The Nightmare Unleashed

by J. J. Carlson

  She watched the endoscopic camera’s feed on a holographic monitor and made a minuscule adjustment. Her practiced fingers squeezed handles like those on a pair of scissors. Her hands moved a fraction of an inch, and reducers within the endoscope added precision before transferring the movement to the steel rod. At a whisper, she said, “Set,” and another assistant waved a hand through a smaller holographic display. A tiny orb, only fifty micrometers across, slid down the hollow rod and floated in the interstitial fluid within Borya’s dermis. Emily smiled, withdrew the endoscope, and set it aside.

  “And now we wait,” she said. “The nanobots will take care of the rest.”

  “What did you put in?” a male assistant asked.

  Emily gestured for a nurse to patch Borya’s incision, then led the assistant toward the exit. In the operatory washroom, she de-gloved and held her hands beneath a faucet. “To put it simply, it’s a blueprint. It contains instructions for the tiny machines in Emperor’s body. They will migrate to it and react at the molecular level. Commands will be transferred between machines, and they will begin the process of altering his brain.”

  “Will it hurt?” the man asked as he scrubbed his own hands.

  Emily shook her head. “Not at all. Our own brains remodel themselves all the time, and we don’t feel a thing. The nanobots will use a similar process in a directed fashion. They will create a pathway to connect him to the network. Tomorrow, when he is ready, we will take the final step.”

  The assistant smiled. “And he’ll become a god.”

  Emily chuckled. “That’s the ignorance of our ancestors talking. But if you consider knowledge to be “god,” then it would be fair to compare him to the Oracle of Apollo at Delphi.”

  “The Oracle,” the assistant whispered. “I like the sound of that.”

  Emily tore a paper towel from a dispenser and dried her hands. “Emperor and I believe in pragmatism. When he is capable of controlling the most powerful computers in the world with his thoughts, our command and control will become seamless. Our operational success rate will climb to nearly one hundred percent, and our access to funding will be limitless.”

  The assistant was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with the voice of an awestruck child. “I’ve heard he will be able to predict the future.”

  “Rumors and hyperbole,” Emily said, patting the assistant on the shoulder. “He’ll still be the same man, just with many more tools at his disposal.” She led him out of the operatory wing and nodded toward the research wing. “For now, we need to stay busy. Why don’t you head to R&D and help out with the bio-automatons?”

  The assistant gave a slight bow and said, “Gladly, Empress,” then turned on his heel and walked away.

  When the man disappeared around the corner, Emily allowed herself to smile. Not only did she expect Borya to be capable of predicting the future, she was counting on it. His ability to perform statistical calculations would border on omniscience, and they would finally know if Katharos was destined to succeed. Her wizened lover would transcend humanity and evolve into something far greater.

  Emily’s hand slipped around the base of her flat tummy where, inches away, the first perfect human girl was growing within her womb. She imagined giving birth to the first Homo aeturnum and raising the child under Borya’s guidance. The child was destined for greatness—she would rise above humanity and watch from on-high as it withered to ashes and fell. She would witness the rise of her own species, inherit a world without poverty, hatred, or pain. Ageless, the child would be in her physical prime at the turn of the century, and still a perfect specimen when the next millennium arrived.

  For a brief moment, Emily allowed herself to fantasize about her own immortality. With Borya assuming the role of “Oracle,” the technology to extend her own longevity could become a reality. The chosen few Homo sapiens could be granted immortality and walk side-by-side with Homo aeturnum into a perfect world.

  Then she clenched her teeth as her thoughts flashed to a dark memory—blood sprayed into the air and men begged for mercy. A black, sinister creature tore her soldiers to pieces while she watched helplessly from the Operations Center.

  She shook her head. This world was not perfect. Not yet. There were men and women that didn’t share her vision of the future and would stop at nothing to end her life. Then there was him. Jarrod Hawkins, a beast with unimaginable power. As long as he drew breath, Katharos was not safe. And, as much as she longed for paradise on earth, it would have to wait. For now, she needed to ready herself for war.

