Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  “EMP blast.” I nodded toward his head and cyber unit. “Got caught on the edge of it. I don’t know—” my voice choked.

  “He’ll be fine. Just fine. I’ll see to him. Go now.” She waved me off with a dishcloth and went to work, snapping switches, setting leads, fine-tuning the monitors in quick, efficient motions.

  I backed away softly and turned in time to see Alejo limp over and embrace Tam and the Triplets each in turn. Tam was his usual understated self, but I could tell he was relieved to see Alejo, relieved to be here in this dingy cellar. Despite his reservations about Alejo and Carmen’s conversion, I watched his tension drain out.

  The Triplets returned Al’s hugs with huge wraparound arms, lifting him off his feet three times. They were careful not to squeeze too hard. It was Alejo who had smuggled them out of Africa during the final bloody spasms of the Consolidation Wars. He and Tam had found them, cornered, starving, cut-off and alone. The two of them realized what they were and disguised them as best they could among the other refugees hidden in the hold of Alejo’s boat. The old Spaniard had been the first person to ever hug them.

  At last, Alejo came to Gibson. “A ho! What have we here?” He pinched the boy’s cheek then nearly smothered him against his belly. The old Spaniard bent down and peered full into the boy’s eyes. “You travel with serious company, my little friend. You must be very strong and fast to do so.”

  He grabbed Gibson’s arm and made a show of flexing it. “Ah! but surely a boy as dangerous as yourself must be even a little hungry, no?” A huge toothy smile appeared under Al’s walrus moustache.

  Gibson blinked, and smiled back. “Sure.”

  “Good! Very good!” Alejo patted the boy’s stomach. “We can eat then!”

  And we did.

  ---------------------

  Research Facility 5. Asian Pacific Consortium Black Lab – Chishima Islands, Japan. 8:45 a.m.

  A delicate two-tone chime sounded from the computer that made Dr. Iso Shoei set down his data pad and peer over the top of his glasses. Across the desk, a pop-up warning flashed from red to green on the flatscreen, a signal that the decryption algorithm was complete. He frowned and hurried over in small steps, hunched and still gripping the pad’s stylus. He keyed his password and a secondary window blinked open. It was an order from an executive in the European Division for a clone unit requisition.

  He sighed and scratched the side of his nose with the stylus. Nothing unusual there, it was probably some executive requesting Comfort series units for a conference. Dr. Shoei remembered the Director’s Assembly was scheduled for the following week. So predictable, these managers.

  Activated clones were illegal now, of course. They had been ever since the African Wars, but every government and major corporation had kept their genetic engineering and genetic research labs. They’d simply tucked them away in remote locations, like this one. Regardless of United Nation mandates, specialized biological units—bio-forms—were still created for in-house use, and what was termed “possible extreme contingency deployment”. Cached in biogenic suspension tanks, the clone series batches were replenished in eighteen-month cycles to assure top performance and offset storage atrophy.

  Dr. Shoei tore off a Post-it from one of the many pads scattered about, and with a pen poised over the paper, he read the order. His brow furrowed as the text slid past.

  … activation of three (3) Type Five units.

  The message ended with the phrase: “Immediate deployment for operations critical to corporate interests,” and was bracketed by executive authorization codes. He fell back in the chair, blinking at the screen. Type Fives? Dr. Shoei was confused.

  We made it clear in the last report. Don’t they realize…?

  He scrolled back to re-read the main portion of the message. It was very specific. They wanted three units, of the Type Fives. He double-checked the authorization. It was valid.

  A single bead of sweat crept down behind his right ear into his shirt collar, his breath coming in small pants. He gulped his mouth shut and touched the intercom on his desk. “Dr. Hatsumi, meet me in Replication right away. We just received an order for three units. Tier Two approval.”

  “I’m in the middle of a gene sequence here. Can’t Hiru take this one? I’m about to—.”

  “It’s for Type Fives. You’re the only one in this rotation with proper clearance. Meet me in the tank room in three minutes. Dr. Shoei out.” He cut the link and stood up.

