Cassandra's War: A Sci-Fi Corporate Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga Book 2)

by Pourteau, Chris

  Cassandra’s War

  The SynCorp Saga • Book Two

  by

  David Bruns and Chris Pourteau

  Welcome to the Boardroom…

  The Syndicate Corporation needs people like you to shape humanity’s future.

  Learn corporate secrets, like the release date for the next volume in The SynCorp Saga . Trade on insider information about exclusive deals from the authors. Stay informed. Stay in control. | Get the Memo

  For our children

  Alex, Byron, and Cate

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Enjoy This Book?

  About the Authors

  Copyright Notice

  Chapter 1

  Anthony Taulke • ADX Florence, Colorado

  Packed snow crunched under Anthony Taulke’s prison-issued work boots.

  Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty … turn .

  The repetition appealed to his engineer’s brain. Measuring the dimensions of his captivity brought an ironic sense of comfort to a man who controlled nothing about his present life.

  He faced due east, eighteen feet of shining steel fencing mere inches from the shoulder of his orange prison jumpsuit. Rolls of close-packed, serrated razor wire gleamed on the fence top above him. The prison yard was blanketed with knee-high, pristine snow. Anthony stepped forward.

  One, two, three…

  This was his twenty-sixth circuit today. He had no way to tell time accurately—the guards had deactivated his “rich man’s implant” and laughed when he’d asked for a set of data glasses.

  But he had the sun. And he had his feet.

  Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty … turn .

  Anthony faced due north and continued his pacing.

  By his reckoning, it was around two p.m. on his seventy-fourth day of incarceration in ADX Florence, the Alcatraz of the Rockies. His prison was famous, like its richest inmate. His incarceration had proven a popular story on the YourVoice network for days until displaced by the latest weather disaster.

  An aircar swept through the secure traffic corridor in the western sky. He watched it disappear behind the concrete bulk of the massive prison complex. Corporate model, seven-seater Cadillac, probably had a built-in bar and buttery-soft leather seats. He closed his eyes, imagining himself inside the Cadillac wearing the latest fashion instead of this dirty jumpsuit. Sipping a drink while scanning the newsfeeds on his retinal display.

  Seventy-four days. Long enough for Teller to get reelected President of the United States. Anthony had seen that bit of news on the sole WorldNet screen in the cafeteria. Somehow, the bastard had even silenced the clamor of UN voices calling for his head. Prosecuted as a war criminal? Hell, they hadn’t even bothered to censure Teller. And here Anthony was, paying Teller’s check for him, hour after agonizing hour.

  He focused on the subtle crunch-squeak of his soles in the snow.

  The UN had bigger problems to solve, more immediate problems. Anthony had caught snippets of climate news from the WorldNet during meals. Beijing was one giant sand dune, millions of its residents buried alive. A section of the Mexican peninsula had been scalped by a hurricane, tens of thousands missing. The Congo was flooding. Paris was like a greenhouse, but Scotland was having its worst winter in recorded history as bomb cyclones hammered the Highlands.

  No rhyme, no reason—just freakish, extreme weather events that had some commentators proselytizing like street corner evangelists, claiming Mother Earth was settling the score for centuries of abuse at the hands of mankind.

  Yet in the United States, all was calm. Normal, even moderate weather prevailed in the lower forty-eight. Whoever was behind the weather changes—and it was a someone, the same someone who’d stolen Viktor Erkennen’s cryptokey from his lunar laboratory—their plan was obviously to isolate the United States from the United Nations. Whoever it was knew about politics and how to manage power dynamics. They knew if they just applied enough pressure, the UN collective would fracture into a world of separate nations, all fighting amongst themselves, each striving to protect its own people.

  A world in political chaos. Who would benefit from that?

  “Inmate!” The guard’s flat bark echoed in the prison yard. “Time’s up.”

  Anthony gazed toward the sun like a lover. Another twenty-three hours before he could be with her again.

  “Inmate! Now.”

  He stamped his feet on the doorstep and walked inside. The heavy steel door slammed behind him as the guard muttered his status into his headset. After an hour in the fresh air, the smell of the corridor was stale and industrial: part hospital, part machine shop. He stayed the regulation three paces ahead of the guard as he walked to his cell. Metal tumblers slid aside. Once Anthony was inside, the magnetic lock engaged with a loud shuck .

  How he missed his penthouse apartment in downtown San Francisco with its sweeping view of the Pacific and the inner calm it brought him. Here, the view was more … utilitarian. A narrow bed, steel toilet, sink, and small space of painted gray floor. If he stretched his arms, Anthony could almost touch the walls on either side of the cell.

  Thinking about it only made it worse. Routine was the friend who helped him pass the time. He dropped to the floor for his daily push-ups.

  One, two, three …

  Finally, his arms quivering, Anthony stood and stripped off his jumpsuit. The water in the sink was frigid. He soaked a scrap of washcloth and scrubbed his skin, starting at the top of his body. He shivered with cold, but at least it was a genuine feeling. Somewhere along the way, simply washing his skin had become an emotional experience all its own.

