by Mark Walden
There was a low rumble from somewhere behind the stands and then three huge shapes roared over the heads of the startled audience and landed with ground-shaking thuds on the desert floor a couple of hundred metres away. Each machine stood about thirty metres high, towering armoured metal giants with multi-barrelled Gatling cannons mounted on each arm and rocket pods on each shoulder. Positioned in the centre of each of the giant mechs’ chests was a black glass cockpit shrouded in heavy armour. They walked forward, taking up position facing the crowds, the fluidity of their movement strangely at odds with their size and weight. Collins noted with satisfaction the sudden buzz of excited chatter from the assembled dignitaries.
‘Goliath represents unquestioned battlefield dominance. As agile in the air as they are on land, they are a force multiplier of enormous power and versatility,’ Collins continued. ‘But why just tell you what they can do when we can show you instead?’
He picked up a walkie-talkie from the lectern and thumbed the transmit button.
‘OK, boys, let’s give these people a show.’
The Goliaths turned, facing away from the waiting audience and towards the decommissioned tanks that were positioned down-range. The first of the giant machines raised its arm and the huge rotary cannon mounted on its forearm spun up and with a buzzing roar opened fire. The derelict tank was ripped to pieces by the heavy-calibre shells, shredded pieces of twisted metal flying in all directions. The rocket pods on the shoulders of the second of the three machines rotated slightly, locking on to another one of the distant armoured vehicles. Two rockets streaked from each of the pods, trailing white exhaust plumes, slamming into the doomed target and sending flaming chunks of armour plate scattering across the desert.
‘As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, the Goliath is capable of taking out ground targets with ease, but as I’m sure you all know the greatest threat to any ground vehicle on the modern battlefield comes from the air. So let’s show you how they deal with just such an airborne threat.’
High above the proving grounds the Predator drone that had been circling banked towards its preassigned target, locking on to the third Goliath far below. The Hellfire missile detached from the drone’s wing, its engines igniting and sending it screaming towards the stationary mech far below. A black dome mounted on the top of the targeted Goliath spun round and fired a pencil-thin beam of high-energy laser light at the incoming missile, instantly detonating it in mid-air.
‘The Goliath’s anti-ballistic laser system can take out anything from a missile to an incoming artillery round or tank shell. Put simply, you can’t kill what you can’t hit. Of course, each unit is fully outfitted with the latest in ground-to-air weaponry, but for the sake of this demonstration let’s get a little more up close and personal.’ Collins turned and nodded towards the pilot of the third machine and the vectored thrust engines on its back ignited, sending the Goliath rocketing into the sky. The members of the audience quickly picked up the binoculars they had been given and watched as the giant machine streaked towards the unmanned drone with a speed and manoeuvrability belying its size. The pilot brought the Goliath within range of the frantically weaving drone, matching its wildly evasive flight path turn for turn. The crowd watched as the giant armoured machine drew level with the Predator and then simply swatted it from the sky with a single swipe of one giant armoured fist. The blazing debris of the drone tumbled towards the desert far below.
‘I hope the Air Force boys weren’t expecting that one back,’ Collins said with a grin, drawing an appreciative laugh from the assembled dignitaries. ‘As you can see, Goliath blurs the line between ground-based and airborne weapon systems. It is truly the master of both land and sky.’
From somewhere behind the spectators came the distinctive sound of helicopter rotors and they twisted in their seats, eager to see what the next part of the demonstration would bring. Moments later three black helicopters passed low over the crowd, the downdraught from their thumping rotors kicking up clouds of dust from the desert floor. They came to a hover in front of the stands and opened their side doors, three squads of well-armed troops in black body armour rapidly climbing out and descending zip lines to the ground.
‘What the hell –’ Collins gasped. This was definitely not part of the demonstration. He grabbed the walkie-talkie from the lectern.
‘All Goliath units cleared to engage unknown hostiles!’ he barked. ‘Take these suckers out!’ He waited for confirmation of his orders from the pilots of the three mechs but heard only static. ‘I say again, engage unidentified hostile forces.’
The three Goliaths started to move, but instead of opening fire on the unknown soldiers who were sprinting towards the spectators they simply shifted into position alongside the helicopters as they landed fifty metres away, then raised the Gatling cannons on their arms and levelled them at the startled crowd, barrels spinning, ready to fire. Collins could do nothing but watch helplessly as the men in black raced up the stairs on either end of the grandstand and trained their rifles on the frightened spectators. A couple tried to run but were quickly overpowered and pushed to their knees, hands behind their heads. As Collins stood frozen in disbelief, a single figure climbed down from the side door of one of the helicopters and made his way up the steps to join him on the platform. As he reached Collins, he pulled a pistol from the holster on his hip and pointed it at him.
‘General Collins,’ he said with a smile, ‘my name is Pietor Furan and this demonstration is over.’
