by David Berko
Christophe openly scoffed. “Where would you get all the parts anyway? And lest you forget friend, time is not on our side. We needed to escape like yesterday.”
Damion frowned and slowly nodded his head in defeat. He knew Gerard was right. No sense in arguing.
“Then what do we do?” he said at last out of desperation.
“We wait for a rescue,” the scientist suggested reassuringly. He wryly smiled then added, “There is one thing we can do to be proactive my friend.”
“Oh? Do I want to know?”
“No,” he chuckled, “but I think desperate times call for desperate measures. You said you’re catholic, right?”
This brought on an ear-to-ear grin from Damion. “I knew you were going there.”
“Can you fault a man for trying?”
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. But you forget who you’re talking to. I’m not about to pray to an imaginary god. No, no, no!” he emphatically stated, his eyes growing more dim and lifeless with each no he uttered.
Christophe ignored the show of smoldering anger and instead started praying out loud. “Dear God, please smack this befuddled billionaire straight upside the head for me. Knock some sense into that confused brain of his. Show him there’s another way, and it ain’t a ham radio. Amen.”
Damion stood up, his jaw slack as the rest of his features. He remained fixed in a closed stance, his eyes wide open in astonishment. “You—!” But the words weren’t there. He turned around and instead hefted his body onto his cot and began punching his pillow uncontrollably.
“Why?!” he screamed into his punching bag, his face turning red.
“We’re not always told the why in life, but we must learn to accept the circumstances and adapt our emotions to them, anyhow,” Christophe said with his index finger raised while he made his point.
Damion didn’t stir for a moment. He simply laid there motionless on his disorderly mattress with his face burrowed into the thin feather pillow. His anger slowly turned to sadness. His shoulders rose and fell. The man who normally kept a tough as nails exterior began to burst at the seams. The emotions came out in small sobs.
This greatly intrigued Christophe. He had never seen his business partner this way. Never.
“Uh, Damion?” By now Gerard had crossed the dirty floor. He rested his sweaty palm on Damion’s shoulder blade as he spoke to him in a small voice.
The man made of money turned his head ever so slightly to notice how close his friend was.
“I turned my mom away, Christophe. Made her leave my place crying. Now I’ll never see her again to tell her I’m sorry.”
This bit of news completely shocked Christophe. Damion rarely shared about himself. He remained guarded, kept many secrets. However, the little prison experiment seemed to be changing that. For the first time Christophe got a sneak peek into the inner sanctum of Damion’s heart. There was flesh there, not stone…deep feelings, not just hollow lofty thoughts of self.
Christophe was more than ready to regard his closest colleague in a different light. Maybe even the most stubborn people could change their ways after all.
No sooner had the changed man turn a new leaf did he revert back to his well-worn system defaults.
“I liked you better from across the room than at my side. Your bedside manner has exceeded my comfort level.”
Christophe snorted and flipped his head back to chortle. “That didn’t take long.”
Damion smiled weakly. “You like me for me—that other guy you just witnessed? He doesn’t exist.”
Christophe played along. “Just another ghost from your past?”
“Precisely.”
“Ah, we understand each other, monsieur.”
Damion used one of the few words he knew in French to answer his friend: “Exactement.” (Pronounced exact-a-moh) Exactly.
--
Several foreign objects never before seen passing through Sector 3 airspace much less any sovereign airspace on planet earth now appeared content to park themselves over the center of the city.
What the residents of the former capital of the United States of America didn’t know was this very same occurrence happened to be a global phenomenon and not merely native to the skies of what once used to be the District of Columbia.
It was anyone’s guess what would happen next.
…
Beijing in the year 2041 looked nothing like its primordial self in the mid twentieth century. Its population density far surpassed any other urban area on the globe with only Tokyo on its doorstep as the runner up.
The powers that be over mainland China weren’t Commies like their forefathers, but rather more like interest-driven beneficiaries of the economic reforms started in the early nineties of the late twentieth century. And furthermore, the boost in Chinese military spending before WWIII witnessed a sharp decline after the bloody, nuclear conflict.
In the years following the third world war the leaders of the declining economic superpower thought it more prudent and sound to invest in better highways, high-speed transport, and industrial infrastructure versus a robust military. China still remained very estimable however much less prominent on a very globalistic world stage.
Tonight she would wish she hadn’t let her military stagnate so much to the point of turning into a mothball, boneyard fleet.
Young men dressed in Armani suits with Burberry shades on; all of the business crowd wore their earpieces too so they could stay connected with their clients while on the run.
The scene painted on the city streets of Beijing’s core wasn’t one of gridlock or smog like its stereotype had been for many years. Instead a very coordinated flow of connected, autonomous cars drove their many passengers to their per diem destinations in the very happening city center.
Beijing also benefitted from the flying car phenomenon which had its origins in Austin, Texas. Even more sophisticated designs for flying transport continued to skate their way through the patent offices and eventually see real-world mileage in the skies of Beijing and other major metropolitan areas the world over. This miracle in the aviation sector did wonders to alleviate congestion at ground zero as well as give people a good option to be anywhere and everywhere at a moment’s notice.
