This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Dominic Adler 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First Edition published in 2018 by Ambuscade Books
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Typesetting by Ryan Ashcroft
www.dominicadler.net
All rights reserved
This one’s for H, who gathered no moss.
Barbarianism is the natural state of mankind. Civilization is unnatural. It is the whim of circumstance. And barbarianism must ultimately triumph.
- Robert E. Howard
In this epoch of cyborgs, hybrids, mutants, chimeras and virtual reality, mankind will only be saved by tradition.
- Alexsandr Dugin
(21st Century Russian ultranationalist)
Archangel(s)
(Disambiguation) (Colloquialism)
One who has undergone a Rudenko-Xiaoping Procedure (RXP) or variant thereof (a Transhuman with genetically-augmented physical and cognitive ability);
and / or (plural)
Clique of Transhuman fascists, also known as the December 13th Group. Warmongers responsible for the (failed) coup d’état to form a World Government, heralds of The Emergencies.
One
The Reconciliation Tribunal had only one window – a wall of armorglass, overlooking a ruined city. The Judge cleared her throat, scratching notes with a gold fountain pen. “Next case?”
Clerk of the Court, funereal in black, bowed. “Yes, Milady. Case 137 of Tranche 11. We adjourned last week. The accused was… unwell.”
The Judge glanced at the clock. An hour until lunch. “Quite. Are we ready for closing speeches?”
“Yes, Milady.”
Counsel to the Tribunal, bewigged and gowned, stood. “With regards to case 137, My Lady, you will recall the Accused was a low-ranking police auxiliary.”
The Defence jumped to her feet. “My Lady, please. He was a sworn Taskforcer. The prosecution uses the term auxiliary in a deliberately pejorative manner.”
“I’m well aware of the distinction,” the Judge replied. “Sit down, Miss Hope.”
Counsel nodded his thanks. “The Accused, whatever his status, authorised the deployment of anti-armour rockets on a marketplace crowded with civilians. His intended targets were two UK nationals, Evelyn and Christian Moran. The Crown submits the Morans died for no other reason than their decision to undergo Rudenko-Xiaoping therapy. RXP was, and indeed remains, controversial. But it was not illegal at that time. Indeed, it was a proven treatment for many hitherto fatal illnesses.
“Not only were the Morans executed, but an estimated thirty non-combatants lost their lives. In his after-action report, the Accused describes this as collateral damage, consistent with operational exigencies. His defence, such as it is, relies on the Morans alleged status as near-invulnerable terrorists.”
“Anything else?” said the Judge, eyes on her ledger.
“Indeed, My Lady. We suggest the Morans murder…”
Defence counsel cocked her head. “Do you mean alleged Murder?”
“You’re both trying my patience,” said the Judge.
“Apologies,” Counsel smiled. “The Morans deaths add weight to allegations that extra-judicial execution of transhumans was a de facto policy during the Emergencies – covertly agreed and targeted by deep-state operators. We’ve witnessed many examples of such egregious uses of force during these proceedings. I submit a pattern has emerged, strongly suggestive of collusion.” Counsel shuffled his papers and sat down.
“Thank you, Mister Lyons,” the Judge replied. “Counsel for the Defence?”
The Defence barrister was young, her gown too big. “The Accused has a name, Milady – Mister Rufus Duarte Hooker. We’ve heard how Mister Hooker, who previously served with the army in North Africa, was a squad leader on Police Taskforce 17. On the day of the Morans death, he was in his fifteenth consecutive month of combat duty. The casualty rate across his unit was, at times, sixty-five percent.”
The judge pointed at the ruins across the Thames. They once called it Canary Wharf, now a henge of boneyard rubble. “I’m sure it was. Miss Hope are you summing up or offering mitigation?”
“My Lady, I’m merely providing context.”
“Context duly noted. Please proceed, Miss Hope.”
“We’ve seen copies of Security Service reports identifying Evelyn and Christian Moran as Archangels. High-value terrorist targets believed to be fleeing to St. Petersburg to join their co-conspirators. Need I remind the Tribunal, the Archangels were architects of the Hate War. The devastation we see from this place is their legacy, not Mister Hooker’s. Nor, for that matter, any of the other Taskforcers who’ve found themselves in that dock.”
