The two fired again, this time zeroed on his position, and Cottontail felt a round burn through his shoulder, another crease his ribs. He could tell the woman was creeping up on his right, but the men were still too far away. He couldn’t spring the trap yet.
Ignoring the blood warmth spreading down his side, he drew his pistol, a slab-sided Russian MP-443 “Grach” 9mm. He frowned. He wasn’t sure his shots had penetrated the propane tank.
When the rattling ceased, he jumped up, fired off a full clip, and ran alongside the conveyor to a juncture where several tracks merged. Another bullet seared into his hip. He lunged down at the intersection, panting, and craned his head to listen. There, behind the two men, he caught the telltale hiss of the propane tank leaking.
All three abiku started moving in for the kill. The two men stepped out from behind the shelves, and Cottontail spied the cold-eyed woman’s legs making scissoring shadows beneath the machines. Any second now.
Footsteps on concrete two meters in front of him. His large hands were slick with blood, shaking with adrenaline and blood loss, but he reloaded his pistol and dug two flares out of his pocket.
The leg shadows on his right knotted and paused.
Now.
Cottontail twisted the igniters and the flares blossomed white and sizzled. He signaled his brothers—a sharp, ululating whistle—rose to his full height and hurled them straight into the exo-loader bay.
He was staring into the face of the large man, his rifle on his shoulder, his dark eyes flat like pebbles, his mouth black and open to yell.
Like a mamba snake, Cottontail thought.
The tank exploded in a long belch of flame and a flurry of pistol shots erupted behind the two men. His brothers were moving in.
They would deal with the men. Cottontail spun to face the woman.
Stunned, eyes wide at the explosion, she snapped off a tri-burst past his head. One round clipped his ear, hot blood splashing down his neck.
On either side of a large conveyor, Cottontail and the female abiku opened fire and dove to one side. Each missed the other. Rollers rattled, and Cottontail lost sight of her as another length of boxes sped by.
Half a clip left, two flares in his pocket, he moved toward the raised bed of the conveyor belt, every nerve taut. Behind him, gunshots bickered over the cackling flames. His brothers had their hands full. At least she won’t find an exit there, he thought. She’ll have to go up a level and find a way around. Cottontail’s foot nudged something solid: one of the massive crowbars had been left on the floor. He hefted it in his other hand like a spear and kept hunting.
The rollers rasped again, and a line of neon green crates dropped out of the ceiling onto the conveyor at the same moment the woman emerged behind him. She’d doubled back after all.
Cottontail only had time to empty the last of his pistol rounds into the air, but it was enough. The woman flinched, and in that sliver of hesitation, he jammed the crowbar between the conveyor rollers and wrenched down with all his strength. The entire segment of crates went airborne, a vivid lime steel python that slammed into the woman and smashed her back into a duracrete column. Warning sirens warbled and every the belt on the floor skidded to a stop.
Panting, Cottontail heard two pistol shots behind him, followed by an ululating whistle.
The abiku were dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: CHERNOBYL PACKET
Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Bureau D. South Dock, Level Five. 9:11 p.m. Day Five.
“Status Report,” Colonel Otsu snapped.
“Multiple units attacking from Sections Three and Six. They’re jamming the turrets and have gotten past the Legation boundaries on both sides. Captain Murata reports his men are falling back. He requests backup.”
“Get the automated systems back online, now! Murata has to hold. I’ve got nothing else to give him. You,” he pointed to one of the technicians, “notify Tokyo and forward the camera feed. They need to see this.”
The Command Center was frantic; lights, alarms, all the technicians yelling, scared, talking at once. Colonel Otsu was stunned. He couldn’t believe the British had dared to assault them. Such foolish, reckless desperation… over what? He didn’t even know if the mercenaries had arrived safely.
The sounds of the battle came over the speakers, gunfire and shouts adding to the din in the large room. One of the windows shattered, the black armorglass showering down in daggers.
“They’re here,” one of the technicians shouted. Colonel Otsu frowned. The tactical map didn’t show any Dawson-Hull units this close. He was about to order them to activate the storm shutters when the smell of rotten apples and garlic filled the room.
His throat closed and his face started to twitch. That, mercifully, was the last thing he remembered.
------------
The doors slid open as Tam and I stepped up to the Command Center, but no one greeted us. There was a conspicuous absence of guards and secretaries in the reception room. The place was neat and orderly, and empty. Behind the counter, a heavy security door was locked open, and I heard the sound of the storm wind howling from the room beyond.
“OK. This feels wrong.” Poet brought his magnum up in a two-handed grip. “What… what the hell’s that smell?”
“Shit,” Tam muttered.
“More like bad apples.” Poet9 looked back at us. “Oh…”
Tam nodded toward the open door. “In there. Jace, hold Gibson. Poet, you and I go first.”
Tam drew his Beretta, and he and Poet stepped cautiously into the Asian Pacific Consortium’s Command and Communications Center. “Jace,” he called out after a moment. “You’re going to want to see this.”
I stepped through the vault-like door and stared.
