About the Author
Mark Ciccone is a science fiction and alternate history writer, based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA. He holds a PhD in American History (Civil War & Reconstruction, a favourite period for his current and future alternate history work) from UW-Milwaukee. His other works include Red Delta, Obsidian & Steel, For State & Country, Divided Worlds: An Alternate Space Race, Dillinger in Charleston and Dixie Curtain. A lover of reading in general, and sci-fi and history in particular, he was first introduced to writing for pleasure and publication in 2010, with the online competition NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Since then, he has competed in and won NaNoWriMo every year, and hardly a day passes for him without some kind of writing work. Nonetheless, he always makes room for at least an hour of reading a day, and the occasional relaxing smelly-sock tug-of-war with Maddie, the family dog.
Discarded
Mark Ciccone
This edition first published in 2021
Unbound
TC Group, Level 1, Devonshire House, One Mayfair Place, London, W1J 8AJ
www.unbound.com
All rights reserved
© Mark Ciccone, 2021
The right of Mark Ciccone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-78965-124-9
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-78965-123-2
Cover design by Mecob
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
Contents
About the Author
Super Patrons
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
Epilogue
Patrons
Super Patrons
Reni Adebayo (@reniadeb)
Kevin Bragg
Dan Brotzel, Martin Jenkins & Alex Woolf
Jacqui Castle
Emily Ciccone
May Ciccone
Sue Clark
Jason Cobley
Samuel Dodson
Friends and Family
Kathleen Gettrust
Eamonn Griffin
Steve Harris
Barbara Hoppe
Julian Hynd
Mike James
Matt Kirley
Matthew Kirley
Sue Knox
Alice Meadows
Amy-Mae Miller
Rhel ná DecVandé
John-Michael O’Sullivan
James Pierson
Michael Russell
Linda Schmeling
Ste Sharp
Brian Thompson
Renee Thompson
Tom Ward
Brigitte Zimmerman
Chapter 1
Washington, D.C.
March 2056, 3:00am
The monitor beeped, signalling the hour. Tony Brant set aside his book with a grunt, and eased his feet off the console. He checked the holo-screens: nothing on the corridor cameras, those covering the outside compound area, or beyond the electrified fence. Hardly anything from the motion-trackers, either, other than a few whispers that pointed to rabbits or some other small wildlife.
He tapped at the glowing keys, acknowledging the time. Adjusting his utility belt, he stood up and started for the door, murmuring, ‘Time is now 0100. Beginning hourly walk-through. Nothing to report yet.’ The transparent sticky-mike under his lapel sent this on to both the servers in the building and those at ProShield Security HQ. That, combined with the cameras watching in the hallways, would satisfy the owners and his boss that he really wasn’t sleeping on the job.
Not that the place would get ripped off or fall apart if I did. When he’d first taken the night shift here, six months ago, he’d been surprised at the security laid out for the place. Nestled in the mostly derelict northwestern part of what had been Turmoil-era D.C.’s Military Zone, the site consisted of a single square office building, three floors above and one below. All his boss had told him was it had once belonged to some software company, which had gone belly-up in ’46 and was now owned by the city – which exact agency, he didn’t know, or care. The aboveground workspaces and computer labs were crammed with filing cabinets, plastic tubs and cardboard boxes, all of them overflowing with documents or computer parts. It was almost like the National Archives downtown, only neater.
Below ground, it wasn’t much different. One small records room, protected by a vault door, and two basement garages that had been sealed off with concrete and earth – probably to turn them into more archive space. Tony had access to the records room but had been warned on his first day only to enter it when his boss or the building owner was present and ordering him to do so. He had no idea what was stored inside, or why there were so many sensitive yet discreet precautions around it and the building. He didn’t mind not knowing, in any case – after his time in uniform, abroad and at home, he preferred the quiet bliss of not knowing much beyond a few simple rules or facts.
The overhead lights flickered just as that thought crossed his mind. As he looked up, they blinked again, and went out, plunging the room into darkness. He stiffened, then relaxed when he saw other lights from the city through a conference room window. Even with the ‘Second Reconstruction’ finally up and running after four years, the power grid in D.C. – and nationwide – was still spotty at best. The emergency generator automatically kicked in after thirty seconds, unless the blackout ended before then.
A faint pop sounded from somewhere above him. Clicking on the flashlight at his belt buckle, he stepped closer to the window, waiting. Then he frowned, peering harder at the outside lights. The glow seemed too close for a local failure. Looking past the fence, he saw one or two old streetlights on, down the road. If they were still burning… He looked down at the luminous dials on his watch: 03:20. The generator should have kicked in almost a full minute ago.