“This is a polemic, Miss Hope, not a defence,” the Judge sighed. “You’ve been warned before.”
Hope glowered at Counsel for the Tribunal. “Perhaps, My Lady, as is my learned friend’s assertion concerning state-sanctioned murder. Mister Hooker acted on the circumstances as he found them, not via shadowy instructions from above. He has never sought to hide behind any sort of Nuremberg defence. The real reason, that of lawful use of force, is less sensational perhaps…”
“I think I see where you’re heading, Miss Hope,” the Judge warned. “My advice is don’t.”
Hope curled her lip. “The thrust of the allegations against volunteers like Mister Hooker are a political ruse, and this Tribunal’s conduct does nothing to waylay criticism of these proceedings as an exercise in hindsight and, in extremis, an attempt to rehabilitate the Archangels. Revisionism concerning the role of Transhumans during the Emergencies may be...”
The Judge’s gavel cracked, gunshot loud. The Accused flinched. “Ms. Hope, confine yourself to evidence. Not a meta-commentary on politics or, indeed, my Tribunal.”
Hope bowed her head. “Of course, My Lady. May I move to the medical reports?”
“As long as you confine yourself to evidence, you may.”
“The Morans had previously travelled to Russia, to undertake Type Nine RXP therapy. This was an experimental, military-grade augmentation, bestowing extreme physical and cognitive ability. Crucially, it was prohibited for civilian use by international treaty. This belies the Tribunal’s assertion the Morans RXP transition to Archangels was for health reasons.”
“I must object,” said Counsel to the Tribunal. “This information is…”
The Judge held up a finger. “You’ve had your say, Mister Lyons. Let Miss Hope finish.”
The Defence nodded. “Thanks to their augmentation, the Morans were superhuman combatants, suffering from the psychiatric side-effects attributed to RXP – Psychopathy. Sociopathy. Paranoid schizophrenia. As for the tragic events described to the Tribunal, Mister Hooker ordered escalation of force protocols as per his Rules of Engagement. His decision to deploy his unit’s rocket system was unfortunate, but not disproportionate...”
Counsel for the Tribunal scowled. He whispered to his juniors, tapping notes into a pad. One sniggered. “Thank you, Ms. Hope,” said the Judge.
“My Lady, I’ve yet to finish.”
“I’m sure we’ve heard the gist of it. Before I rise to consider my verdict, does the Accused have anything to add?”
Rufus Hooker stood, head-bowed, mumbling to himself. He was a big man, brawny and dark-skinned, handcuffs gl
inting at his wrists. He glanced at the Judge with eyes the colour of amber and shrugged. The Judge leant forward. “Mister Hooker? It’s your right to offer a few words.”
Hooker’s fingers gripped the dock. The Judge couldn’t know he was on The Estuary, Eddie Webber’s corpse bobbing in the Thames. She didn’t see the muddy riverbank, carrion birds skirling across coffin-black clouds. Dark towers, like war-scorched titans, loomed from brackish lagoons. The Judge motioned to an usher. “Is the accused unwell again?”
Hooker felt something wet on his chin. Drool or blood. Here or there. Then or now. 350 milligrams every morning, Rufus. The tactical net squawked contact reports, red-and-green tracer spattering his position. Taskforcers lay in whatever cover they could, weighed down with weapons and equipment. Kilo One-Seven? They’re in the market east of the prison, over.
Hooker’s ears rang, balls shrinking into his body. He keyed the mic, fingers trembling. “This is Kilo One-Seven Actual. Any call-signs with eyes-on target?”
“One-Seven Actual from One-Nine. They’re in a bunker. Marketplace – green aspect. The bastards are fast. Really fast.”
Archangels.
Hooker scaled the riverbank, fingers bleeding and raw. He saw the sand-bagged bunker, muzzle flash blossoming from a pillbox. The defences lay on the market’s perimeter, built to protect the locals from bandits. “This is One-Seven Actual. Can anyone get over there with a demo charge?”