  A timer in the message window was counting down to auto-delete, so he transferred the order details onto his data pad, then turned, grabbed his key card and headed out the door.

  As he hurried down the central corridor, the steel-ribbed ceiling suddenly seemed low, and the distant throbbing of geothermal processors only added to his apprehension.

  Three? Why in God’s name do they want three?

  Carved deep underground in volcanic rock of the Chishima island chain, Dr. Shoei’s lab was a “black” facility: classified, isolated, and heavily guarded. The Japanese consortium enticed the best and brightest from every university and scientific firm in the region in the relentless pursuit of cutting edge biotech. Dr. Shoei ran Asian Pacific’s entire bio-form department, and had developed all four of their current stock series models: medical testing, labor, soldier, and comfort series. He was the father of the corporate giant’s clone division.

  But the Type Fives are still too volatile. Their physiological capabilities are undeniable, yes, but the neural-restraints are tenuous—at best. Released into society they’d be sociopaths. A very high-risk product.

  He stepped up to the elevator, the heavy doors opening with a brisk hydraulic sigh as he waved his card. His right hand in his lab coat pocket clutching the data pad now. He felt the merest nudge as he started descending.

  Tier Two authority. What choice do I have? Really?

  Seconds later, the floating sensation ceased. “Yellow Section. Level Four, Unit 731,” the elevator announced. He stepped out and headed left to the clone banks, his mind racing. The other four gene-sets were stable, perfect. But it had taken time to work the bugs out. He’d told them that. He thought the directors respected him, had listened.

  They are not mature yet.

  These units—shinigami designation—would be his finest work yet. Infiltrator units with configurable cosmetic morphology, Type Fives could be produced resembling any human racial type on the planet. Perfect for assassination, sabotage, and espionage missions, they’d also rank among the best tactical units ever manufactured. Better than the quirky albino series Pretoria spliced for the African Civil Wars. Dr. Shoei just needed more time with them. But it didn’t look like he was going to get that, not with an immediate requisition in his pocket.

  His forehead was pebbled with perspiration as he pushed through the faded blue double doors into the Replication wing. Dr. Hatsumi was already waiting for him, nervousness etched on his face as well. He bowed low. “Are you sure they want Type Fives? Now? At this stage? They can’t be serious.”

  Dr. Shoei waved the data pad in front of the younger scientist. “They are serious. The order’s green stamped for extreme contingency deployment. I confirmed the authorization codes. They’re Tier Two—a District Manager with the European offices. We have to comply and fill the order.”

  “Yes. But three?”

  “Three.”

  “That’s… Dr. Shoei, the Fives are still in the developmental phase. Your Q1 report stated their conditioning hadn’t rooted. The behavior patterns were still highly erratic. Even when complete, they should only be activated in cases of extreme necessity.”

  “Well, Dr. Hatsumi, someone upstairs feels this is an extreme necessity.” He looked wearily at the younger man, and gestured with the data pad again. “Are you saying we refuse to perform this procedure? You know what that would mean, yes?”

  “I... well, no. I mean… Dr. Shoei, it’s just that they are dangerous. I was simply expressing some professional reservations.
My apologies.” He bowed.

  “No, no, no. None of that. You are right. But we have orders,” the older scientist said. “Once they leave the facility, however, it’s out of our hands. You start the de-tank process, and I will switch on the automated defense systems for this area. As a precaution.” He bent over a security terminal and started logging in. “And we are not going to stimulate their tactical and combat enhancements until the pheno-imprint is stabilized. Even then, we will instruct Operations to only inject the neuro-chemical triggers when they’re deployed in the target environment. Agreed?”

  “Fine. The less we handle the units, the better. What are the gender and imprint requirements?”

  “Two male, one female. Latin phenotype. Engagement area is Spain, Catalonian region. Occupational covers are lower-class laborers: courier and dockworker for the males, medical orderly for the female. Initiate the pheno-imprint chemicals simultaneous with the thaw to speed up the process. I want them out of here as quickly as possible. Once they’re defined, forward the details to Operations so they can insert cover profiles into the Barcelona Metro Zone population database.”