Spinning on his heel, Tony speed-walked back to the door. Taking the stairs two or three at a time, he rapped out, ‘03:19. Blackout of unexplained nature; generators unresponsive. Moving to—’ He caught himself. If both the grid and the generator were out, the servers would be, too, which meant no wi-fi, and all hardline links had been removed in the original security set-up, to avoid possible cyberattacks. He grabbed for the backup walkie on his shirtfront. It didn’t have much range, but his company maintained another security post maybe three blocks away, and the blackout didn’t look to have extended that far.
Reaching the first floor, he saw the lights were all down there as well. He headed toward the main office, thumbing the walkie’s transmit button as he walked. ‘This is Tony Brant, ProShield ID number 7556-80. Unexplained b
lackout taking place at my location; generator unresponsive. Please advise.’
The only answer was a harsh buzz of static. That was unsettling. The radio was practically clear-channel, and there were plenty of other users within range. He should be able to hear faint voices or codes, even if he couldn’t reach or recognise them. What the hell’s going on? He hit transmit again, to make the same call, when a new thought struck him. That pop… right before the lights failed… No… It couldn’t have been… But nothing else fit. Which meant…
His hand dropped to the 9mm at his waist. In that same instant, a faint waft of air seemed to swirl around him. Out of nowhere, a gloved hand closed tight around his wrist. He twisted instinctively… and then he was facedown on the carpet, pinned by someone’s arm or knee, his gun hand wrenched up behind him. He struggled, trying to twist free, and drew in a breath to shout.
A sharp coldness pressed at his neck, just above the carotid. ‘Quiet,’ a voice from behind him murmured: a woman’s. ‘Cooperate, and you won’t be harmed.’ Keeping his head still, Tony allowed the rest of his body to go slack. The pressure at his back eased. ‘Smart,’ said the voice. A fierce jerk on his arm, and he was hauled upright, the knife still at his throat. The intruder spoke again. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes,’ another voice answered – deep, and male. A shadowy figure moved into the weak beam of the belt-light. He was a full head taller than the guard’s five-ten, dressed in grey-and-white running pants and jacket. A mask of some blue-black, shimmery fabric covered his face, except for his eyes and mouth. When he stepped closer, the guard saw gloves of similar make covering his hands, running up into his sleeves and down over his feet. It was like an all-over wetsuit, or some weird BDSM outfit.
With a few deft motions, the second intruder removed Tony’s sidearm and ejected the clip, then broke the weapon down and tossed the pieces down the hall. Sliding the clip inside his jacket, he spoke two words. ‘Let’s go.’
Tony felt the hold on his arm vanish. Before he could even twitch, steel-like fingers clamped at the back of his neck. Speaking carefully, he asked, ‘Where?’
‘Downstairs,’ the woman replied. ‘You’ll open the vault, we’ll take what we need, and be on our way.’
‘I can’t. The power’s down, and the locks are sealed—’
The grip on his neck tightened, making him gasp. ‘There’s a back-up generator, separate from the one for the building,’ the woman said, a touch colder. ‘Runs all the time, protected from any energy spikes. But you already knew that, so don’t waste our time – and yours.’
‘Easy,’ the man said, raising a hand. ‘He’s just a grunt, only told what he needs to know… and I doubt he knows anything beyond the door.’ His eyes – blue-green, with an eerie glow of some kind, or so it looked – fixed onto Tony’s. ‘Like my partner said, we don’t want to harm you. Comply, and we’ll be gone in a few very short minutes. Don’t, and we’ll resort to other measures – ones we prefer not to use unless absolutely necessary.’
The knife pressed deeper into Tony’s throat. He swallowed, carefully. ‘All right… All right.’ The man nodded once. The grip at his neck disappeared, along with the knife. Then a sharp prod at his back: get moving.
Unlike the doors opening onto the other three floors, which required just a swipe from his ID card, the one leading to the basement needed both that and a separate keycode. When he approached the panel, however, the keys were dark. The door opened easily when he turned the handle. When the three of them started down the stairs to the corridor beyond, the second intruder removed a small pin light from some hidden pocket, and attached it to the front of his jacket, throwing eerie shadows off the walls with every stride.
The corridor beyond was plain grey-white walls, with tan linoleum flooring. After maybe a minute’s walk, they reached the vault – a single square stainless-steel door, with thumbprint scanner, keypad and ID swipe. Tony glanced over his shoulder, and saw both intruders watching impassively. ‘If the vault’s on its own power, it probably has a wi-fi link, too. Even if my bosses didn’t get a signal from me, they might from the vault’s system, and—’
‘We’re aware of that,’ the woman replied curtly. She was dressed in the same running gear and all-over mask. Her black-brown eyes boring into him, she flashed the knife again—eight inches long at least, with a gleaming hairsplitter edge. ‘So I suggest you get a move on.’
Trying to ignore his racing heartbeat, Tony placed his left thumb on the scanner, then swiped his card and punched in the code. A faint beep sounded, followed by a set of loud clunks as the locks withdrew. The door popped open a foot, letting out a rush of pressurised air into the corridor.