“Hooker, this is Keegan,” replied a gravelly voice. “The female target killed the whole of Blue Team with her bare hands. They had our demo kit. I say Gustaf the target now.”
“Negative, too many civilians on the plot,” Hooker replied. “Jonas, we got air support?”
“No air on the grid.” A woman’s voice, matter-of-fact. “Male target leaving bunker now, white aspect. He’s got Blue Team’s demo pack. Hit him twice – he’s moving like nothin’ happened. No contact with Grey Team.”
Hooker began running towards the marketplace. Lungs burning, armour rubbing like sandpaper. A bullet glanced off his breastplate, hurling him into a tangle of barbed wire.
“Keegan’s dead!” shrieked a voice.
“This is Kilo Two-Zero. Red Team down. We’re withdrawing to…”
An explosion mushroomed overhead, making Hooker’s ears pop as debris pitter-pattered into the river. Razor wire bit into flesh, as if trying to drag him beneath the water. “One-Seven, receiving?” he gasped. “I’m trapped in the wire, riverside market approach.”
“I see you, Hooker,” said a gravelly voice, London-rough. “Proper fuck-up, ain’t it? Superman down there must be laughin.’ He’s throwin’ C4 like fireworks.”
“You got the Gustaf, Jase?” Hooker replied.
“Roger that. HE round in the pipe. Ready to go.”
“One-Seven, do it,” Hooker ordered. “Engage with the Gustaf.”
“Roger that.” A rocket fire-balled into the marketplace, a spray of rubble and body parts spuming skywards. “Archangel down!”
“This is Two-Zero. Female target down on the red aspect. No legs, but the bitch is still alive. She’s got Blue Team’s machinegun…”
“I can take her with another rocket.”
Tearing himself free of the wire, Hooker stumbled towards the market, blood trickling from slash wounds in his legs. The bunker was gone, replaced by a smoking crater, debris falling like fiery confetti. Stalls and shacks smashed like matchwood, charred bodies scattered like dummies. He bawled into his throat mic, tongue thick in his mouth. “Ceasefire! I repeat, ceasefire.”
“Fuck this,” said One-Seven. “I’ve got eyes-on the female target. She’s got a weapon. Rocket two downrange…”
“I SAID CEASEFIRE.” The Gustaf roared, the warhead glancing off concrete, skittering like a smouldering comet. “Ceasefire,” Hooker croaked, “Cease…”
“Man, that was so fucking Taskforce 17!” said Hughes, Black Team’s support gunner. He died a month later, shot by a sniper near Erith. Or was that Baptiste?
“One-Three, we’ve got multiple civilian casualties,” said Two-Zero. “We need medics. Now.”
“Mister Hooker?” said the Judge. To Hooker’s mind, it was just another voice over the radio. “This is your opportunity to…”
Hooker snapped to attention, thumb pressed against forefinger along the seam of his trousers. Just like they’d taught him at the depot. “I’m guilty, Your Honour. Lock me up and throw away the key.”
Two
Twelve years later.
Dogs lay in fly-blown shadows, fangs bared. Hooker growled, and they loped away, Leah’s voice hissing through his earpiece. “The guard’s at the food shack, on the junction with Mare Street. Bushmeat with chilli sauce.”
“Rifle optics that good?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a clear shot?”
Leah chuckled. She liked sniping. “I can see the small print on the chilli bottle.”
“Okay. Tell your man to do this thing.” Hooker pulled a coppery tube from his pocket, a mezuzah. The prayer case was pitted and scarred, rimed with verdigris. A grateful rabbi had given it to him a lifetime ago, in the ruins of a synagogue in Spitalfields. They’d all gone now, the Jews, wary of hate and archangels. They knew better than most how this game ended. They packed up and left, to Israel and the Sky-Shield.
Inside the mezuzah was a tightly rolled photograph, waxy and blood-stained. Once upon a time it would have contained a prayer, but Hooker had no need of those. He studied the image, edges blistered and burnt. A little girl, hair in cornrows. Denim dungarees, stained with ice-cream from the aquarium. Pink training shoes, with a tiny Nike swoosh. Beatriz hadn’t cried when the Tribunal investigators came for him. Sara told her it was just some men from work. They want to ask daddy a few questions.
