The Primus Labyrinth

by Scott Overton

  He pointed sharply at Evers, Hennings, and MacLeish, then made a chopping motion indicating the far end of the hall. They jogged quietly away to continue the sweep of the complex. They knew that security forces within the building were few and scattered. MacLeish would plant explosive charges along the way in case they needed diversions or barriers for a sudden retreat.

  Tamiko, Kierkegaard and Gage had their hands raised. They’d foolishly come running at the sound of the two gunshots fired by the guard who now lay at their feet. Mallory was staring, stricken, at the spreading pool of the soldier’s blood. She had come out of the small testing lab nearby at just the wrong moment. Now she looked up at Chavez and Rakov with an expression of disbelief. She winced at the sound of another gunshot somewhere else in the building.

  “You, too,” Chavez snarled. “Move!”

  She lifted her arms and shuffled quickly behind the others down the hall and into the control room. The mercenary’s eyes lit as he saw the rows of sophisticated equipment.

  “Good. Wonderful. Now all of you stand over there together. Perhaps one of you will be good enough… smart enough to tell me which part of this impressive equipment includes the radio. The radio to your protectors out there.” He jabbed a thumb toward the outside of the building. None of them answered. Mallory looked desperately at each of her companions. They wouldn’t talk, she was sure. She stepped forward.

  “There isn’t a radio,” she said. “This is the control room for the project. They monitor the submers—”

  “Shut up!” Chavez barked, and took a menacing step toward her. Then he looked at the others and caught the look of dawning horror on Kierkegaard’s face. Too late. He turned back to Mallory. “You stupid woman. Was that worth giving yourself away?”

  The biologist looked at her companions and read the truth. There was no point trying to hide anymore. Instead she turned back to their attackers.

  “Don’t do this,” she said. “You think you’re doing it for a cause, but you’re wrong.” She looked from Chavez to Rakov. “What you’ve been told is a lie. The men who are backing you are rich Americans. They don’t want to weaken the government; they only want more power and wealth for themselves.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, stop. You’re being used.” She reached a hand toward Chavez. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  His face filled with alarm. “Patruus sends you a present,” he said, and fired two quick shots into her chest. Her eyes barely had time to register surprise as the bullets flung her body back over a desk full of charts and diagrams, staining them with red.

  Tamiko gasped in shock. Kierkegaard clenched his fists. “Mallory…,” he blurted in a strangled voice.

  “Ah, you are the leader, aren’t you?” Chavez smiled. “Not such a good one. A true leader must choose his followers more carefully.” He swept his silenced weapon in a slow arc. “Now, I ask you again. What do you use to communicate with the outside? And don’t tell me the telephone—I am not that stupid.” When no-one answered, he shifted forward and brought the tip of his gun barrel to rest against Lucy Tamiko’s left breast and pushed it from side to side. “Perhaps you haven’t been properly… stimulated into answering me.”

  “Leave her alone!” Gage shouted, and pushed in front of the woman.

  Chavez’ face twisted, and the gun chuffed. Gage crumpled, and Tamiko was knocked backward. Her left arm had gone numb. As she reached across with her right hand and felt a patch of wetness, she stumbled and fell against an office chair, which skidded out from under her and across the room.

  Rakov had taken two quick steps back, the better to cover the room. Chavez regained his composure and turned glittering dark eyes to the head of the project.

  “Now there is only one of you left,” he hissed. “The only question is, are you as stupid as they were?”

  “I am beginning to wonder who is the stupid one here, Chavez.”

  Chavez turned slowly to discover Rakov’s weapon aimed unwaveringly at his chest.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he snarled. “The woman lied. She wouldn’t know anything. She was only a pawn, an informant. Carry out the mission.”

  The other man shook his head, his dark eyes glinting with growing anger. “No,” he said coldly. “I am no fool. Did you think I wouldn’t notice things? The money Kellogg throws around… our exotic armor…. And now that I see our target, I begin to think the woman was telling the truth.” He gestured with his chin, but the barrel of his weapon never moved.