  Clack-clack .

  Two raps of a nightstick, the signal the guards used to warn him the door was about to open. Anthony hastily stood with his back against the far wall of the cell, hands in the open.

  “For God’s sake, put on your clothes,” the guard said. “No one wants to see that.”

  Anthony pulled his jumpsuit on, his mind racing. Why was the guard here? It wasn’t dinnertime yet. By his count, the return walk to the cell, push-ups, and a sponge bath should only take him halfway to dinner. This was unexpected, bordering on exciting.

  “Approach and present,” the guard said.

  Anthony shuffled forward, his forearms extended. The man clapped handcuffs on him, then stepped aside .

  Anthony exited the cell. A female guard he hadn’t met before waited. The woman had sharp eyes and thick, linebacker shoulders. Her nightstick was out.

  “Inmate,” she said, pointing her baton to the left. “Come with me.”

  Anthony complied, his pulse hammering. He’d never gone left before. From the day he’d arrived in the facility, he’d only ever entered and exited his cell from the corridor to the right. He felt a tiny thrill of exci
tement at the change, followed by a sense of self-pity at how his life had become so excruciatingly boring that simply turning left instead of right was enough to pique his interest.

  “Straight,” she said at the first intersection.

  The gray paint of the concrete floor dead-ended at a steel door. The woman flashed a badge and the magnetic lock clicked.

  “Open it,” she ordered.

  On the other side of the door, the hallway was carpeted. That reminder of luxury came unexpectedly, and Anthony had to fight the impulse to kneel down and stroke the softness.

  “Straight.”

  Where was she taking him, and why? Counting his steps helped calm his nerves.

  One, two, three …

  They passed doors with blue and white labels reading Interview Room followed by a number. The guard told him to stop at the fourth door.

  “You got thirty minutes, inmate. Make ’em count.”

  Anthony put his hand on the doorknob—a normal, round, metal doorknob!—and turned .

  A woman stood inside the room, her back to him. Over her shoulder, she said, “Surveillance is off, correct? This is a private meeting between Mr. Taulke and his lawyer.”

  The guard nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Per orders.” She prodded Anthony forward, then closed the door, leaving them alone.

  Anthony gasped as his memory of the woman’s voice clicked.

  “Adriana?”

  The head of the Rabh Conglomerate, the largest money management firm in the world, turned to face him. Anthony drank in the sight of a friendly face, the first tangible link to his old life he’d seen for seventy-four days.

  “Anthony, so good to see you again,” she said. She kissed his shocked face on both cheeks. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  Anthony blinked. “Wha…?” was all he managed to say.

  Adriana peered into his eyes. “What have they done to you? Drugs?”

  He shook his head slowly like a man drunk. He’d never realized Adriana’s eyes were such a rich, deep brown before, a shade of dark caramel with little gold flecks…

  She drew a hand back and slapped Anthony’s cheek. Hard. The sharp sting filled his cheek with heat. “Ow!”

  Adriana used her nails to dig into the loose material on the front of his jumpsuit. “Wake the fuck up, Anthony. I’m here to get you out, but you have to work with me.”

  “We’re short on time, Ms. Rabh,” said a voice behind her.

  A man dressed in a business suit stepped forward. He placed a briefcase on the table in the center of the room and snapped it open.

  “Anthony, meet Justin.” Adriana busied herself with the contents of the case .

  “Who?”

  “Don’t file his name away in long-term memory. He’s you, from now on,” Adriana replied. “He came in as your lawyer, and you’re leaving as him.”

  Justin removed his glasses, and his features immediately began to change. His jaw squared up, his temples lengthened. Lines accentuated his cheeks. The crow’s-feet around his eyes deepened.

  Before his very eyes, this man had become Anthony’s twin.

  “It’s the glasses,” Justin said. “They can alter your features for a short time. The glasses will make you look like I did when I walked in here. It’ll last long enough for you to get out.”

  Anthony moved forward to touch the man’s cheek.

  Adriana knocked his hand away. “You can play with yourself later, Anthony. We’ve got work to do.” She positioned Justin next to Anthony and inspected them side by side.

  “The plastic surgeon did a pretty good job,” she muttered, sizing up Justin.

  “You had him altered—to look like me?” Anthony asked.

  Adriana sighed. “Do I need to slap you again? Yes, it was necessary for him to pass as you for longer than a few minutes, so he had plastic surgery. He was paid very well for his part in our little masquerade.”

  “My family can afford to move inland now, and live in style to boot,” Justin said. “Put these on.”

  Adriana ran her fingers through Anthony’s hair, then drew them back in disgust, rubbing the grease between her fingertips. “You’ve gone gray, Anthony.” She selected a thin wand from the briefcase and painted Justin’s hair with streaks matching Anthony’s graying temples. After making an adjustment, she reversed the process with Anthony’s hair, darkening it. “Here,” she said to Justin, handing him a small bottle from the briefcase, “oil yourself up. You have to sell it.”

  She stepped back and pursed her lips, comparing the two. “Good.” She snapped her fingers. “Now, swap clothes.”

