by John Appel
She discovered an unexpected advantage now; she was intimately familiar with the defensive code used within the Ileri infonet, and aside from the access lockout, the rebels hadn’t changed it yet. A mistake on their part; she’d make them pay for that.
Her guardian programs ignored the hostile agents trying to breach her defenses, instead targeting the virtual processors executing the attacking code. One by one, her digital minions seized control, shutting down the hostile programs even as the node tried to spin up new ones. She opened another link to the Fingers network, found her agents there had secured that first node, and ruthlessly slaved part of its processing over to her defensive agents. That, she thought, should give her a little breathing room.
Two options lay before her. One was taking control of the lockout program, freeing up the infonet for the loyalists, and everyone else trapped, while simultaneously locking the rebels out. The other was to push deeper into the infonet, tracing down and in to locate the rebel’s point of control. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone. She reached across the virtual space to ask Haissani to deal with the lockout program—
Only he wasn’t there. The countermeasure programs had forced his avatar out of the system. Unless he could ride dumpshock as well as she, and few could, she was on her own for now. Given time, he’d be back. She hoped. But his absence made her decision easy. She rolled her shoulders out, felt the ghostly sensation of her body echoing the motion. Then she pulled another set of agents from her djinn’s local store. One hand reached out, grabbed hold of the cluster of processing power she’d seized from the attacking programs, and slaved that power to her new programs. It was like going from hand tools to heavy machinery, from pick and shovel to a fusion-powered excavator. And even though she didn’t know just how the lockout program worked, she did know how the system it was corrupting needed to work, knew intimately the potential points of vulnerability.
She slammed her code into the lockout program like an avenging goddess, plunged her virtual hands into it, found the dark heart of its kernel, and crushed it like an overripe grape.
The lockout program disintegrated, and the quality of the virtual pressure inside the sphere changed, from stagnant stuffiness to a breeze, and then to a growing wind, as all the questing systems once again connected to the station infonet.
She sent messages to Toiwa, to the assault team commander, and to the other hackers trying to break through elsewhere, passing on what she’d done, providing each of them with the means to undo the rebels’ work. One of her analysis programs flashed an alert and she laughed as she hoisted out the new keys to the junction. Amateurs. Left a copy in executable space for me. Might as well have used ROT13 encryption on it.
An unseen blow struck her avatar from behind and spun her sideways. In real space her body lurched with a spasm.
She righted herself as her virtual sensorium reported that another avatar hovered before her, and she ‘felt’ heat radiating from the attack code it clutched like a physical weapon. “You won the first round, asshole,” the rebel hacker said. It was a male voice, deep and booming. “Care to go two out of three?”
Josephine Okafor laughed as she flung her imaginary hands wide. Thick channels of data streamed across the infonet as she wielded her master keys and commandeered processing power from not just this junction node, but from the Station Constabulary’s main data center. She reached one hand over her shoulder and drew power from the Fingers network as well. Her avatar swelled, growing in size until it dwarfed the rebel hacker. Her own hands sprouted bundles of attack code that she shaped into massive chains.
“This is my dojo, asshole,” she said, and her voice rolled out across the infonet like a rushing tide. “And I think I’m going two for two.” She flung the chains at her attacker, bound him, plunged her hands into his avatar’s center, and ripped the operating kernel from within it. The avatar collapsed.
She sensed a new avatar in the node and readied her attack code again, but it turned out to be Tahir. “Aren’t you on physical overwatch?” Okafor asked.
“Haissani’s down. We’re taking fire out here, and the rebels are counter-attacking. I wanted to check on you,” Tahir said.
“Almost done,” Okafor said, triumph in her voice. “Infonet access is back, and I’ve locked the rebels out. I just need to deal with the Fingers network.”
“Right, about that,” Tahir said, and her avatar disappeared from the node.
Okafor reached out to trigger the worm she’d planted in the Fingers network—
Pain slammed into her, and the virtual world disappeared. She gasped, or tried to, as what felt like every muscle in her body triggered at once, felt her bladder and bowels release as the stunner scrambled her nervous system. She could hear, distantly, the sounds of gunfire, and stunner shots, and in the distance, a muffled explosion.
“Sorry about that,” Tahir breathed into her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll hit you with some Pacifine in a moment. Standard treatment for stunner-shot victims. Has an amnesiac agent too, you won’t remember any of this.”
“Why?” Okafor managed to croak.
She felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her thigh, different from the ripping pulses of fire consuming her. She felt herself falling, as if down a deep, soft shaft.
“Because I’m personally obliged to someone,” she heard Tahir say, and then things went black.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Noo
Takamanda District, Ileri Station,
South Ring
Four shots cracked out at once, as near to simultaneous as Noo could tell, and just like that the four rebels guarding the spinward side of the apartment building dropped, dead before they hit the street grass. “Gogogo!” called the team leader, and one of the three power armor-equipped troopers in the raid force bounded across the street to secure the side door.
