She braced.
42
T
he SS cross-link Bryan initiated allowed him to delay the launch of the PAC's orbital shuttle. He swept through the layers of the Caribbean underports, leeched onto an entertainment Subgroup provider's signal and sent commands of sabotage into a facility on Barbados that did not officially exist. And then he got the hell out with no apparent detection.
This time, it felt very different. As he crossed the crystalline sea of hexagons that was MassGrid's superstructure and began the trans-down procedure to enter the launchports for the Caribbean protectorates, Bryan harbored an instant sensation of foreboding. He was becoming paranoid.
From what he could tell, the nanite hunters striking out ahead of him were still effective in guiding him around the security blocks within localized microwebs and outrunning any genetic chasers. The holographic cube floating anchor inches from his face continued to display all the visual wonders he successfully bypassed earlier – stunning, conical towers of vermilion, green and gold strands of light; enclosed tunnels of literally millions of passing subdonic stream signals; organic mesh into which he dived as from a springboard into the deepest of swimming pools.
“Barrier ports, monitor group,” he whispered, and the link complied, redirecting his course quickly along the MassGrid until he came to the base of what seemed like little more than a skyscraper of matchsticks. But the intricacy of the Caribbean barrier ports was pronounced upon close inspection, and the very tight junctions formed interlocking columns with easily millions of variations.
“Utilize search protocol Delphi-11999954-Drenette17 and lock on to flight grid at program coordinates.”
He was sucked up into the towering mesh of junctions and conduits, the pathways racing only millimeters apart, thousands intertwined as he penetrated into the highest security classification zones. As the program sucked him upward to the highest edge of the tower grid, Bryan wished he could look behind, to understand why there was a chill against the back of his neck. The rising paranoia came from the electronic maze into which he illegally ventured. He could not see his nanite hunters, which was to be expected with this cross-link program. Their stealth, after all, protected him against tracing – thus, he could only assume they were doing their job. That he passed no security resistance seemed evidence enough.
For the moment, his fears were replaced by awe as he reached the outer edge of the barrier ports and looked out upon webs of silk that stretched far beyond the virtual horizon. The webs seemed to drift, as if tossed along by gentle spring breezes. But in fact, they were as firmly linked to the greater network as were the barrier ports' millions of matchstick junctions.
Bryan felt the distinct sensation of being lighter than air as he fell upon the silk webs and tumbled over and around the individual links until he jerked to a halt before the two which he agreed to disable.
What!?
He jerked about 360 degrees, surveying the horizon along and beyond the webs. He was certain he saw a shadow of light duck behind one of the strands, and he was tempted to follow it.
But not as much as he was ready to abort this effort entirely.
What!?
Again, he whirled about. But his time, he was certain such a shadow had been nearby. He knew the representation of a genetic chaser quite well – he studied it hundreds of times before signing the death warrants of BluCard frauds. So why wasn't it advancing? Why did his nanite hunters not approach it?
He turned again to the silk, and Bryan knew that having come this far into the barrier ports was scandalous, perhaps might cost him his job. But if he pulled out now – before committing the act of treason – there might still be a chance for ...
For what? To do the PAC's bidding? To carry out its convoluted version of justice? To be reunited with Janise? To hope another opportunity to exact some sort of revenge might arise?
He was afraid. For himself and for Janise.
He did not expect to be this frightened, this paranoid, this weak, at such a vital moment, when everything that he vowed to accomplish in the name of his father was at stake.
He wanted revenge. He wanted restitution for the murder of the man who reared him. He wanted to exact incredible misery upon the people who turned him into an executioner.
But this battle was never supposed to be about self-sacrifice – for himself or for his comrades. Bryan simply wasn't prepared for the moment, uncertain that he could face the ramifications.
“Each of us must commit our soul to the fulfillment of that which is just.”
They were the words Janise's father passed along to her.
Even if we give up everything - and everyone - in pursuit of that fulfillment, Bryan decided. There will always be other accomplices.
And then, without any further concern for the shadows that might have been genetic chasers, Bryan Drenette made the only commitment his conscience would allow.
43
J
anise and the other 11 men and women in the two armored Sprints were focused upon the SVF display that projected the Caribbean flight grid less than 60 seconds ahead. The viop representation showed the otherwise invisible grid as an organic honeycomb, its individual cells meshing between each other. Their targets were two of these tiny cells – each in reality no more 8 meters wide in any direction – and they were reflected among all others like sunlight upon shards of glass.
“Vector course correction at 0.09 degrees,” the navigator, Mickelsby, announced. “Trackers have locked on to target. Engaging auto-flight.”
Janise spoke under her breath as she said, “Come on, Drenette. Do it, now! Open those fuckers.”
“Thirty seconds to grid,” Mickelsby continued. “Activating emergency retreat sequence. Dance1 to Dance2, confirm identical program.”
“Dance2 to Dance1, we confirm. If that grid doesn't open, we'll be ready for immediate retreat.”
Don't you do this to me, you fucker. Janise cursed the man who was her lover for five years. You're not going to make me go back.