  Picking up her pace, she strolled through a hallway lined with illuminated stained-glass windows and jogged up a set of stairs. She paused at a polished oak door, took a breath, and knocked. A chair rolled back, and feet scuffled along the floor. The door swung open, and a man with a heavy brow and rough features gazed out at her. He smiled, creasing the deep folds around his eyes.

  “Emily,” he said in the rumbling voice of a lifelong cigar smoker, “it’s good to see you.” He nodded at her surgical scrubs. “How did the operation go?”

  “Hello, Dmitri,” Emily said, embracing the man in a warm hug. She stepped back and added, “I’m sorry I haven’t been by to visit, I’ve just been so busy with Borya’s transformation—”

  “Nonsense,” Dmitri said, waving off her apology. “What you are doing is important, and you don’t need an old fool like me getting in your way.” He always spoke English around Emily, even though he knew she was fluent in Russian. His accent was more noticeable than hers, but he was proud to be multilingual. Unlike most of the Palace residents, Dmitri was not a clinically verified genius. He was, however, a lifelong friend of Borya Tabanov and a decorated veteran of the Russian army.

  When a leading Katharos official, Lukas Woodfall, tried and failed to eliminate Jarrod Hawkins, Borya assigned Dmitri to Emily as an adviser. Since then, Dmitri had been watching and waiting for “The Nightmare” to resurface.

  Emily nodded at the holographic images plastering the walls of Dmitri’s office. “It looks like you’ve been working hard.”

  Dmitri’s face turned grim. “I did not want to bother you with it until you were through with the surgery.”

  “Well,” Emily said, strolling over to one of the projections, “I’m finished with the surgery now. What have you found?”

  “It’s…nothing conclusive. But I am suspicious.”

  Emily squinted as her eyes roved through an autopsy report. “You think Jarrod is active again?”

  “Yes. In fact, I do not believe he ever stopped. It is possible his meeting with his friends in Kinshasa was nothing but a ruse. When he told them he was going to give up being a vigilante, he probably knew we were listening.”

  Emily stroked her chin. It wouldn’t be the first time Jarrod Hawkins manipulated his friends to accomplish his objectives. “Where do you think he’s currently operating?”

  “In England,” Dmitri said, pointing at a digital map on the wall. “The servers have identified six unusual murders between Manchester, Birmingham, and London. And one of them was an assassin we trained.”

  “Show me.”

  Dmitri tapped his watch, and a picture of a mangled corpse appeared on the wall. “His code name was Otto. He had just completed a mission when someone ambushed him on the street.”

  Emily nodded for him to continue, and a picture of a man with half of his face missing appeared.

  “This was a man known as ‘Vlad’ by his customers. He was found like this after a bar fight in Birmingham.”

  Emily fought the urge to wipe her sweaty palms on her scrubs. “Go on.”

  The projection blinked, bringing up four separate images. Emily squinted, trying to place where she had seen the faces.

  “You might recognize these men,” Dmitri said. “They have been on the news for over a year.”

  “They’re footballers, right? Charged with raping a girl at a party?”

  “And the judge who presided over them. Two
days ago, he sentenced these men to two years of probation for the crime they committed.” Dmitri made a sour expression. “They are all filthy human beings.”

  Emily squinted at the photos, noting the wounds on the footballers’ necks. “They had their throats cut. Are you sure this wasn’t some other vigilante?”

  Dmitri shrugged. “There are…other details about the case that never made it to the press. All four men bled to death, but the judge was not killed like the others.” He tapped his watch, cycling through images of bloodied feet, hands, knees, and forearms. “The body of Percival Cunningham was found in the woods, all alone. The police brought in a tracker and discovered that the judge had been chased by someone.”

  He paused, then added, “The judge crawled through the forest for over an hour. He eventually collapsed and bled to death.”