  He was out of his orange jumpsuit and prison-issued boxers before Justin had taken his pants off. Anthony slipped on Justin’s silk underwear, then his charcoal-gray trousers and cream-colored shirt. He pushed his arms through the lined sleeves of the suit jacket. The suit molded to his body like clothes were supposed to, instead of flapping against his naked skin like the jumpsuit.

  Anthony met Justin’s eyes and extended his hand. “Thank you.”

  The man taking his place gripped his hand. Anthony felt a sudden impulse to tell him all about his routine, the fifty steps in the prison yard, the push-ups, but Adriana interrupted by handing him the glasses.

  “Now for the finishing touch,” she said.

  He weighed them in his hand. They were heavy.

  “The latest in face-skinning tech,” Adriana explained. “It gets the job done, but very uncomfortable to wear for more than a few minutes.”

  “Hurts like hell.” Justin tapped his temple. “Massive headache.” The guy even sounded like Anthony. How many YourVoice videos of Taulke Industries events must Justin have watched to get his voice down so well? He felt a faint stirring of hope in his gut. This could work .

  “It takes about three minutes to map your existing features and then develop the composite projection,” Adriana said. “So chop-chop. We’re on the clock, Anthony.”

  He slipped the glasses on. An intense light pierced his pupils. He felt Justin grip his arm. “Don’t fight it,” his own voice told him. “It’ll just hurt more.”

  Anthony forced his eyelids open and stared at the light. Where the glasses touched his temples, he felt a tingling, then pain as his skin began reshaping itself. His stomach queased. It felt like worms crawling under his skin.

  “It’s working,” Adriana said in a tone like cool water. “The glasses stimulate your facial muscles, then fill in any gaps with holo-tech.”

  Painful minutes passed before she spoke again.

  “The process is settling down. How do you feel?”

  The skin on Anthony’s face ached, and his vision was veiled in a thin red haze. A headache was creeping up from the base of his skull.

  “I’m good.”

  “All right, then. Let’s move.” She pressed the button on the table, and the female guard appeared at the door. Justin stepped out of the room, turned, and was gone.

  The hope in Anthony’s belly blossomed.

  “We’re not done yet.” Adriana took his arm and steered him to the door on the opposite wall. They passed a security station and walked through a wide flagstone lobby, Adriana’s red-lacquered nails gripping Anthony’s bicep.

  Then, for the second time that day, Anthony tasted the sweetness of fresh air. The imposing concrete bulk of the Alcatraz of the Rockies loomed behind him. Through the thin soles of Justin’s leather loafers, he could feel every ice crystal in the snow-packed parking lot.

  He was walking away.

  When they reached Adriana’s Cadillac, she paused at the open door. Through the red veil of the face-skinning glasses, Anthony could see the invitingly soft seat cushions. The air wafting out of the cabin smelled like home.

  “You ride up front, dear,” Adriana purred. “You’re the help now, remember?”

  Anthony circled around the aircar and slid into the passenger’s seat. The driver nodded at him. “You can take them off now,” she said.

  He yanked off the
glasses and massaged his temples. The aircar’s drive spun up.

  “They work well enough, but the side effects suck,” the driver said. “Hydration helps.” She handed him a pouch of water and Anthony drank it down. Real water, refined water. He hadn’t known he was so thirsty.

  “Thank you.” Behind closed eyes, purple-green blooms, remnants of the face-skinning tech, persisted in his vision.

  “No worries.”

  Anthony froze, finally placing the driver’s voice. He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her.

  Helena Telemachus, the woman who’d escorted him to the ADX Florence hellhole as Teller’s representative, grinned back at him. Her green eyes gleamed, and her elfin-sharp ears poked through her mop of dark hair.

  “H,” he managed to say. The warm hope in his gut dimmed. “ What are you doing here?”

  She hissed out a sharp breath of derision. “You don’t think the queen back there put all this together on her own, do you?”

  Anthony gritted his teeth, trying to reconcile the pain from the face-skinning glasses, his joy at being free, and the desire to strangle the gallingly confident young woman sitting next to him.

  She draped a limp hand over the top of the steering wheel as the Cadillac climbed to its cruising altitude and leveled off.

  “You’re welcome for your freedom, Anthony. President Teller has a message for you: get your ass back to work and fix this weather shitstorm you created.”

  Chapter 2

  Ming Qinlao • LUNa City, the Moon

  Ming Qinlao twisted her lithe frame in the narrow maintenance access tunnel and heaved on the wrench, leveraging her full body weight. The fitting turned another few degrees.

  “That’s good, Mary!” came the muffled voice of Alvin Rue, her supervisor, from the maintenance bay.

  Ming let the light Moon gravity slide her down the access tube. Accepting Alvin’s hand at the bottom, she stood up straight and stretched, feeling the vertebrae in her back pop in relief. The front of her jumpsuit was covered in a slimy substance Ming preferred to think of as unidentified until she could take a shower. Just a normal day working on the waste reclamation system in LUNa City, the United Nations’ first sustainable community on the Moon.