little backbone, we could have won in the streets, and by now, everyone would accept the outcome. They’d get used to it, and they’d stop caring. They would have learned to appreciate having leaders freed from the cares of aging and mortality. Leaders growing in wisdom.”
Chris laughed. It hurt more than he cared to admit to himself, but he honestly couldn’t suppress it. “You mean, like you? You mean like the slaves of three centuries ago accepted their status? Enforced with whips and chains and hunting dogs. Its just one of your fatal flaws, Bedford; you underestimate every one around you and overestimate yourself. You, as one of a master race of immortal overlords?” Chris suppressed his scorn but allowed himself to sound amused.
“And yet here I am, with all the power,” Bedford said. He didn’t quite sneer. “I’m the one in control.”
“Confusing power and wealth with merit is the sign of a seriously unbalanced ego. What do you want, Bedford?” Chris asked, suddenly bored. “We’re never going to agree, so why am I here?”
“I want you to understand that the only way you’re going to get out of here alive is to tell me how you discovered my plans, what you know and what you’ve reported. And then I want you to go out and forget it, and destroy any record of it. If you want to live, and I know you do, maybe as much as I do, you’re going to do all of that.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Besides, there are too many other people who already know about it, and too many records.”
“I doubt it. I think it’s just you and your pretty little partner, and I can deal with her easily enough.
“You think you’ve had a hard few days? Think hours, days, the rest of your life, which will be very short, for you and for her. And for what; the hypocrisy of trying to enforce some meaningless restrictions that you’d circumvent yourself if you could?” Bedford sounded very sure of himself, and Chris found it annoying.
“You’re confused. You are so blinded by your own ego you think everyone else thinks like you do, only less openly. Try to get outside of it, Bedford and understand: some of us have this idea that humanity trumps megalomania. Can’t seem to shake it.
“Do you feel nothing for Jesse, your grandson?”
Bedford’s gaze flickered, but he said only, “He’s my creation, too. He won’t even know what he’s missed.”
Chris stared at the young-old face for a while. It was like staring at a mask.
“You haven’t been living all these years, Bedford. You’ve been dying. You’re already in your own private little hell, aren’t you?” Chris asked, and smiled.
By 4 pm Livvy’s fifth call to Chris had gone unanswered. She took a break from kicking around her dead-end leads, had something to eat, and tried to concentrate. Without Chris to help her toss ideas around, she was going to have to think it through on her own, but she had reached the point where she was ready to stop worrying about what she could prove – an impasse – and start going with what she knew.
She knew that if Bedford had taken Chris, rather than killed him outright – a prospect that made her clench her hands in frustration – then he had done so to find out what Chris knew and what useful evidence they had. His first attempt at this, when he tried to steal Chris’ private notes and Louie mauled his agent, had failed. At that point, Bedford would have been pleased enough to have had them both killed on the train. Now, it looked like he had decided to go straight to the source, or at least she hoped so, because that meant that Chris was probably still alive, somewhere.
At any rate, she didn’t dare wait another night. At this point trying to find her partner was her top priority. It was only incidental that it was probably the most productive thing she could do in terms of progressing on her case.
Ever since the Chief had ordered her to keep the case confidential she had been mulling over the possibility he had concerns beyond media leaks. Both Chris and the Chief had suggested it: it was possible that someone in LLE was talking to Bedford, someone other than the person or persons in archives who were destroying and altering records. For now, she was going to pretend she knew this absolutely.