Today the Sky Belt traffic weaving in and out of skyscrapers was overshadowed, quite literally, by a flock of oblong, foreboding discs moving at a leisurely pace. These UFO’s, just like their cousins in various parts of the world which were doing exactly the same thing, didn’t seem to have an apparent agenda judging by their lack of speed or purposeful direction in which they were headed. Nevertheless, these foreign objects in the skies achieved the one thing their commanders flying them had in mind: confuse the humans, scatter the roaches. Make them panic to the point of entering into a military conflict as a united human race rather than as separate nations with weak militaries.
This terrifying sight which repeated over and over on planet earth didn’t guarantee inaction from vigilantes who were local to the sky invasion. On the contrary many daring individuals sought to scramble their own air assets to be the first responders to the crisis: rather than sit around and wait for E.T. to stomp its boot on the ant, the ant would make the opening move.
The commanders overseeing the holographic invasion forces anticipated such a reaction from mankind.
Howard & Co. from Scorpion prepared a very real response for just this kind of contingency. No they didn’t plan on dropping a Star Wars fleet from orbit to back up the disc projections which were merely there to scare and frustrate any attempts from man to immediately remedy the doomsday picture.
Scorpion had an even better way to handle it.
Stolen from Westover Ventures were revolutionary plans to weaponize holograms and allow them to inflict mortal blows on humans in a very tangible way. No one knew such a technology even existed much less could be achieved other than the weapon’s proprietor himself, Damion Westover…and the thief who took it from him—
Howard.
This quantum leap in holography would change the battlefields forever. Wars would be fought in ways never even imagined. Sci-fi had some catching up to do with reality in this strange wrinkle in the timeline.
But first, history was about to take a decisive turn in Howard’s favor…and no one appeared ready to counter his move.
--
Berlin, Germany
The Mossad agent wore all black down to the little booties he slipped on over his shoes to avoid tracking through the house. The killer stared at the lifeless corpse that slackly leaned up against the shower wall.
It had been too easy.
Everything he did next bore the resemblance of extreme familiarity in the field of cold calculating executions.
Baruch unscrewed the silencer on his pistol first thing, broke down the firearm, and tucked it away into a rucksack he had on his back. The agent didn’t bother locating the rounds he had fired into the victim either. No sense. Baruch had used easily obtainable ammo that wouldn’t be traceable back to Mossad. However, he did decide to backtrack to his point of entry into the room. At precisely the fateful juncture where the gun went off, he decided to exam the doorjamb for any burn marks or other impressions that may have been left to indicate a weapon had discharged.
White paint seemed to be missing just below waist level on the wooden frame. Baruch inspected his gun once more and found it to be clean. The Israeli shrugged before getting back up on his feet from a squatting stance. The coast remained all clear. There was nothing more to do other than make a clean exit. And then a phone call.
…
“Did he get it?” an eerie voice rasped in the agent’s ear.
“Three to the brain.”
“Good.”
“Firefly?”
“Hm?”
“Are the traps set? Are the nets ready?”
“That is not for you to ask. You merely do. That is all.”
Baruch’s expression changed. He said nothing.
“Dragon, stay on this line.”
“Roger that,” Baruch replied in a monotone.
An intermittent insertion of static gave way to the same voice from before, only stronger and with a stern message. “Dragon?”
“Go for Dragon.”
Firefly spoke, saying, “I have a tracker on you. Changing out of your clothes would be useless. I wouldn’t advise that.”
“Okay?”
“All you need to do is follow orders and you will make it out of this mission in one piece. I can’t guarantee that for your friends though.”
Baruch glowered. “Oh, they’re not my friends.”
“Good! You will do well.”
Baruch hung up at these words right after he slid into his parked car that waited for him in an alley. He had remote started it all the way from the house. By the time he sat in the driver’s seat the cabin’s temperature had risen to a comfortable sixty-eight.
Time to get on the move, again
--
Masada, Tel Aviv--2041
Malach Kemper touched the top edge of one domino which caused a chain reaction of the rest on his desk. The noisy clatter preceded the final black and white piece that triumphantly landed away and to the side from its fallen brethren on the wooden surface. Malach picked the last piece up, turning the smooth stick of porcelain to and fro in between his fingers. A pattern of six dots peaked out from where his thumb held the domino. The man’s face turned into one big wicked smile.
An encrypted agency phone which sat perched on a desk organizer started to buzz. Malach rolled his chair closer to the source before his hand deftly reached out to snare the device from its resting place.
“Yeah.”
“Am I a go?
“Not Berlin, this is not the time or place.”
It was evident judging by the cursing and muttering this kind of answer from Malach didn’t jive well with the listener.
“Why?” the other man asked at last.
“Son, do you trust me?”