  It was a standoff, the attention of each man riveted on the other.

  Kierkegaard caught a sudden movement in the doorway. As his mind registered what it saw, he dived for the floor.

  The guard unleashed a withering stream of automatic fire that flung both mercenaries backward, a pair of computer monitors exploding behind them with a spray of glass and smoke.

  Kierkegaard’s reaction had given Chavez the fraction-of-a-second warning he needed to press a fingertip hard into the palm of his left hand. The bullets sprayed off the dynamic armor beneath his clothing. Even as he hit the floor he snapped off a shot toward the door. The guard jerked. Another bullet, and another—but the last was simply insurance.

  Rakov had been a moment slower activating his armor, and was favoring his right arm, obviously injured. But the man was tough, and could shoot nearly as well with his left hand as his right. They’d been lucky the guard hadn’t gone for a headshot. Chavez decided not to make the same mistake. With cold precision he took aim at his former ally. Rakov’s body jerked in a last spasm, then crumpled to the floor. Chavez looked at it for a moment with regret, then turned back toward his captive. His eyes widened in surprise.

  Kierkegaard had taken advantage of the fleeting seconds to get to his feet. With his fingers locked together he smashed at the main instrument panel with all his might. Gauges shattered—sparks snapped. He swung again. There was no radio, but the critical VR and monitoring system was tied into a special circuit in the central computer’s mainframe. With its sudden failure, silent alarms would go off inside and outside the building.

  Chavez roared with rage and chopped at the back of the old man’s head with the butt of his gun.

  Kierkegaard’s view exploded into stars.

  68

  As Hunter raced toward the clinic, he should have registered that there was no one who tried to stop him. Instead, he was shocked to see that a dark shape spread out in front of the clinic door was a human being. The Secret Service agent. What was her name? Carrie…? No, Karen.

  He saw the blood.

  “Karen. Karen. Who did this to you?”

  There was no response. She was gone.

  Hard steel pushed against the bone behind his right ear.

  “Shame to waste a body like that.” The voice was flat and cold. Hunter felt his whole being tense with rage. “Go ahead. Try for it.” The words had no more expression than an accountant reading a spreadsheet. The gun barrel tapped against Hunter’s skull with a metallic thud. He clenched his teeth and willed his shoulders to go limp, as he slowly straightened to his feet.

  From flat on his knee his arm snapped back hard, his torso spinning to complete the arc. There was a grunt and the chuff of the gun, incredibly close, but the bullet missed the back of his head. He came nearly face-to-face with his assailant—saw the gun swinging back toward him. With another fierce twist, he pummeled the gun hand past its mark to collide with the corner of the wall. He felt a moment of elation as he heard the weapon clatter onto the tile floor.

  A knee hammered into his groin, driving the breath from his lungs. He folded in half, retching. Then a hand like iron slammed into the back of his neck and knocked him to the floor. Before he could draw air, the knee ground into his back and he felt a vice-like grip on his throat.

  “Try it again, science boy, and you join your friend in hell.” The voice had lost its calm, but Hunter got little satisfaction from that, nor from the fact that the fingers at his t
hroat were from a left hand. Had he broken the gun hand? What possible difference could it make now?

  “Get inside,” Kellogg snapped. “Now!” He allowed the pilot to stand, then gave him a hard shove toward the door. Karen’s body had kept it from shutting properly, and Hunter fell through.

  It was the first time he’d ever seen the clinic room. Emma’s room. His mind grasped at odd details in that first flash: the strange shape of the HPIS on the far side of the bed, its hypodermic lying underneath it on the table. Hanging cameras and monitors. An intravenous bag, tube curving toward the bed, but a breathing mask and hose set aside out of the way. Unused? Hadn’t they administered anesthetic after all? He noticed that loose wires dangled from the overhead cameras—they’d been disabled. No one would see his danger and come to the rescue.

