Only thing missing is a box of cigars, Talon thought.
Studying Becky, he was surprised to see how quickly she’d recovered from her ordeal. The young woman was tough and determined to contribute in some way. Talon respected her fighting spirit. Even though Becky was an assistant she possessed a background in computer science and was certainly familiar with the Omicron product line. She might be able to help them gain a better understanding of the program these cultists were coding into existence.
“What are we looking at?” Talon asked.
“A piece of the larger program that these cult members are working on,” Becky explained. “The code works with Omicron’s Rapid framework and the large body of existing Objective-B programming language used by Omicron…”
Talon’s eyes were already beginning to glaze over.
“There’s something else going on here,“ Becky said. “Strange symbols unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”
Casca’s eyes widened as he scanned the archaic text spliced between the lines of computer code.
“What do you make of it?” Talon asked.
“It’s demonic, an ancient Egyptian script derived from the hieratic used in the Nile Delta.”
“English, please,” Talon said.
“Further study will be required before I can draw any definitive conclusions, but this code appears to contain incantations of some sort. Spells.”
“At least it makes sense now.” Talon fought the temptation to roll his eyes. They’d taken a sharp turn into the Twilight Zone. Flesh-and-blood fanatics were plotting their next horror while he wasted precious time with this nonsense. Talon steered the conversation back to the reality of the situation. “What do we know about Omicron and this Zagan character?”
“He’s a rock star in his field,” Becky said. Zagan’s story was a myth within the halls of Omicron. Like most tech companies, Omicron believed in instilling an evangelical spirit in its workers. They were expected to internalize the goals of the company and sell its products to anyone they came in contact with. Knowing their CEO’s history was part of their indoctrination.
“Zagan dropped out of college and worked for a number of videogame companies, as a coder. In an interview he described this period of his life as doing hard time inside a digital sweatshop. He quit EI-gaming and developed an app that went on to sell fifteen million copies. With the earnings, he started building Omicron and the rest is history.”
Becky hit Google and photographs of Zagan flickered onscreen. The first shot showed him as a fresh college dropout, pudgy face half-concealed by a shaggy mop of hair. More photos popped up, showing how his style evolved as the years went by. The man began shaving his head to conceal a receding hairline and dropping the excess weight. Jeans and T-shirts gave way to thousand-dollar suits.
“Zagan reinvented himself over the last decade. As his fortune grew, so did the myth that has sprung up around him.”
Talon compared the older shots with recent images of Zagan. The transformation was startling. His height and bone structure appeared to have undergone a radical metamorphosis.
“Hard to believe it’s the same man,” Casca said. “Zagan likes to credit his rigorous workout regimen and strict Vegan diet for his new appearance. I’m not quite convinced.”
Talon scrutinized Casca. The billionaire probably believed that dark magic was altering Zagan’s body, but Talon refused to buy into such fairy tales. Money could purchase some pretty impressive plastic surgery. Sometimes success didn’t banish demons; it merely fed them. Zagan was clearly trying to bury the memory of his old self.
“Here comes the million-dollar question — why does the head of one of the biggest computer companies in the Valley become a cult leader?”
“Good question. Hopefully I’ll have an answer once I analyze this program more closely.”
Talon didn’t plan on sitting around idly while Casca cooked up some harebrained theory. Patience served its purpose in battle, but answering the Omicron call had been a declaration of war. In hindsight it was a foolish decision, perhaps, but burning rage had overruled cold logic. Zagan and his cult now knew that Talon was out there.
They were probably gearing up for a counterattack.
Talon would let Casca crack the code, if he wanted to. His preference was to receive an explanation for these killings, an explanation that came straight from Zagan’s lips. Preferably followed by the dark thrill of pulling the trigger and sending the rotten bastard straight to hell.
“Alright guys, this was fun but I think it’s time I paid Zagan a little visit.”
With these words, Talon stepped out of Casca’s office. He barely made it down the next lavishly adorned hallway before the billionaire had caught up with him. Casca’s eyes glittered with disapproval. “We should proceed with caution. We don’t know what we’re up against here.”
“Maybe you don’t, but I do. The CEO of Omicron is running his own killer cult. It’s time someone stopped him before more innocent people end up dead.”
“What’s your plan? Walk into one of the biggest corporations in America and execute its leader?”
“If that’s what it takes. We don’t have the luxury of waiting around. They know we’re closing in.”
“What are you talking about?” Casca said.
Talon told the billionaire about the message he’d sent the cultists.
Casca shook his head. “You gave away our one advantage.”
“Maybe I wanted to give these assholes a dose of their own medicine. Teach them what it means to be afraid.”
“These fanatics don’t fear you.”
“They will.”
“This isn’t a game. You don’t know what you’re up against.”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
“Talon, I know how much Michelle meant to you, and I know all too well what you’re going through…”
Casca’s familiar tone rubbed Talon the wrong way and anger coiled in the pit of his stomach. “You have no clue how I’m feeling.”