The mature, deep male voice on the other end appeared to catch upon hearing the term of endearment used. But after a short while he said a little unsteadily, “Yes.”
“We need to let the events unfold in the Berlin Mission per our earlier discussion without anymore intervention. Let Baruch handle things on his end, then we’ll leave the rest up to Berlin’s police and the government to tighten the noose on Tyrone and…” Malach paused while preparing to mention the next figure, “Seth Markov.”
The head of Kidon of Mossad rarely got nervous, yet uttering Azriel Kemper’s biological father’s name in context of a mission to destroy said person made Malach naturally feel on edge. He worried whether Azriel’s cerebrum memory transfiguration surgery had fully worked to remove all traces of the young man’s real father from his mind.
Only time would tell, really. And that’s what worried Malach Kemper (Ephraim Markov) to no end. All his work to re-train Azriel to despise Seth and view him as a traitor to the state and to Judaism would all be for naught if in a moment of confused emotions Azriel saw Seth at death’s door, noticed his real father’s pleading eyes, and then in a flashpoint of profound implications Azriel would remember everything just in the nick of time to stay a trigger pull that could have ended Seth Markov’s life.
That’s precisely why Azriel couldn’t be allowed to be sent to do the job in Berlin. Yes, the boy had risen to the top of the agency’s operatives--had proven himself to be even more capable in some ways than even his father, Seth Markov; however, there were absolutely no assurances that in the moment when it was in Azriel’s power to end Seth’s life whether or not the memory transfiguration would hold.
Azriel had come a long way from inception. Five years ago when he was reborn in an operating room on the thirty-ninth floor of Masada near Tel Aviv, he possessed the raw potential to be and do something great--to be an even more bad-ass agent than Seth Markov. For normal people though, such aspirations were inconceivable. Silly.
Azriel Markov left the chamber (where he had been operated on) not as a normal person, but rather an almost subservient robot tooled to blindly follow Uncle Ephraim’s every desire without questioning motive. He simply did. And in essence, Ephraim Markov, aka Malach Kemper, had at his disposal one of the deadliest weapons in the Scorpion arsenal. Yes, the Scorpion arsenal.
--
Tyrone Banks painstakingly sifted through the remaining files while puffing away the final cig from the pack he had with him. He didn’t need anymore harmful carcinogens than he already had. The bad habit that had started during his college days ceased to desist—thirty years later.
One positive thing that hadn’t changed with time though was his amazing handle on complex problems and summiting the Mount Everest of the hacker’s world routinely. No system was too hardened for him to expose the vulnerabilities and gain root access.
…
Getting into the police and government servers to do his dark magic would be tricky, but not overwhelming in the least. For that, Tyrone actually would rely on outside help in order to make the hack into the Interior Ministry.
How it would go down
Seth out in the field would employ the social engineering tactic to gain physical access to the network nodes of the German Interior Ministry in order to plant packet sniffers so that all the traffic on the agency’s computers could be relayed back to Tyrone Bank’s terminal.
All the Germans’ information that Tyrone would now be privy to after the successful hack would then be filtered and consequently dispensed into various categories by way of very advanced software which exercised tried and true algorithms to distill the information down to only the parts that mattered.
AI bots which knew what to look for would then form alerts that appeared in a central HUD (heads up display) where Tyrone could take in the most crucial messages at a glance. Anything that came up that might compromise the mission would assuredly appear on one of the monitors in the control center of the S
UV. And if that threat exposed either one of the operatives or put them in harm’s way, the African American directing the show would get on the horn and give the agent in danger an escape route.
As far as getting on the police bandwidth, Tyrone had decryption software that could tear down the wall that previously obfuscated police communication from individuals attempting to get on the same frequency.
All it took were a few scripts and he was in.
…
Hearing the first radio traffic between squad cars and a dispatcher gave Tyrone goose bumps. This was real. Everything he did from here on in had immense consequence on operational success, not like it hadn’t before. However, the effect his decisions made henceforth multiplied twenty-fold.
A new message in IRC caught his eye. CCGuy22 again.
Report, he requested.
About to send the AG files to a contact in the city who can do up Argo 1.
Governor Carlos Castell in Barcelona knew Argo 1 to mean Agent Seth Markov. The enigmatic language wasn’t lost on him either. He understood “do up” translated into the 3D schematics he sent in the Access Granted files. And that it involved making a husk and contacts for Agent Markov to impersonate a German commissioner of the Interior Ministry: Wendel.
A half hour went by without a response. It was half past seven and that worried Tyrone a little.
You still there CCGuy22?
The bot that was running on the Spanish governor’s computer answered for the absent Carlos Castel: Yes. I sent backup. Friendly inbound. Don’t do anything stupid.
Tyrone looked at the communication with shock and wonder.
“What in the sam heck is going on…” he muttered.
Just then the tailgate to the secure mobile communications center began to rise. The locks must have been overridden. The moment seemed surreal. If that wasn’t bizarre enough, the familiar face staring in at Tyrone Banks was.