Leah’s voice was sharp. “My man’s flicked the switch. Move it.”
Hooker slid the photograph back inside the mezuzah. Checking his wristwatch, he counted slowly under his breath. The target was a ramshackle bar, rotting concrete draped with sun-frazzled vines. Snapping goggles over his eyes, Hooker hammered on the door with a fist. “Eduardo, you in there? It’s Rufus.”
The voice was deep. “You’re early, Hooker. I don’t like early.”
“Better’n being late, ain’t it?”
The rusty metal door swung open, revealing a golem of a man. Bare-chested and muscle-bound, a metal-studded club hanging from his belt. “You know the score – dump your tools,” he ordered.
“Well, a cheery good mornin’ to you too, Eduardo,” Hooker replied, unbuttoning his leather coat. He put his revolver and fighting knife in a metal box and smiled.
Eduardo peered up and down Mare street. Nothing but boarded-up shops and freight container housing. Tumbleweed rolled towards the old Hackney Empire. “Quiet today, ain’t it?”
Hooker tapped the dosimeter clipped to his collar. “Cancer weather – you can smell it on the wind. Burns your nose.”
Eduardo motioned Hooker to come inside. “Best you step in, but I’m gonna search you again. House rules.”
Hooker shrugged. “Your house, your rules.”
The giant frisked him, forcing meaty hands into Hooker’s armpits, groin and the small of his back. “Comms?” he said, finding the radio in his pocket.
“So what? Never killed a man with a radio,” Hooker lied. He’d once dashed a man’s brains out with a broken Motorola. Dartford. 2nd Cliffe Woods offensive.
Eduardo raised an eyebrow. “No fob?”
“You said no fobs.”
“Good,” Eduardo sniffed. “Just make sure the radio’s turned off. Boss gets touchy ‘bout electrics an’ shit like that.”
“It’s done,” Hooker replied, making a show of switching off the handset. He followed Eduardo into a dingy barroom. A cracked mirror ran the length of the counter, a list of services written in lipstick. Blow jobs and vanilla, gang-bangs and anal. Want it rough? That’s fifty dollars extra. Want to MAX the ROUGH…?
Sex-w
orkers sat on stools, watching music videos on a flickering omni. Ragged and shackled, chains snaking across a beer-sticky floor. “Who have you come for today?” said a skinny African girl.
“Shut your mouth, ‘fore I give you a taste of this,” Eduardo growled, tapping the cosh at his belt.
“Beating kids? Shit like that comes back to haunt you,” said Hooker. Quietly. Maybe meant to be heard, maybe not.
Eduardo’s piggy eyes narrowed. “What the fuck d’you say?”
Hooker shrugged. “I was thinking ‘bout karma. Maybe bad things come back to haunt you. It can happen, you know.”
Eduardo bristled. “You threatening me?”
“Threaten you, Eduardo?” said Hooker. “Why would I do that?”
Eduardo spat on the floor. “Save your do-gooder shit for the Red Cross, or the Answerers. I don’t give a fuck what you think. You try running a shop.”
The African girl muttered under her breath. Hooker shot her a not-now look and followed Eduardo. They passed a row of dank booths, filthy mattresses on the floor. The place smelt of cheap perfume, unwashed bodies and spilt seed. A broken sexbot lay in one of the cubicles, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if in surprise. Eduardo pointed down a flight of stairs, red light bleeding from under a door. “Go on down. The man’s waitin’ for you. Just remember, show some respect.”
Hooker rolled his head, loosening neck muscles like a boxer entering the ring. A lithe figure stood in the blood-lit basement, surrounded by crates of stolen gear. Cigarettes and drinking water, instant coffee and toothpaste. Most were marked AID FROM THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. “A good mornin’ to you, Chief Marku,” said Hooker.
Marku nodded, self-styled bandit king, pocket Mephisto of Old Hackney. The pimp wore a catsuit of black leather, hair an outrageous pompadour. He squinted at Hooker through the sights of an oversized pistol. “They say, Rufus, you were a pig during the Hate War.”
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 1