Storm winds were gusting through a large shattered window. The lights were on, computers humming away. A dozen large screens ran live feed from the security cameras showing Asian Pacific and Dawson-Hull troopers fighting at various locations. Except for the bodies and the broken window, the scene was perfectly normal.
It looked like the entire staff was there, all of them sitting in their chairs or slumped over workstations. There was no blood, or signs of a struggle. An older man, a uniformed officer, was crumpled on the floor in the middle of the room.
Tam pointed at his shoulder insignia. “There’s our colonel.”
“OK, this is officially creeping me out,” I said. “What do we do now?”
Poet9 stepped forward and listened. “The mainframe’s up. We’re tapped straight into the APAC network here.” He unzipped his jack cords.
“Are you serious?” Tam asked. “You’re splicing now?”
“Think they’ll mind?” Poet9 nodded toward the bodies. He holstered Grace and sat down at the main console. “Watch the door, amigos. I’m going to sift their logs and find out what happened.”
“You’re not exactly who I had in mind for the interface,” a voice lilted out.
We all drew on the voice, and the man called Hester stepped out of the corner. He had an IMI Blizzard in one hand and a silver canister in the other.
“What are you doing here?” Tam asked.
“Is that my SMG? I hate it when people take my stuff,” I asked.
“No, Mr. Manner, you just have good taste. And I’m just doing my job, Mr. Song.” He gave a slight mocking bow towards us. “Congrats on making it here with the boy, by the way. I knew you could do it.”
“Where’s Alejo and Carmen, and Ibram?”
“At their friend’s boat. A very unusual one it is too. You kept up your side, I kept up mine.”
“What are you doing here then?” I repeated Tam’s question.
“Tying up a couple of loose ends.”
“I hope you don’t mean us,” Tam said quietly.
“If I did, you’d never have seen me coming. Lucky for you, I’ve a soft spot for talent. I’m talking about him.” He nodded my way, at Gibson.
“What about him?
He’s dying. We’ve got to get him next door to a doctor,” Poet9 interjected.
“I’m afraid there’s no time for that right now,” Hester shook his head. “I need him to jack in.”
“What? That’s why he’s sick in the first place,” I said. “Cyber-connectivity. The more he does it, the faster it kills him.”
“I know,” Hester nodded sadly. “Nonetheless.”
“Are you listening?” Poet9 yelled. “Interfacing. Only. Makes it. Worse. Look at him, he needs a doctor now.”
“My mission is more important.”
“What mission? What are you talking about?” Poet said. “You got what you wanted. We delivered him. He needs a doctor, you heartless bastard.”
“Guilty as charged, Mr. Perez. Frankly, I’m surprised he made it this far. The whole project has been a bit dodgy from the start, and…” Hester held up a small device in his hand, “he’s dangerously close to having a Fatal Cascade Event. I can’t risk that happening just yet.”
“What project? And what’s a Fatal Cascade Event?” Poet9 demanded.
Hester shrugged. “The boy is one of an exclusive clone series, gene-tailored to accommodate developmental nanotechnology.”
“We got that part,” I said. “We saw it work. He saved Poet’s life.”
“Yes, it does work… to a degree. Our biotech division has developed nanite technology to a functional stage, but only for extremely limited durations in the specially modified biological platforms. Gibson is the latest modified host for the latest version of the prototype nanites.”
“If it works, why let us snatch him?” Tam asked.
“Because the program has cost the Conglomerate billions so far, and there’s no guarantee the technology will ever fully mature. However, London did see an opportunity in its temporary stability.”
“How?”
“They ‘leaked’ news of successful trials to a certain regional administrator in a rival corporation who is known for his ambition and rash judgment. The Board trusted his base nature to take its course.”
“And that’s where we came in,” Tam said.
“Got it in one. At least Avery Hsiang gets high marks for an excellent choice of talent.”
“If you really work for D-H, why is Special Deployment after us?” Poet9 demanded.
“Drama. We had to make it convincing, didn’t we?” Hester gave one of his little smiles.
“So this was a bloody charade? Hsiang contracted us on the information you gave him. You devious bastards,” I said. “But what the hell good does it do you?”
“Trade secrets, I’m afraid.”
“Answer the damn question!” Tam said.
Hester glanced at the video screens. The Special Deployment troops were closing in. “Gibson’s neural network has a little extra code meshed with the interface system: a Trojan virus that will download once he’s logged into their mainframe. Once it burrows its way in, D-H intelligence gets a back door into the Asian Pacific Intranet; every file, every memo, every spreadsheet, projection, every dirty little secret.”
“Flipping brilliant,” Poet murmured.
“As a topper, the lab rats worked in a Chernobyl Packet. Trigger it, and Asian Pacific’s entire cyber-infrastructure melts down. London will be able to eliminate a major rival in one simple key stroke.”
“Or hold them hostage indefinitely,” I said.
“Right. And now that we’re all on the same page…” Hester regarded us intently, “my boss needs him to jack in. He might be under the weather, but as far as I can tell, he’s still got enough left in him for one more go. Now,” he pointed at me with the Blizzard, “bring him over to the mainframe, would you?”