“Actually, I do.” Casca’s voice was cool and measured as he spoke. “Thirteen years ago, a cult of Satanists broke into this estate while my parents were celebrating their anniversary abroad. They killed the servants and took my sister and me hostage. Fortunately the FBI was nice enough to show up and shoot the bastards before I could become another statistic. My sister, unfortunately, wasn’t so lucky.”
Talon studied Casca more carefully. The boyish smile he usually wore didn’t hint at this tragic past. The billionaire had found a way to hide the scars behind the easygoing facade he presented to the world. “So that explains all this?”
“My sister’s death opened up my eyes to the dangers of the occult.”
Casca stepped up to one of the large windows, moonlight casting him in an eerie light. “I know it’s hard to wrap your head around all this, but if you hope to defeat Michelle’s murderers you’ll have to embrace a different reality. A reality most people would rather ignore. The supernatural and its agents of darkness are real.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Hell is exactly what I’m talking about.” Casca’s voice was trembling now, all pretense of cool gone. “You want to know my most horrible memory? Seeing a Satanist drive a knife into my sister’s heart. Witnessing all life leaving her eyes. I could hear gunshots, the S.W.A.T. team fighting their way through the mansion… The Satanist turned toward me, my sister’s blood still dripping from his blade. And that’s when I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“Something that shouldn’t exist. It was only for a split second but I knew it was real. Some entity that wasn’t human had stepped into the sacrificial circle. It stood behind my sister’s killer like a shadow — a creature not of this world. By the time help arrived and killed the Satanist, the entity had vanished. But I never forgot what I witnessed that day…”
Casca stared into the fire. “My nightmares won’t let me.”
Talon nod
ded. He understood a thing or two about nightmares. He’d seen too many good soldiers succumb to them. His friend Erik foremost among them.
Casca had endured a horrific trauma at an impressionable age. Talon didn’t know what exactly the billionaire had experienced, but he was well aware of the mind’s ability to conjure demons. Most people ran away from their nightmares. Talon liked to face them head on.
He’d identified the enemy.
It was time to go to war.
“I’m going to stop Zagan. You can help me, or you can get out of my way. It’s your call.”
Without saying another word, Talon walked out.
Chapter Eleven
The giant viewing screen in the Omicron auditorium went dark. Zagan regarded his congregation of coders from behind the robotic skull-mask that had become as much a symbol of the cult as the binary number tattooed on each member’s forearm.
For a moment, the crowd seemed frozen in tableau. Silently the programmers rose from their seats and left the auditorium. Tonight there wouldn’t be a sacrifice. They instinctively sensed, like worker bees in a hive, that their task was complete.
Ten minutes later, only Zagan and four members of his security team remained in the empty assembly hall. He removed the robot mask and unceremoniously tossed it aside. His hands shook with rage, belying his otherwise calm exterior. Zagan drew comfort from the knowledge that the affront he’d witnessed would soon be repaid tenfold.
He turned to his head of security. Fisher was a former Marine with a face seemingly poured from concrete. “I want you to look into this. Find out who and what we’re up against.”
Fisher nodded before he and his men filed out. The head of security was reliable, a true believer.
Unlike Fisher, who was a staunch Satanist, Zagan didn’t picture his master as a horned, biblical evil. He knew better.
Zagan’s obsession with the occult had begun ten years before. Fresh out of college, he was a coder working for EI-Entertainment in Los Angeles. His initial excitement at landing a job at the company that had produced some of his most beloved videogames was soon crushed by the day-to-day reality of his profession. Grueling twelve-hour days spent in a dark basement office/dungeon, slaving away at a computer, using his skill and talent to enrich men who didn’t know he even existed.
A young Zagan had soon realized that he was just a blip in the Matrix, another geek with questionable social skills working in an office full of them.
But Zagan had dreams. Dreams of power. Dreams of revenge.
His boss at EI, a bitter man named Peter Rice, seemed to be in some unspoken competition with every bully who’d ever pushed Zagan around. The man was petty, venal, exacting and loved to torment the programmers unlucky enough to wind up under his thumb. Zagan quickly became his favorite target. Rice would find fault where there was none, using any opportunity to criticize, humiliate and ridicule.
It took one day for Zagan to hate the man and one week before he wanted him dead.
Rice’s systematic abuse was in a class of its own. He ruled the basement of EI-Electronics as if it was his personal fiefdom. Many times Zagan was tempted to quit, but a part of him refused to let the bully win.
A desire to turn his fate around burned bright inside of him. At night, Zagan would retreat into violent action movies and dark metal to numb himself. One of his favorites was The Terminator, especially the sequence where Arnold cut a bloody swath through a bustling police precinct. The scene had ingrained itself into his imagination. How he wished he would have the guts to enter the basement at EI and unleash a volley of steel into his enemies, starting with Rice and his brown-nosing lackeys.
Zagan craved the strength of the fearsome killer cyborg. He yearned for a chance to realize his full potential.
A week later, fate would steer him toward his higher destiny. Zagan and the basement crew at EI were working on a game called Hell World, a Doom rip-off hoping to tap into the burgeoning military horror market. The design team had ordered stacks of research material, including a number of books on the occult and demonology.