She could have ordered both Sprints to cancel the emergency retreat plan. Just because they'd be detected passing through unauthorized was not necessarily cause for aborting the mission. The numbers went through her mind – six minutes to Barbados after grid entry. They could still do considerable damage before the PAC would be on them, assuming they improvised the stretch run.
Considerable damage, but not enough.
And then she smiled, slapped her hands victoriously against the SVF, as the shimmer highlighting the two cells vanished.
“Grid openings confirmed!” Mickelsby announced. “Passage in 10 seconds.”
She heard a handful of sighs, even a moan, as Dance1 raced uneventfully through the grid.
“Beginning initial approach vector,” Mickelsby said.
“Dance2 to Dance1,” Janise followed. “Prepare to lock and load on my mark. Release external weapons ports to primary engagement status and initiate auto-flight descent program DanceXA2. Mickelsby, establish internal countdown to SVF retraction and engagement of weapons racks in preparation for landing. Initiate auto-flight descent program DanceXA1.”
“Copy that and confirmed,” came the simultaneous voices of the commander of Dance2 and of Janise's navigator.
Immediately, the Sprints began a well-defined descent, and Janise could feel gravity's gentle tug at her stomach. The focus of the SVF displays was adjusted to that of Barbados, and specifically to a tiny target area at the base of Mount Hillaby.
“Full strength on forward trackers, scanning radius from target to 50 kilometers.”
Every detail of the target area was as clear as anything that had previously been relayed through reconnaissance, and Janise studied the images closely for any sign of an anomaly – anything to signify they would be foolish to carry this mission to its completion.
She knew there were 12 sets of eyes upon these schematics, so if anything was amiss
, she expected to hear a concerned voice at any second. But there was only silence, and indeed, Janise could find nothing awry. The PAC facility was not a sitting duck – the fry wall saw to that – and there would be sufficient ground resistance, as the Front Guard was no doubt arranged in its standard diamond defense configuration. But the undeniable proof that the base was not as properly defended for an all-out assault as it might have been was nevertheless reassuring.
That they penetrated this far, came this close, was a positive sign, and Janise tried to tell herself that their chances might actually be better than her cynicism allowed her to believe.
Whatever the outcome, Janise told herself, some of you bastards are going to get it as good as you give it.
And she knew just how well the Front Guard could indeed give it.
As the countdown speeded toward landing – five minutes, four minutes – Janise found herself staring through the SVF schematics, remembering a moment strikingly similar to this 14 years earlier. She was still a corporal at the time, one of 120 soldiers assigned to seize a 500-hectare compound in central Idaho belonging to a group called The Aryan Universe and arrest all of its members, using extreme force as necessary. Indeed, it was understood these men and women were not going to go without a fight. The PAC's Senior Council determined the group was preparing for total war, having already resisted assimilation under the corporate government's trade laws.
Janise remembered being both thoroughly excited and absolutely terrified – just like most everyone else in her unit. But it was their sergeant, the derelict named Brenn Fuller, a man who had chewed a pair of cigars to virtual shreds en route, who motivated them in the final moments.
…
…
“Going to make this clear to all you puss-bellies that ain't been in the middle of something like this before!” He told them as their carrier Sprint fired vertical thrusters and dropped into the middle of the compound.
“These shittin' cocks have been prancing 'round back in these fucking hills like they're some kind of goddamn chosen people who don't answer to anyone. Not to that guy on up yonder, and sure as fuck not to the common law of good society. They been doing this crap for the better part of 200 fucking years, and the Community is the first government that's had the backbone to do something about 'em. So you damn well remember this, comrades: They are not fucking citizens. They are not part of this Community. Fuck, they don't wanna be! They are your enemy, and if they so much at flinch at you, then you damn well better make them wish they'd signed on with the PAC.”
Janise forgot her fears as the Sprint's assault doors retracted and the Front Guard unit stormed the compound, where most members were already pinned down by air support from three other Sprints.
They moved in quickly, occasionally picking off a sniper in the few evergreens that fronted the compound's central building – a nondescript, three-story, square-frame structure with few windows, most of which had already been blown apart by gunfire.
Audible demands for full surrender bellowed down from the aerial Sprints with each pass, but as the 120 soldiers surrounded the central building, there was no response. Janise spent much of these moments squat or on her stomach, and she was perspiring heavily, the body armor and bulletproof helmet adding a good 20 kilos to her weight. But it was her enormous weapon, the 4-foot-long, 20-kilo Schnelling gun that was the biggest burden. The weapon – a combination supermachine gun, grenade launcher and laser rifle – suddenly felt much heavier than it ever did during exercises.
A volley of grenades was fired into an armory directly behind the main building, and the ensuing explosion preceded an endless hail of bullets from all sides of the building. When the CO relayed the “go” command, Janise stepped into the fire with little on her mind but victory and blood.
Entry into the main building was surprisingly swift, grenades blowing open doors on opposite ends. Janise was the 10th soldier to enter through the east wing.