Otto woke with a start, his head buzzing with pain. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled through the darkened room, heading for the bathroom at the rear of his living quarters. He slapped the switch on the wall and bright white light blinded him for a second. As his eyes adjusted to the glare he stared at his own reflection in the mirror and a fresh bolt of pain lanced across his skull. He fought against the rising tide of nausea and disorientation, studying the pale face that looked back at him from the glass. A thin red line, like a fine cut, traced across his right cheek. Otto ran his finger along the fresh wound, feeling an unusual warmth as the gash seemed to widen and separate, then gasped in horror as it flared suddenly with red light and the skin began to peel back from his cheek, revealing what looked like blood-covered glass. He recoiled from his own reflection as more bright red lines spread across his skin, the flesh falling away to reveal a multi-faceted crystalline face beneath. Otto opened his mouth to scream but all that came out was a thin screech of static, rising in pitch, slowly resolving into a voice that was both alien and yet hauntingly familiar.
‘You’re mine,’ the voice said. ‘You always have been and always will be.’
Otto staggered backwards as he felt an unbelievable rush of pressure inside his skull and finally, as terror and pain overwhelmed him, he screamed.
Wing held Otto’s shoulders as his friend thrashed on the bed making a thin, strangled screeching sound.
‘Otto,’ Wing said, sounding alarmed, ‘wake up!’ He shook Otto gently, trying to stir him from whatever dream was tormenting him. Otto’s eyes flicked open, filled with terror for a few moments before they focused on Wing’s face. He closed them again and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to slow the hammering beat he could feel inside his chest.
‘The dream again?’ Wing said, sitting down on the edge of Otto’s bed.
‘Yes,’ Otto said with a sigh, sitting up, ‘but it’s getting worse.’
‘Was it him?’ Wing asked with a frown.
‘Yes,’ Otto replied, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Overlord.’
It had been the same every night for weeks – the terrifying sense of his personality being erased and Overlord reasserting control – ever since he had been rescued from the clutches of Sebastian Trent and purged of the Animus liquid that had made him little more than an obedient puppet. Otto could still remember what it had felt like as the psychotic artificial intelligence called Overlord had taken control of him: the utter helplessness he had felt as t
he AI had tried to kill his friends while Otto was trapped, a passive observer, within his own body.
‘You cannot go on like this,’ Wing said calmly. ‘You have not slept properly in weeks. This is consuming you.’
Otto knew that his friend was right. He felt almost constantly exhausted and was starting to dread falling asleep. Sometimes he was reluctant even to close his eyes for fear that he would be met yet again with more terrifying visions of the fate that he had so narrowly avoided.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Otto said. ‘Overlord is dead – we all saw him die – so why can’t I get him out of my head?’
‘Sebastian Trent kept you prisoner for months and throughout that time you were fighting a constant battle to keep Overlord in check,’ Wing replied. ‘It is perhaps not surprising that you have yet to fully . . . recover.’
Otto smiled at Wing’s slight hesitation.
‘You mean it’s hardly surprising that I’m losing my marbles.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘But you were thinking it,’ Otto said. ‘Everyone is.’
‘We are all worried about you,’ Wing replied. ‘None of us can even begin to imagine what you must have been through. We want to help in whatever way we can.’
‘I’m not sure that there’s much you can do,’ Otto said, ‘unless you happen to have a supply of powerful tranquillisers that I don’t know about.’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ Wing replied, ‘though I do know of ways to render you unconscious without causing you too much discomfort.’
‘I’m not sure we’re quite at that stage yet,’ Otto replied, raising an eyebrow.
The group of captured dignitaries stood in stunned silence as Furan’s men surrounded them, their weapons raised. They had been herded away from the demonstration area and marched under guard along the road that led from the open desert to a nearby canyon. The Goliath mechs stood off to one side, their torsos slowly rotating as they scanned the surrounding area for any sign of hostiles. A hundred metres away stood a huge pair of steel blast doors set into the red rock of the canyon wall, and beyond those doors lay Furan’s ultimate target, the headquarters of the Advanced Weapons Project. The fortified guard posts on either side of the entrance were now just smouldering burnt-out shells, the soldiers who manned them having made a brave but ultimately futile attempt at resistance.
Furan gestured to the two guards who were holding General Collins and they dragged the struggling man towards him.
‘General,’ he said calmly, ‘would you be so kind as to order the guards inside your facility to open the blast doors?’
‘You know there’s no way I’m going to do that,’ Collins replied defiantly.
‘Yes, we were rather expecting that was what you would say,’ Furan replied. He pulled the radio from his belt and spoke into it. ‘We have secured the canyon. You may begin your approach.’
A minute later the canyon was filled with the sound of rotor blades and a helicopter appeared overhead, slowly dropping down and landing gently on the road nearby. The side door slid open and a frail-looking man climbed out. He wore a long black overcoat, despite the scorching desert heat, and walked slowly towards Furan and the General, leaning heavily on an ebony walking stick. The man’s hair was white, his parchment-like skin stretched tight across his face and his dark sunken eyes adding to his almost skeletal appearance. As he neared Collins the General could hear him wheezing, each breath seeming like a monumental effort.