  Emily shivered, imagining how torturous Cunningham’s final moments must have been. “Do you have any digital confirmation?”

  “Possibly. Someone in Manchester hacked into the Facebook account belonging to Jarrod’s sister. We can’t be sure who it was—we checked the device’s webcam and it was blocked out, but it is an odd coincidence.”

  Emily nodded. “And how…close are the latest attacks to our base in London?”

  “Within seven kilometers. But I do not think he knows where it is. Otherwise, he would have attacked already.”

  “Maybe…” Emily said, staring at Cunningham’s butchered limbs. After a long pause, she added, “If he hasn’t found the base yet, he will soon enough. Start the evacuation process, but keep it quiet. We don’t want to tip Jarrod off with the exodus. Then, we’ll send two of the bio-automatons to London. When he discovers the base, they’ll be waiting for him.”

  “And the third machine-man?” Dmitri asked.

  “Keep him here. If anything goes wrong, we’ll need it to defend the Palace.”

  Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “Jarrod is thousands of miles away. What do we need to defend against?”

  Emily shrugged. “It’s just insurance, Dmitri. Two cyborgs should be more than enough to tear him apart, and the next batch won’t be ready for weeks. I don’t want to be exposed, that’s all.”

  Dmitri tapped his watch, then swiped his finger along a holographic image on his forearm. “I trust you, Emily. But, if you do not mind, could we have Borya consider our strategy when he is…plugged in?”

  “Of course,” Emily said, smiling. “Once he is connected, we will have nothing to fear.” She squeezed his sinewy arm. “And you and I can finally relax.”

  Dmitri rolled his head on his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “I will rest better when Jarrod is dead. Until my comrades have been avenged, I will never find peace.”

  “They will be,” Emily said. She held his hands with her own. “Tomorrow, when we awaken Borya, he will know exactly what to do.”

  8

  Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Eugene cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to the glass. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see through the mirrored doors of the recovery room. Sighing, he took a step back and resumed pacing the hallway.

  “She’ll be fine,” Ford grunted, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the concrete wall.

  “That’s what you keep saying,” Eugene said, pointing a finger at his teammate, “but how can you be sure? Do you even know what they’re doing to her in there?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  Eugene stopped pacing and put his hands on his hips. “That’s not an answer. Do you know, or not?”

  Ford met his gaze, then shrugged.

  Eugene shook his head and massaged his temples. “You spooks drive me crazy sometimes. Does everything have to be so secretive?” He took a step toward Ford and whispered, “She is your partner. You deserve to know what they’re doing to treat her.”

  “She’s my teammate, just like she’s your teammate. And they can compartmentalize top-secret procedures as they see fit.”

  “Don’t give me that. You trained with her in this glorified bunker. You two spent twenty-four hours a day together for months, maybe longer. And you’re telling me you only see her as a teammate? A coworker?”

  The muscles around Ford’s eyes gave a microscopic flinch. “Yes.”

  “Bullcrap,” Eugene said, turning away. He pressed an eye against the one-way glass, and added, “Even if you lost your soul in the Alpha experiments, she didn’t. Has it ever crossed your mind that she might see you as more than a teammate, maybe more than a friend?”

  Ford didn’t answer.

  After a long pause, Eugene let out a deep breath that fogged the glass in front of him. “I’m tired of people dying, Ford. And I’m tired of people having to give up their humanity to fight in this stupid war. We’re warriors, but we shouldn’t have to be just warriors.”

  “For some of us, that’s all we have left,” a deep voice said. “You take it away, and you might as well put a bullet in our brains.”

  Ford pushed away from the wall and stood with his hands clasped in front of his waist.

  Eugene thumped his forehead against the glass, then faced the newcomer. “Always the optimist.”

  Daron Keeler eyed both men with his jaw clenched. “If you’re tired of sulking and spouting metaphysical bullshit, I have some intel to show you.”