None of us moved. “And if we refuse?” Tam asked.
“After all we’ve been through together? I’d be very disappointed, Mr. Song.”
I held out Gibson in my arms. “Look at him, Hester. He won’t survive another jack-in,” I said.
“Nonetheless, I insist. It needs doing.”
It was silent in the room for several long seconds except for the sound of gunfire carried through the open window.
“Piss off,” Poet finally said. “I won’t let you kill him.” Grace was in his hand.
“Then we have a proverbial Mexican stand-off, don’t we? No pun intended.” Hester waggled the silver canister at him.
“I said, piss off.” Poet9 spit out the words. “I’m not going to let a little kid die for your cloak and dagger boludeces.”
Hester held out the silver canister again. “Novichok agent.”
“Novi-what agent?” I said.
“Novichok. It means ‘newcomer’ in Russian. That smell? It’s a fourth generation nerve gas developed under Putin and Medvedev. I hit the red button, you spasm so hard you actually break your own back.” He looked around the room.
“You don’t have the balls to do yourself just to get us,” Poet sneered.
“Try me.”
“Screw you, Hester.” Tam raised his Beretta. “Gibson deserves better than to give his life for a hostile takeover.”
Tension silted up in the room, building with every gust that clawed through the shattered glass.
Tam’s eyes tightened, Poet was chewing his lip, and I hunched over Gibson, turning toward the heavy door. Hester’s smile froze.
“Stop.” Gibson spoke out. Green eyes looked up at me. “Bring me over,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Bring me over to the computer.” His words were small and coming from far away.
“Voice of reason, that is,” Hester said and pointed. “The one with the fiber optic links.”
The barrels of Tam and Poet’s pistols dropped slightly, and I carried the boy past Poet9, his body small and light, fragile as bird’s bones. He was sweating, but when I set him in the chair, he shivered as if it was arctic cold. His hands trembled as he pulled out his jack cord.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered in his ear.
“Yes, I do. I don’t want anyone dying for me.” He plugged in.
“Gibson,” I started to speak, but he put his hand on mine and looked into my face, his eyes bright with a strange look of calm. “Jace, it’s OK. I’m not scared.”
He turned back, closed those eyes, and his little fingers hurried over the keyboard.
Gibson started his run.
-------------
Gibson: It always begins the same way: tumbling in the black nowhere until a horizon line forms and suddenly I’m on the cliff. That’s another thing that’s the same every time: the feeling of standing at the edge of a vast deepness that drops away beneath my feet.
My head hurts, pounding sharp spikes with every heartbeat, and I can’t see the lines. The skeletons and spider webs aren’t forming. Everything stays dark, and my head hurts, but somehow I can hear Carmen reading.
Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.
There: one bright white-hot dot shining in the empty black like the last star in the universe.
Even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me. If I say, “Surely the darkness shall fall on me,” even the night shall be light about me;
I’m there with a thought, and instantly the other structures spring up, emerging like a magician’s trick conjured by my movement. One shape in particular floats high above me; an inverted pyramid spinning on its point. There’s a delicate webwork of a thousand million strands connecting at that single spot.
That’s where the man wants me to go.
I step into the light and flow with the data, picking up commands and pass codes as I go, and I strike the needle-pointed nadir half a second later.
A blink and a check, and I’m inside. One of their own.
But I am not.
The data flow is massive, and I am overwhelmed, caught in the torrent flowing upwards. I cannot control it. I cannot think to mov
e. The pounding is worse, and the undertow of information pulls me in. I can’t breathe. I… I…
Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You, but the night shines as the day; the darkness and the light are both alike to You.
Pain stabs in my head, and I’m me again.
I am carried into the dense sphere of core programming, and the throbbing gets sharper, faster. I lurch to a stop, stuck, spinning in place, and through the pain I feel things shredding away, peeling off. They scurry and burrow, disappear under the immense white skin, under the glare of root codes and routines.
The pain drops away and I’m hollow, sick. I’ve been ripped open and the leak is pouring out. Where does it go?
Suddenly there’s a name in my mind: Hsiang. There’s one last thing I need to do.
I pull myself away and start searching. Here in this center, nothing is closed to me. It unfolds at my touch like flowers, every password and encryption naked and open in this hive. I’m searching, but the sick feeling is spreading. I’m slower, slower with each heartbeat. All I need is one file, one strand of information. I grab gleaming handfuls, but they slip and spill. Everything is blurry at the edges. I’m running out of time.
There it is. And there… I’ve changed things. I let the strand go.
The data glow is dimming and I can’t move. The thought of Carmen makes me sad, but I don’t have the strength left to cry. The net light blinks twice then winks out altogether.
It’s finished.
I am alone in the black.
Suddenly there is light, impossible light bursting from every direction at once. Light so bright it presses on my skin, fills me. I squeeze my eyes and can’t turn away.
There are strong arms around me, lifting me. I hear words and suddenly the brightness dims. I can open my eyes.
I am not alone.
I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well.
Carmen was right.
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 29