  “Of course, Doctor. I’ll select appropriate units and start the de-tank sequence right away.”

  “Very good,” the older man said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: EL TACTO DEL FANTASMA

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Spain. New European Union. 9:05 a.m. Day One.

  Eleven armored personnel carriers crouched in the walled lot behind Barcelona Metro Comisaría de Policías 137, engines idling, waiting. The turbine purr strained the morning air, blocking out the city sounds all around them. Their drivers had activated their mimetic camouflage, making their hard armored edges fuzz into dingy blurs against the surrounding buildings. To Major Eames, the vehicles seethed like a brood of giant crocodiles, thick and anxious to menace the new day, and she liked that.

  The back hatches were slung open and armed men peered out from their interiors, stone-faced and still. Their commander, a Mossos d’Esquadra colonel, was standing at attention in the middle of the lot; his face was flushed red as the British corporate commander yelled two inches from his nose.

  “You think? Think, Colonel? That’s not in your job description! You read the orders: Madrid says you and your men are seconded to me! To me. For. The. Duration! What don’t you understand about that? As long as this operation is running, this is my unit! My command! I do the thinking around here!”

  She looked up and yelled even louder, her voice rebounding off the tall, ashen walls. “Listen up, because I’m only going to explain this one time. The Crisis and Cooperation Act is now in force. This operation is considered a matter of national security, so all corporate and governmental forces in the BMZ will coordinate under my command until the situation is resolved. This case has priority over routine law enforcement. Is that understood?”

  “Si, Major,” came the dull answer.

  Major Eames grunted at the lame response. “I’m not leaving your city to the dogs, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m saying pack your bags, gentlemen, because you’ll be living at the stations until further notice. I’ve mandated double shifts for everyone until we get what we came for. I don’t want to hear any whining either—you’ll be getting standard overtime pay.”

  That statement brought a few groans mingled with murmurs of approval. Extra credits were always good, particularly when a corporation was footing the bill. Eames noticed most of the men were sitting up straighter. She had their attention now.

  “The fact is, D-H Corporate Security has been tasked with apprehending some illegals, a crew of sprawl scum that heisted a piece of proprietary technology. Our intel division believes they’re in your city. Right now.”

  She began pacing, looking into each of the carriers in turn. “Now, my men and I are here because these aren’t your usual dump-raiding scabs. They’re better equipped, better trained, and armed to the teeth. Most likely ex spec-ops or top echelon security from some rat’s ass country. They made the fatal mistake of breaking into one of our research labs then killed a bunch of people on the way out.”

  She paused for effect. “So here’s the deal. First, any soldier who secures or terminates one of these mercs gets a pay-grade jump and six-month bonus. Tax free. Second, you recover the asset in question, there’s an added transfer benefit: you and your whole family, anywhere under the D-H umbrella. Now that right there is more than enough incentive to keep kicking in doors until we find them. And we will find them. In fact, I’m going to get our property back and put these mercenary fuckers in the dirt. And you’re going to help me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Si, Major!” A chorus of whistles and laughter barked out of the darkened interiors, then a rhythmic thudding as the troopers started pounding their boots on the steel plate floors.

  “Outstanding,” Major Eames said. “I’m confident you men won’t disappoint me. Section leaders have their orders, now let’s roll.”

  Major Jessa Eames spun on her heel and stalked towards her command vehicle. She motioned the colonel alongside. “Mossos d’Esquadra units are going to seal the main checkpoints in each district. Nothing flies, floats, or rolls in the sprawls without us knowing. I’ve also ordered Grupo Especial de Operaciones and Guardia Civil units to assist with the search phase. We’re going to lock down and sweep districts in turn. The G.E.O. will act as reserves for major incidents. My Special Deployment units are on twenty-four hour stand-by for any solid leads. Understood?”

  “Si, Major Eames!”