The designers did all the creative heavy lifting; Zagan was just a coder who ironed out the kinks in the gameplay. There was no need for him to read any of these books, but something about the dark covers and cryptic titles spoke to him. During a bored lunch-break, Zagan skimmed one of the volumes.
What began with Zagan trying to stave off boredom turned into a marathon reading session. He stayed up all night and finished the first occult book. The next day he grabbed another volume and kept diving deeper into the mysteries contained within its pages. Most of the actual game creators barely glanced at the research materials, choosing to make stuff up instead of putting in the necessary research. Zagan, on the other hand, was hooked.
The books spoke of dark powers that man had learned to master, over the centuries. Devil. Satan. Abaddon. Shaitan. All names for the same evil energies that pulsed through the universe. Dark forces one could learn to channel, if the rituals outlined in the old texts were carefully followed.
As Zagan intensified his studies, a revolutionary idea occurred to him. What if by combining code and ancient ritual he could hack reality like a computer program? Voodoo was about to get a 21st Century upgrade.
The following night Zagan worked feverishly to write his occult program. It was simple code modeled after an old racing game, but with a chilling twist. It incorporated magical ritual and information about Rice’s brand-new Lexus. The program was designed to trigger a car accident in the real world.
When Zagan arrived at the office the next morning, Rice was already waiting for him. His vehicle was unharmed. Somewhere along the way, Zagan must’ve made a mistake.
Further research revealed the problem. For the code to exert its dark magic, it would require the lifeforce of a living creature. As this program’s goals were modest, the sacrifice didn’t have to be human. Nevertheless, blood would have to be spilled.
It didn’t take Zagan long to find his victim. There was a stray cat that hung out around his shitty apartment complex. Using a bowl of milk, he lured the hungry feline into his unit. As soon as the poor animal lapped up the milk, Zagan threw a bag over its head. Without hesitation, he whipped out a kitchen knife and went to work on the hissing creature.
A minute later, his hands coated crimson, he started coding away. His bloody fingertips left dark imprints on the keyboard. His face covered in the dead animal’s gore, he pounded the keys, a man possessed as he poured all his hatred, fear and rage into the program.
The following day his efforts would finally bear fruit. Rice’s Lexus experienced a catastrophic failure when its four tires blew out at 80 mph on the freeway. Rice lost control of his Lexus and hit a median in a fiery explosion of metal, steel and flesh.
With the stroke of a few keys and one dead cat, Zagan’s most ardent enemy had been erased from reality. It was his first taste of real power.
Over the next twelve months, Zagan created new programs. Some worked, some backfired. Each failure became a lesson, each success a hard-earned victory on the path to mastering the dark arts.
When he launched his first app a year later, he embedded occult code that would persuade potential buyers to download it. The apps incredible success secured the financial foundation on which Omicron could be built.
With Zagan’s rise to power, the programs grew more elaborate and complex. The years of experimentation had all led up to his latest brainchild — an occult reality-hacking program so grand and visionary it would put all his past efforts to shame. This latest code would assure Omicron’s continued rise in the marketplace and allow him to crush his enemies.
Only a couple more sacrifices would be needed before his masterpiece was complete. Soon he would gain the ability to manipulate the physical world in ways his earlier self wouldn’t dare to imagine.
But first this problem would have to be dealt with. He’d worked too hard to let one tiny setback faze him. Whoever had killed his men would
soon be experiencing the full power of Omicron’s occult algorithm. The next stage of the plan was only hours away. Why not use the opportunity to draw out the enemy? As he sent out texts to his followers, he made sure to include the cultists killed by the masked man.
Zagan was about to leave the auditorium when he experienced a sudden, sharp itch on his forearm. The binary tattoo had been strangely irritated for days now. He scratched the inked flesh and this time his nails came up red with blood. But it wasn’t the sight of red that made his eyes light up. Under the bloody skin, rods of gray steel had replaced bone and muscle tissue.
Initial horror turned to dark wonder. He’d instructed the program to make him physically stronger, and the program was finding a way. Hacking reality. Changing him. Reshaping him into a creature as powerful as the cyborg from the future that had fired his imagination all those years earlier.
Chapter Twelve
Detective Jessica Serrone blinked and shielded her eyes against the blinding sunlight as she walked up to the eco-house. Two uniformed officers stood guard at the front entrance. They exchanged quick greetings and stepped aside, granting her access. She didn’t have to flash her badge, as the men recognized her.
Serrone wasn’t someone you easily forgot. A German-Mexican heritage had given her both height and striking, exotic looks. Well-defined Aztec features projected a regal quality. Some of the less politically correct officers had started calling her Pocahontas behind her back. Serrone didn’t mind. There were worse things than being nicknamed after a hot Disney princess.
Once inside the house, she approached the first body and tried not to disturb the forensics team hard at work. Serrone spotted a knife next to the corpse. The dead man must’ve dropped it a second after his neck was snapped.
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