Myra, Loh’s musclewoman, tapped Noo on the shoulder before scuttling towards the door of their building. Noo smacked Teng’s arm in turn and followed the Fingers heavy as best she could. She’d used her dose of stimulant while still slogging through the smuggler’s ways of the station or else she’d never have made it this far. It was still working; she could summon strength at need, and no longer felt like she’d been rolled in a rug and beaten with pipes. But she still wasn’t used to the heavy load of gear and weapons and armor, still felt off balance, as fat and ungainly as one of the Goya’s Swans that swam in the forward ring’s lake. Stealth was not an option in her case.
Judging from the level of gunfire being exchanged, stealth was no longer required.
They hustled out across the first street between their shelter and the makeshift prison. Myra trotted at a pace Noo had trouble keeping up with, even with her biochemical assistance. Smoke billowed from one of the third-floor windows of the block-sized building, but she couldn’t tell if that was from fire or a smoke grenade launched by the attackers. She heard the sharp rattle of an automatic weapon from somewhere off to her left, answered almost immediately by the harsh ripping sound of one of the armored trooper’s mini-guns. Her little trio crossed the narrow strip of park between the two lanes of street grass, never slowing their pace until they bumped up against the building.
Noo struggled to catch her breath as Myra led them past one of the fallen guards to the doorway, smashed open apparently with the battering ram that now lay beside the portal. She glanced down at the guard and regretted it almost instantly. Taking the four sentries out had looked surgical enough, from a distance; but their snipers had made headshots with armor-piercing rounds. Half the woman’s skull had been blown off and the rest was bloody ruin. She tried not to think about what she was stepping in.
They passed into the foyer and she saw a medic working on a fallen figure, one of Myra’s compatriots in the Fingers’ nondescript gray body armor. The foyer ran from the street door they’d come through to an opening, through which Noo could see the central courtyard. Looking that way, Noo saw more bodies. None of those wore armor,
though, so they weren’t part of the strike force. She supposed they could be hostages, hoped they weren’t, then remembered that her visor had an IFF display. She blinked it on and was relieved when the AR tags showed they were hostiles.
Myra led them up four flights of stairs to the third floor, following the wayfinder path passed to her by the strike team commander, a young Army captain just about Noo’s daughter’s age. The captain remained across the street for now with a couple of comms techs and two constables for close security. She directed her heavy hitters, the Army troops and some of the Fingers muscle, many of them Army vets, against the knots of rebel resistance. Other groups without the heavy weapons and training for first-line combat swept the complex, looking for the prisoners.
They passed by opened doors and empty rooms, some furnished and some not. Myra squatted down when they reached the corner, where the building turned to follow the main street, and fished out a handful of flitter drones. She tossed them into the air, and they whisked off on delicate wings, like so many lethal butterflies. Noo tugged at the tube of her camelback canteen and took a drink while Myra studied the feeds from her tiny flock, before leading them down a hallway into which none of the strike team had yet passed.
They had barely traveled three meters, just shy of the first apartment doors, when Myra snapped her weapon to her shoulder and took a slantwise step into the middle of the hallway. Noo’s adrenaline surged and her own weapon came up, her sighting reticle popping into life. She heard Teng moving behind her and laid her finger beside the trigger.
Doors on either side of the hallway, fifteen meters down, slammed open, and nightmares clattered out. Six-legged combat bots skittered towards them as weapon pods swiveled, and targeting lasers tracked across their chests.
Noo cut loose with a burst of armor-piercing rounds, saw them strike the carapace of the left-most bot. She kept firing as the bot’s mini-gun opened up on them, but the impact knocked the bot offline enough that the return fire missed her. Teng engaged the other bot, firing burst after burst.
“Fuck this.” Myra braced her rifle to her shoulder and used her grenade launcher. It coughed once, twice, and then the rocket motors of the grenades kicked in as their guidance packages locked onto their targets. Noo dropped to her knees and ducked her head. The grenades slammed into the bot’s central carapaces and detonated, sending jets of plasma through the ceramic composite armor and into the sensitive internal components.
And, it turned out, the ammo bins.
Noo felt herself lifted by a giant flaming hand that slammed her against the wall. A blast of searing air washed over her, heat she felt even through the body armor, fire-rated battledress, and gloves. Bits of flaming debris pinged off her and she felt the wall shudder as a jagged hunk of what used to be robot embedded itself in the fiberboard between her and Myra, who’d been deposited next to her.
“Okereke, you all right?”
It took Noo a few seconds to realize that someone was talking to her, and a few seconds more to respond. She flashed the tactical hand sign for I’m OK, not trusting herself to speak yet. Myra, still standing, paused sweeping smoking debris from her shoulders and offered her a hand up. Noo got to her feet and bent to retrieve her weapon while Myra hoisted Teng to his feet. The hallway was a ruin of scorch marks and scattered bot parts.
“Look sharp,” Myra said. “You just don’t stick bots to guard an empty hallway.” After reassuring herself that her team was functional, the Fingers hitter took point again. She activated her vocal projector. “Dr. Ngila? Dr. Lac? Is there anyone here? We’re here to rescue you.”
A head poked out from the left-hand doorway, about knee height. “We’re here. Are you from the Ileri government?”
“Something like that,” Myra said, and they hurried down the hallway. Noo followed Myra in and slung her weapon.