Noiselessly, the man stepped past and grasped the edge of the door with one hand. In the poor light, Tony could just make out his fingers and upper arm tensing and flexing, pushing sharply against the metal. At first, he thought the other man hadn’t correctly guessed the door’s weight, and would soon try to wrench it open further with both hands. Then the thick slab swung away, as easy as if it were cheap plywood.
His jaw dropped. What… What the hell… Before he could speak, the woman stepped in front of him, knife at the ready, blocking most of his view as her partner stepped across the threshold. Keeping his gaze in the general direction of hers, he stole several quick glances over her shoulder. He spotted a single office chair standing against the far wall, facing an old-style solid computer monitor and hard drive. The secure storage boxes were interspersed throughout the room, miniature keypads brightly lit.
The man stepped up to the monitor. Even at a distance, the guard could see him reach into another part of his jacket, and pull out a matchbook-sized device, which he placed atop the hard drive. A faint whining note emanated from the machine, fading after a few seconds. His back still to the door, the man retrieved the device, holding it between two fingers as he moved closer to the storage wall. He rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing more of the black skinsuit, or whatever it was. Ignoring a warning glance from the woman, Tony angled his head for a better look, and saw the man touch his thumb to the fabric at his left wrist. A holo-screen, about the size of a large notecard, shimmered into existence above the forearm sleeve.
Surprised at the door, Tony was flabbergasted now. As he watched, the man pressed the device to his sleeve, just below the screen. The image blinked several times, displaying several lines of illegible text. The man grunted, a single note of satisfaction, and looked around at the various boxes. ‘It’s here,’ he said.
The woman nodded, not taking her eyes off Tony. ‘Fine.’ With no more warning than that, the pommel of her knife lashed out for Tony’s face.
Reflex kicked in at once. Tony ducked, and rolled to one side as the blow struck the wall. Blade ready this time, the woman straightened, and charged. He crouched low on the balls of his feet, and sprang forward, catching her by the waist. She let out a startled ‘Oof!’ as they landed hard on the corridor floor, him straddling her chest. Not wasting a second, he raised a fist and punched her in the jaw, smashing her head against the floor. A spike of pain hammered up his arm, but his shout was drowned by the woman’s scream – and the crackle of breaking teeth and bone. His smile was half exertion, half snarl; he’d gone through plenty of boxing in the gym and the Army, and he could land blows as well as any pro. The woman lay still, moaning. Even with the mask, he could see how misaligned the jaw was. He lifted his arm for the shock-cuffs at his belt, almost an automatic motion – just as the woman’s knife hand came up.
Lights exploded in front of his eyes. He flew backwards, crumpling against the wall. Everything was spinning: the vault, the walls, the floor. Groaning, he looked up to see the woman getting to her feet. When she turned to look at him, he saw her jaw and mouth, what should have been a mangled, soppy mess of blood and teeth… already shifting back into place, as if by its own will. He goggled as the woman brought a hand to her mouth, wiping away a gob of red muck from her lips. Beneath, the gash from his punch w
as slowly fading, sewing back together – leaving unmarked skin beneath. Then a curtain of black crashed down over his eyes, and he knew nothing else.
*
At the sound from outside, Greg spun around. He was at the vault door in a blink, one hand reaching inside his jacket. Stepping out, he looked to his left in time to see the guard topple to the ground, dead or unconscious. Slowly, he fought down the gut reaction, and looked Leah’s way. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he murmured.
‘More secure than tying him up.’ Her voice was mushy, but understandable – the compound was working fast, as always. Retrieving her knife, Leah slipped it beneath her own jacket. A flap of the clinger suit immediately peeled free and closed over the blade, sheathing it.
‘And if he dies in the next ten minutes?’ he said, still quiet, but with a sharper edge. ‘This isn’t Pyongyang or Tehran – we can’t leave bodies. Not here.’
Leah gave him an annoyed look. He met it with a stony one of his own. With an air of granting a great concession, she nodded, and bent to the guard’s side. She put two fingers to his neck, and delicately peeled back an eyelid. ‘Just out cold. He’ll come to in maybe half an hour.’ She straightened, and looked at Greg impatiently. ‘Now let’s get moving. Somebody’s bound to notice an EMP going off in this city, no matter how small.’
Letting it go, Greg stepped back into the vault. He looked over the walls again, until he spotted the box that had been indicated on the hard drive’s records, set directly above the monitor. Taking the code-cloner out again, he attached it just below the keypad. The little device beeped once, twice, three times. Then the keypad’s screen blinked on, a cascade of numbers flashing across it. After maybe five seconds, the access code froze on the screen: 776532846536. With a loud click, the box unlocked, and slid open.
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