  She stopped abruptly and looked at the Spanish colonel. The name on his uniform read “Estevana”. “Colonel Estevana, the BMZ newsnets are going to start running terrorist alerts as part of our cover story. We’ve profiled up an Afghani narco-terrorist gang, an al-Qaeda offshoot, that’s targeting the port with pocket nukes. Story is they’re staging and recruiting in the zones, so make sure your men stick to that. We’re offering the usual perks for info leading to arrest, suspicious activity, all that. The phones and net are going to go crazy at first, but we can sift out the cranks and get solid leads. We wave enough credits around, sooner or later some scab will drop a dime. In the meantime, I want you and four of your units with me. I’ve got forensic teams with gene sniffers waiting at the airport. We’re going to start sweep operations in the southern district. Sprawlers there are still pissy about the Tres Vergüenzas, right? We don’t want the Basque scabs to think we’re ignoring them.”

  -------------

  Tam and I were mopping up the last of our eggs when Alejo slid the small white box across the table to us. It was a RFID chip for the BMZ population database. “Here, this is a good one. Fresh from the factory. Nothing high profile, it’s out of a run designated for low-level laborers, domestics, people like that. You still with Rao in Belfast?”

  Tam nodded, his mouth full.

  “Good! He was always smart at cover IDs. I’ll send him the serial number so he can construct one and paste it in to the database. Then you should have no troubles for food and clothing while you’re here. I know where we can get you some clothes, things to blend in.” He winked and waved toward the old military crates along the wall. “And, I bet I have some old equipment kicking around somewhere... in case you need it.”

  He hunched forward over the scarred top of the door table. “You must be careful going out on the streets. Things here are difficult, even more these days. There are many who would sell their family for a corporate chip. Always the UpCity offers rewards, bonuses, even citizenship, to those who inform on criminals, smugglers, suspicious activity. It is tempting for many.”

  He gestured over to the Triplets, who were clustered around Gibson and helping him finish his breakfast. “They must stay in. Their size and color would give them away in a second.” He snapped his fingers. “But that is obvious, no? What of the little one?” he smiled slyly. “You are bringing him to his family?”

  Alejo figured Gibson for the child or relati
ve of some corporate defector who wanted their family brought over to them. A common enough job, it was easy to assume we’d run a snatch to reunite him with a mother or father. Any other time he’d have been right. Tam shook his head.

  “He was our target for this run, yes… but he’s the asset, Alejo. Big time.”

  Alejo looked at the boy through narrowed eyes. “And so little, he does… what?”

  Tam and I smiled at him.

  “Sorry. Old habits. You’re right, of course.” He shrugged and leaned back. “You know, I thank God every day now. I’m happy to be here, to have lived to be old, to be with Carmen.”

  “Here we go with a life choices sermon…” Tam said.

  Alejo grinned. “What, you get a lot of those?”

  “Hell no, look where we are,” I said.

  Alejo laughed. “You know I still dream of diesel and cordite? Sometimes I close my eyes and see the open sea in the moonlight. I remember the electricity of slipping past an UNdie blockade.”

  “You’re not getting all sentimental in your old age, are you?” I asked.

  “No, no. But we did many things, some of them even good.” He gestured toward the Triplets.

  “Some of them even good,” Tam nodded.

  Then the old Spaniard frowned. “Carmen gets angry when I tell the children about Greece and Turkey, the towns on the coast, the mountain roads in the ‘Stans. She wants them to stay in school. Become doctors, relief workers… Leave the past behind, she says. She’s afraid the children might talk, let something slip to the wrong people. But I know…” he tapped the side of his nose with his finger, “she does not want them to get ideas. She thinks what we did was dangerous.”

  “Ummm… Al?” Tam looked intently at him. “It was.”

  “Yes, Yes. It was. You’re right, of course.” He glanced over at his wife, who was now busy defending Gibson against Flopsy and Mopsy’s predations on his breakfast plate. “Now I am called to overcome evil with good, as the Scripture says. We still know so many from that life, and we tell them how we changed. Some listen and they walk with God now. But others… I have to remind them of old times, use old tricks, and get them to do good in spite of themselves, you know?” He chuckled darkly. “Whatever it takes, yes?”