The door opened into the living room of a spacious three-bedroom flat that Noo pegged as properly belonging to a group of roommates in their twenties or early thirties rather than a family, judging from the odd mishmash of furnishings, a neoleather couch flanked by mismatched armchairs in two completely different styles. Windows on the far wall overlooked the central courtyard, or would have if the blinds were open. Six people waited inside the room, two on the couch, one in each of the armchairs, the last two on their feet near the doorway.
Myra crossed to the center of the room and Noo came up beside her, eyes darting across the prisoners. Her djinn matched their faces to images of the Commonwealth delegation, and AR tags identifying them sprang into life above their heads...
“The infonet’s back up!” Noo exclaimed. She turned towards Teng, grinning—
And saw Teng aiming his weapon at Myra’s back, finger on the trigger.
He was too far away for her to reach, and her weapon was still slung, so she lurched backwards and to her right, bent forward at the waist, and hip checked Myra as brutally as she had that smug bitch Indira on the football pitch back in her school days. Myra stumbled and pitched over as Teng’s burst cut through the air she’d occupied a split second before. Noo lost her balance too, thrown off by the added mass of her gear and the inconvenient presence of a side table.
She took the fall properly this time, on the fleshy parts of the body, thigh then ass then shoulder. Her weapon was trapped beneath her and her right arm was tangled up in the sling. She watched in horror as Teng pivoted, weapon raised, and shot one of the Commonwealth scientists. A single shot, this time, but that was all he needed. The armor-piercing round punched through the scientist’s chest and through the wall behind them, the bullet hole centered in the crimson spray that exploded from the exit wound. Myra spat curses as she tried to sit up and recover her own weapon, which she’d dropped when Noo slammed into her. Two of the remaining scientists froze in place, two dropped to the floor, Dr. Ngila lunged for Teng, who nimbly sidestepped. The scientist missed their grab for Teng’s arm, stumbled into one of the armchairs, and tumbled over it.
Noo realized she’d never get her rifle free in time. Her hand closed around the butt of her hand cannon and yanked it out of the holster. The targeting reticle popped up and she discovered the sling, still wrapped around her forearm, kept her from angling high enough for a headshot.
She shot his knees out instead.
Teng dropped his weapon and collapsed to the floor, his screams adding to those of the scientists and Myra’s stream of invective. His hands clutched at his ruined legs as Dr. Ngila righted herself, scooping up the fallen man’s weapon.
“It won’t work,” Noo said as she rolled left, freeing her arm and keeping her pistol trained on Teng’s head. “It’s djinn-locked to him. But keep it away from him.”
“What the hell is going on?” Ngila snapped. Despite Noo’s admonition she kept the battle rifle’s muzzle pointed at Teng.
“We are a rescue party,” Myra said. Her voice sounded raw. Once again, she reached down and hauled Noo to her feet. “Supposed to be. Constabulary, Army, and other local assets.” Which, Noo supposed, was a perfectly valid descriptor of Myra and Noo’s roles. She pointed at Teng with her weapon. “He’s Directorate, intelligence op, or supposed to be. Okereke, you have any idea what the fuck got into him?”
“Oh yeah.” There was only one thing he could be. Noo holstered her pistol and took up her battle rifle again. “He’s one of Miguna’s moles. Maybe even one of the infected.”
“What about him?” Dr. Ngila asked, still clutching the rifle.
“I’ll take care of him,” Noo said. She jerked her head at the doorway. “Go. I’ll bring up the rear.” She transferred her rifle to her left hand and drew her pi
stol once again as the others filed out of the room.
“So, what is it? Infected, or just a traitor?” she asked him, but got only ragged panting in response. Teng’s eyes were fixed on her, his face a rictus of pain.
And then, suddenly, his body relaxed, arms falling to his sides, and his face took on a blissful look. “Belonging is everything,” Teng said in his gloriously melodious baritone. His voice showed no trace of the agony that should be consuming him. “Join us and your wounds shall be wiped away.”
“Fuck that,” she said, and fired two rounds into his face.
Noo holstered her pistol and set off down the hall in the best imitation of a trot she could manage. Dimly, she was aware of her body’s protests at the accumulated abuse. Her back was killing her, and her thighs were just this side of screaming, and her right elbow felt funny. The gunfire had died down somewhat after the initial fusillades, but came more frequently now, as the muffled thump of grenades joined the rattle and rip of automatic fire.
She stumbled down the final flight of stairs but was caught at the bottom by a young Army trooper and his partner, a constable Noo recognized as one of Daniel’s trusted cadre. “We’re the tail,” the constable said. “Time to haul ass.” She set off at a run for the far side of the street. Noo did her best to keep up but her stimulant dose was wearing off. The soldier hooked one hand around her belt, both holding her up and pulling her along. Covering fire swept out as their comrades tried to suppress the oncoming rebel reinforcements.
They were five meters shy of safety when the rocket exploded in front of them.
Noo found herself on the ground again, on her back this time. Dazed, she sat up and tried to focus. Her vision swam, and her hearing was shot. Her legs hurt, so she looked down at them—
—and discovered that from the knees down, she didn’t have legs anymore.
“Oh,” she said, and flopped onto her back.