‘A pleasure to meet you, General,’ the old man said, fighting for breath as he spoke. ‘I see that you have chosen not to comply with the wishes of my associates. I understand. A man in your position has . . . responsibilities.’
‘I don’t cooperate with terrorists, if that’s what you mean,’ the General growled.
The old man laughed, the sound little more than a wheezing hiss.
‘Terrorists?’ he replied. ‘You Americans and your simplistic labels. We are much more than that. We are going to change the world.’
‘Not if I have anything to say about it,’ the General replied firmly. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I help you.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid that you won’t have very much say in the matter,’ the other man said with a smile. He reached out his hand and the General watched in horror as the skin of his forearm bulged and then tore, black tendrils slithering forth over the wrist and hand.
‘Who are you?’ the General gasped, recoiling in disgust.
‘You may call me Overlord,’ the old man said, his hand snaking out with startling speed and grabbing the General’s jaw, his grip abnormally strong. ‘And you are going to be my new home.’
The black liquid slithered over the old man’s hand and into the General’s mouth with horrifying speed. The General let out a single startled gurgle as the inky slime slid down his throat. Seconds later both men collapsed, the older man hitting the ground with a thud, his dead, vacant eyes staring up into the sky. The General thrashed about, clawing at his neck and chest as the Animus fluid invaded his nervous system, spreading like a burning wave through his body. Furan watched impassively as he twitched a couple of times and then lay still. For a few seconds the General didn’t move and then his eyes opened wide and he gasped, taking a long, deep breath. Slowly Collins climbed to his feet and turned to face Furan, his face now covered in a slowly fading pattern of veined black lines.
‘Much better,’ Overlord said, rolling his head around on his shoulders and stretching his neck. He gestured towards the frail body that he had inhabited till just a few moments ago. ‘Dispose of that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Furan replied, beckoning over a pair of his troops who dragged the elderly body away.
Overlord strode towards the blast doors and placed his hand on the scanner mounted on the concrete frame. A cover slid back to reveal an alphanumeric keypad and he quickly punched in a long string of numbers and letters. With a low rumble the heavy blast doors began to slide open.
‘Send your men in,’ Overlord said as Furan walked up beside him. ‘Crush any resistance. We don’t have much time.’
g
Chapter Two
‘How the hell did this happen?’ the President yelled angrily, slamming his palm down on the table.
‘We’re not sure yet, Mr President,’ replied one of the generals sitting in the White House situation room. ‘All we do know is that at eleven hundred hours this morning there was a hostile assault on the Advanced Weapons Project proving grounds by unknown forces. They appear to have captured the Goliath weapon systems and gained entrance to the AWP facility itself. All communication was lost with the facility approximately ten minutes later.’
‘And they’ve been quiet ever since?’ the President asked. ‘They’ve made no demands?’
‘No, sir, not as yet,’ the General replied.
‘Who are these people?’ the President asked, turning to the Director of the CIA.
‘We’re not sure, sir,’ the Director replied. ‘The only person we’ve been able to identify is this man.’ He pressed a key on the laptop that was open on the desk in front of him and one of the large screens mounted on the wall displayed a grainy image of a man pointing a pistol at General Collins, the commander of the AWP facility. ‘We captured this image from the visual feed from the proving grounds shortly before it was severed. His name is Pietor Furan. He was a Russian intelligence operative until about fifteen years ago, during which time he trained assassins for the FSB. Our Russian friends deny this, of course, but that’s what you would expect. Since then little has been seen of him. We assume he’s been working as a freelancer and there have been occasional confirmed sightings, but people he’s crossed paths with have an unfortunate habit of turning up dead.’
The President stared at the image of the man on screen – there was something familiar about him. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen that face before, nearly a year ago.
‘I know him,’ the President said quietly. ‘He was one of th
e men who was responsible for the assault on Air Force One. He’s connected somehow with the group that attacked us – what did he call them? The Disciples.’
‘We’ve been trying to find out more about them ever since they attacked you, sir,’ the Director replied, ‘but we’ve drawn a blank. You’re sure that this man was working with them?’
‘Absolutely certain. I’m not about to forget the face of a man who tried to kill me,’ the President replied impatiently. ‘So why has he suddenly broken cover now? He must have known that we’d be able to ID him.’
‘We have no idea,’ the CIA Director replied, ‘and that concerns me. The fact that he’s connected in some way with these Disciples just makes this all the more worrying.’
‘How did they get inside the facility?’ the President asked with a frown. ‘AWP is supposed to be completely secure.’
‘We’re not sure, sir. There’s no way that they could have breached the outer perimeter by force even with the help of the Goliath units. AWP is modelled after the NORAD facility at Cheyenne Mountain, and as such it was built to withstand a direct nuclear blast, which suggests that they had inside help. All of the staff were given extensive background checks, but that doesn’t mean to say that they couldn’t have turned someone. At the very least we know that they managed to turn the Goliath pilots, though we have no idea how.’
‘And the hostages?’ the President asked, rubbing his eyes.