  Two sets of legs protruded at ugly angles from behind the bed. Bridges and Natale, he assumed. He felt a stab of anguish. This killer, whoever he was, had a lot to pay for. But there was no use fooling himself. The dead would soon include Emma, and he had no way to stop it. His heart ached for the helpless form that lay still on the bed.

  “Why are you doing this?” he gasped, as Kellogg followed him through the door. The mercenary gave a sharp laugh.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” he sneered. “There’s absolutely no need for you to know before you die.” He slid his foot backward to push the outflung arm of the Secret Service agent out of the way, then closed and locked the door. His right hand hurt like a bastard, but wasn’t incapacitated. He slowly raised the gun.

  “Oh my God! Curtis!” The voice was weak, but intensified by outrage.

  Emma struggled to raise herself in the bed, her face a mask of bewilderment. Kellogg clenched his teeth.

  “No-one ever calls me that except you, my love,” he said icily.

  Hunter’s mind reeled. “What?” he stammered. “I don’t…”

  “Curtis Heller.” Tears welled up in her wide eyes. “My husband.”

  # # #

  Tamiko moaned. The shock of her wound had nearly made her faint, but now a searing wave of agony brought her fully awake.

  “As I thought.” Chavez smiled, refraining from a second kick. “The good-looking one is still with us.” He bent over and fiercely clutched a handful of her hair. “Tell me, my lovely, why would your boss go to the trouble of breaking his own equipment?” He wrenched her head to the side. She could see the bizarre tableau, but she had no idea what it meant. She tried to say so, but no words would come. Instead she gave an incoherent wail as Chavez poked the gun barrel into her wound. Then she fainted dead away.

  Angrily, the mercenary turned back to the array of smashed electronics. It had to be rigged to an alarm system. The old man couldn’t have been trying to protect secrets since the data was probably stored somewhere else on a central server. Smashing these things would accomplish nothing, unless their disruption sent out an alert.

  He needed to call Romero and tell the rest to expect company.

  He reached for his radio, and never felt the bullet that killed him.

  Gerard Mannis stood in the doorway, lowering his gun and grimly surveying the carnage while his commandos spread through the hallway behind. “Jesus Christ. I need this whole complex secured. On the double!” he shouted. “But use extra caution. We have no idea how many more there are, and…” He took a deep breath. “The daughter of the president is somewhere in this building.”

  69

  Hunter heard Emma’s words, but couldn’t make sense of them. Her husband? The shock made him stumble back onto the top of a low shelf unit. He barely caught himself, his whole body gone numb. He looked into Emma’s eyes and saw the recognition in them, and the dismay. She knew who he was, and knew also that their meeting had come too late.

  The mercenary gave a heavy sigh and leaned casually against the wall, keeping his silenced .45 pointed steadily at Hunter. “I go by a different name now, my sweet. It means slaughterer. I like it. But then you’ve never really known that side of me, have you?”

  Kellogg slowly shook his head. “Pampered princess. As a matter of fact, my parents named me Kurt, not Curtis. Except a proudly Aryan husband wouldn’t be quite proper for the daughter of a black president, would it? Or did daddy find out somehow after all? Was that why my father wasn’t good enough to be Vice-President?” He spat out the last words like venom.

  “Curtis, I swear I had no…”

  “Oh don’t trouble yourself, princess. My family will soon have its place in the corridors of power. We still have many influential friends. Even the man who introduced me to you.” His smile was a thing of poison.

  “Uncle Frank,” she breathed weakly.

  His blue eyes flashed. Even now her obvious suffering brought him more pleasure than her death would. Killing her wasn’t the goal. It was her father’s capitulation they wanted, but he’d been too fucking stubborn—had put too much faith in his team of geniuses. Now Emma had to die. Maybe they’d have better luck with the black bastard’s wife.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Love to chat, but if this pathetic nobody happened to stumble in here, others might too. Time for you to go.”

  His gun hand started toward her but a movement from Hunter brought the barrel back into line with the pilot’s chest. “You’re right, science boy, I’d better do you first.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Emma sobbed as she looked at Hunter. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Hunter,” he said, regret like an anvil in his chest.