She was shot four times in the first 60 seconds. Her body jerked back, but the bullets had no chance against her armor.
Even through smoke and a bullet-proof visor, Janise saw the enemy easily, and her finger held down the trigger button as she and the comrades closest to her killed everyone who dared to step into an entryway and aim an weapon; everyone who cursed the name of the PAC, whether armed or not.
“In here! In here!” A private next to her shouted, and he shot open a door that opened to a dark hallway. There were more doors to either side of them, and Janise thought for a moment that they could be assaulted from both sides at once. Just as quickly, the thought vanished as she understood that these rebel-wannabes did not pack the firepower to pose a threat.
Three soldiers stood abreast in front of each door, and in the instant after one of them blew apart the locks and kicked back the doors, all six of them entered with Schnelling guns blowing holes through everything. There was minimal resistance – a few bullets whizzed past, one even hitting Janise across the side of her helmet. But less than five seconds was all that was needed to riddle the bodies of more than 40 men and women – most of them sporting very gray hair, extreme lines of wrinkles and the inability to even sit up before their lives were ended.
She and her six comrades moved swiftly into what could only have been an entertainment room – at least, the thing in the middle looked like it was once a billiard table. She heard a wail, a curse and as she stopped, the 15 women who were standing against the bar with their hands over their heads collapsed in a heap as three soldiers rained bullets into them.
And when those three men turned, she saw one of them was Brenn Fuller, half a cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth.
“Let's move it, soldiers! We've got new orders!”
Janise did not look back – indeed, the adrenaline was overwhelming her senses, and her desire for blood not lessened. They raced out through the back of the main building. The gunfire inside became sporadic, and thick black smoke billowed from top-story windows.
The next moment was almost a blur lost in time, a totally unexpected dynamic. From well behind the armory that was now fully engulfed in flames, supermachine guns erupted to the sounds of frantic shouts. A private next to her jerked, said, “Left! Left!”
She swung about and fired.
A small cabin perhaps no more than 50 meters away had just gone up in flames, and humans were fleeing it by the dozens. A handful of them, equipped only with pistols or simple lazguns, tried to provide cover. Those men fell instantly.
Janise only let go of her trigger button after she no longer saw movement, even though an awful warning rushed over her that this must stop, that this wasn't necessary.
The firefight was over within minutes, and the main building was totally engulfed. The rumors drifted through the troops quickly – the core leadership of The Aryan Universe had not been found, and the deadly straddle bombs they were purported to have possessed were undetectable.
Janise saw not disgust but genuine fear on the face of her commanders. But their assessment of what happened didn't matter once she surveyed the last group of bodies she fired upon. From what she could tell, they all had something in common – not a single one could have been more than 18 years old. She stood over one girl who hadn't likely celebrated six birthdays, and Janise looked at the bullet hole that blew apart the side of her head. She lowered her weapon and felt a sudden nausea well up.
By the time her carrier Sprint departed, the entire compound was in flames. The next day, MassGrid reported the Front Guard killed 33 insurgents in a quick-strike operation that preempted one of the worst terrorist attacks in the history of the Western world.
…
…
Janise never spoken to anyone – not even Adam Smith – about that day, and she blocked it from her memory for most of the past 14 years. But she was satisfied that it chose this moment to relive itself within her mind's eye. She wanted the anger to rage within – all those feelings of d
isgust, betrayal and contempt she held for the PAC – to govern her now. It brought her this far.
She was beginning to perspire beneath her body armor, and she looked again at the SVF schematics.
“Ninety seconds to landing. Dance1 to Dance2,” she said. “Initiate your rollout sequence to your mission coordinates.”
“Copy that, Dance1. Proceeding to western perimeter.”
“Mickelsby, engage auto-flight lander and prepare to load weapons racks. We're going in, soldiers!”
44
C
ol. Dana Travert kept enough distance from the young lieutenant who she just knew would love to bed her. She watched, deep underground in a facility on the island of Barbados, as the lieutenant reviewed scans she ordered him to perform. When he turned to her, his eyes making respectful but terrified contact, she came to his side.
“Now, lieutenant, what is it you can tell me?”
“Yes, sir. It seems you were right. There does appear to be evidence of penetration of the flight grid where you asked me to search. From what I can detect, a pair of micro-cells were disrupted for about 30 seconds and then they closed again. That in itself wouldn't be, uh, enough to prove anything. But there's more.”
She kissed him behind his neck. “Please continue. I'm fascinated.”
“There is a residual Quinnian trail ... actually, two trails, sir. They're emanating from the same coordinates along the grid. But sir, the grid was opened for these crafts to pass. Why are we looking at this?”
“You're so sweet, lieutenant. And I love the way you play innocent. Do me this small favor: You simply patch into the local defense beacons and signal as soon as you detect these two trails entering the zone.”
His jaw dropped. “Here, sir? What's happening? Sir?”
“Lieutenant, are you a chess man?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither am I. But I know an exceptional player. I call him Daddy.”
She ran her hands down his back and laughed as she walked away.
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