  Eugene scowled. “Did Audrey finally decide to open her stupid mouth?”

  Daron nodded as he led the men through alternating corridors. “Yes. Apparently, she thinks we brought her to Hillcrest as some sort of reward for her cooperation. And she’s decided to start playing nice.”

  “What did she give us?” Eugene asked.

  “You’ll see,” Daron said.

  The men reached a hub in the underground corridors, and an elevator opened automatically. They stepped inside, and a feminine, computerized voice said, “Proceeding to Sub-Level Two.”

  When the door opened, Daron stepped out and led the men to the left. He passed several steel panels embedded in the concrete wall, then abruptly stopped. He peered through a dinner-plate-sized window, took a step back, and thumbed the radio on his belt. “CJ, open the prisoner’s door.”

  His radio crackled in response, “On it,” and the door slid open.

  All three men stepped into the room, crowding around the terrorist-turned-informant.

  Audrey Stokes sat hunched over a steel desk, scrawling notes on a map. She finished penning her thoughts, then leaned back in her chair and appraised the men. “Daron, did you bring me toys to keep me company while I work?” Her gaze lingered on Ford’s trim waist and broad shoulders. “How kind of you.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Stokes,” Daron snapped. “This isn’t a social call.” He grasped the edge of the map and rolled it up, then beckoned for the men to follow him out.

  “Where’s the ham-fisted one?” Audrey asked. “Out pummeling children for fun?”

  Ford turned around first. Wearing a perfect poker face, he studied Audrey and said, “She’s on a solo mission.”

  Audrey knit her brows. “No, she isn’t.” She paused. “What happened? Did something go wrong in Green Spring?”

  The three men stood perfectly still. Daron and Eugene watched Ford, and Ford watched Audrey.

  “Is she alright?” Audrey prodded.

  “Agent Ford, don’t engage the prisoner,” Daron said.

  Audrey’s hand shot to her mouth, and her face pinched with concern. “I—I told you everything I knew, I swear. If she’s hurt, I had nothing to do with it. You have to believe me.”

  “Let’s go, big guy,” Eugene said, placing a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Now’s not the time for this.”

  Tears welled up in Audrey’s eyes. “You…you all saved me by taking me in. I owe you a debt I could never repay, and I promise I would never intentionally—”

  “You,” Daron said, pointing at Audrey. “Shut the hell up. You two, get
your asses in the hallway.”

  The black-ops men left the room, and the door slid shut behind Daron. Bristling, he led them to a secure room at the opposite end of the corridor. A wide table surrounded by six chairs stood at the center of the room. Daron pointed at the chairs and said, “Sit.”

  Ford immediately took the nearest seat, and Eugene sat on the edge of the table.

  The room’s single steel door slid shut, and Daron’s face contorted with rage. He grabbed a chair and flung it against the wall. It broke into pieces and clattered against the floor, drowning out Daron’s string of curses. Turning to face his operatives, he bellowed, “Do I have to gag you idiots to keep you from giving away sensitive information?”

  Eugene raised a hand high above his head, stretching like an eager kindergartner.

  “Put your hand down, dipshit.” Daron paced the room, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Until a few minutes ago, Audrey Stokes was under the impression that we,” he made an exaggerated circling motion with his index finger, “had taken her to a secure facility as a personal favor. And she did not need to know one of our top shooters is out of commission.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ford mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t. Because you two are going overseas.”

  Eugene frowned. “Can I just say that I think all of this was Ford’s fault?”

  Daron waved off Eugene’s words and rolled out the map on the table. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll handle Stokes while you two get boots on the ground in England.”

  “England?” Eugene said, his eyebrows raised. “What for?”

  Daron pointed at a red circle on the map, at the southern edge of London. “There’s a Katharos outpost here. Audrey claims it serves as a command post for all of Europe.”

  Eugene leaned over the map, noting the dozens of red dots scattered across the globe. “But why London? Why not move on a base in the United States?”