  Kellogg’s lips pulled back from his teeth.

  “Hunter? You mean you’re the wonder boy who’s come to know my wife’s body better than I did? The one who’s been such a fucking pain in the ass?” He took a slow step forward, and then another. “This is too good. I can’t use a bullet on you. I wouldn’t dream of making it so easy.”

  Almost faster than the eye could register, his foot shot out and caught Hunter in the upper thigh. The pilot gasped as his leg collapsed, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Kellogg casually holstered his weapon. The foot shot out again and shattered a rib.

  “Not so fast, submarine man. First I have to teach you when to quit.”

  Hunter clambered to his feet and tried to throw a punch but Kellogg’s fingers struck like a knife blade under his collar bone. The flailing arm exploded with pain, and went limp, completely useless. Emma was nearly hysterical, but Kellogg ignored her.

  “Did she get to you, too, wonder boy? Did she touch your heart?” At the word he drove his extended knuckles into Hunter’s rib cage. The younger man gasped from the agony, and then vomited helplessly. He was on the verge of blacking out. In a last act of desperation he used his one good leg to launch himself at his attacker, rocking them back against the bed, and then wrapped his left arm around Kellogg in a hold as tight as all of his remaining strength could make it. He had no plan. He only hoped to stop the killing blows.

  Kellogg bucked and writhed, but Hunter was fighting for his life. The weight of his limp body could keep the other pinned and impotent for a moment, but no more than that. The unequal struggle could have only one conclusion.

  Suddenly Kellogg clapped his hand to his neck as if stung. He gave a gut-deep moan of pain. Emma was right next to him with something in her hand. A hypodermic needle! With a burst of rage he flung Hunter from him, and turned to the woman in the bed.

  “Bitch!” he screamed, and smashed her face with the back of his hand in a blow that seemed sure to break her jaw. Then he knelt beside Hunter and locked an elbow around the pilot’s neck. “Now,” he hissed, “You’re going to die.”

  Hunter felt agony flow in waves over him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, the very light of his consciousness beginning to ebb. His mind didn’t want to die alone. It reached out… reached out and found…

  Primus!

  There was no mistaking it!

  Crimson liquid, shining protoplasm, a current flowing; it
was in a human body—had to be. Not the hypodermic needle. How was that possible? But the more critical question was: whose body? What did it mean? Had he been given a chance for life?

  He should be dead by now. Maybe his body already was. Maybe the time dilation was giving him a few more moments of precious sentience, even as his brain began to give out.

  Brain. That was it. Primus was surrounded by brain cells.

  His killer’s brain. He was sure of it! He’d dimly seen Emma stab the man in the neck with something. It had to have been the hypodermic needle.

  Maybe the ship’s communication relay had been burned away, and he could only make contact from a very short distance. That didn’t matter. Primus was there when he needed her, and he only had seconds left to exploit that.

  With a powerful effort of will, he sent a low current to the torch. The fluid around its tip began to bubble furiously. Would it be fast enough? He could do no more. He could only wait for the gases to build up. Pray that the universe would grant him a few more critical seconds.

  The light was growing dim. The colors were fading.

  He was dying.

  With no more time left, he sparked the torch.

  A giant fireball billowed through the tunnel shredding its walls, the compression wave powerful enough to shatter its way through a dozen blood vessels in every direction. Primus was tossed savagely, and then sucked out with a tremendous flood of fluid that burst its bounds and rampaged through the stacked cells that held the mind of a man. A mind that was instantly stilled, a catastrophic brain hemorrhage snuffing out its life in a heartbeat.

  Hunter tried to imagine the look of surprise on his enemy’s face, frozen in place as life left him.

  Even as the thought came, he sensed his own life returning; frothing blood blooming with fresh oxygen. He could feel it, hear it, a fountain of energy, grand and glorious.

  Then Emma was there. Emma was with him in his mind.