by Dan McGirt
The chemical torch would burn for less than three seconds. Jack brought the flame against a link in the vertical chain that connected the wrist restraints, the band at his waist, and the ankle restraints. The link melted like butter on a sunspot. The broken chain snaked free of the belt loop.
The flame winked out.
Jack shoved back against the table, toppling it. It thumped to the floor, coming to rest upside down. Jack did a reverse somersault across it and bounded to his feet.
Two soldiers had gone left and two right around the table. All four turned, startled to find Jack behind them.
Jack grasped the nearest table leg as a pivot point and flipped up into a flying kick that struck the nearest soldier on the left in the face, rocking his head back. Jack looped the chain connecting his wrists around the man’s neck as he landed, using momentum to overbear him to the floor.
The second soldier cursed and swung his shock baton – a black billy club that bristled with electrified spikes. Jack ducked beneath the blow and slashed out with his feet, kicking the side of the soldier’s knee. With a sickening pop, the joint gave and the leg buckled.
Jack reverse rolled across the first soldier and knelt on his right arm, pinning it to the floor. Jack brought down his hands in a double fist, smashing the soldier’s nose and knocking him unconscious. He snatched up the man’s shock baton as it rolled away from his limp fingers. This trooper, unlike his comrades, had failed to secure the wrist strap of his weapon. Now it was Jack’s.
The two men still standing jumped over their fallen fellows and swung their batons at Jack. He parried one with his own baton, but having to move both arms together left him open to the second man’s attack. The charged shock baton struck Jack’s shoulder with bruising force and delivered a ten million volt shock.
Jack cried out and fell to one side, breaking contact with the baton. It hurt like hell as all his skeletal muscles contracted. His vision went red. He dropped his borrowed weapon. It clattered on the floor and rolled away. Jack lay on his side and twitched.
“Gotcha,” snarled the solider, the same man who spoke before. All of their name tabs were blank and they wore no insignia, but he was evidently the leader of this little goon squad. “Not so tough now, huh?”
His partner kicked Jack in the ribs, hard.
Nothing broke, but it knocked his breath away.
“He broke my knee!” howled the man whose knee Jack had broken. “He broke it! God, it hurts!”
The unconscious man had nothing to add.
“Pipe down,” said the leader. “He’ll get worse, I promise.”
The kicker kicked him again. “How did he break that chain?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the leader. “He isn’t so tough now. One kiss from Old Sparky here takes the fight out of even the biggest and baddest.”
Jack curled up and moaned as if in agony. “No...” he said.
“Begging already?” The leader laughed. “See? Softened him up right away. And that was just a little love tap. Let’s see how he likes a longer hit. Ten spot says he wets himself.”
The soldier jabbed the head of the stun baton into Jack’s side and squeezed the trigger.
Current shot through Jack’s body.
Jack smiled.
The leader frowned at his victim’s lack of response. “How...?” he said.
“Science,” said Jack.
Then he was in motion, kicking the soldier’s legs out from under him. The leader fell, tumbling over the unconscious soldier behind him. Jack did a kip-up and pivoted into an elbow smash into the kicker’s gut, followed by a pole-ax double fist punch to the back of his neck as he doubled over. The soldier dropped and didn’t move.
The leader scrambled to stand. Jack scooped up the overturned chair and swung it down in a wide arc that met the soldier’s head as he rose, putting him back on the floor with a broken jaw.
Alarms sounded in the corridor outside, along with shouts and the clatter of running feet.
“They’re coming!” said the man with the broken knee, as he scooted away from Jack. “Keep back!” he added, waving his baton. His expression was maniacal. “They’ll get you!”
“Let them try,” said Jack.
The leader sat up, raising his stun baton. Jack hit him again with the chair. The soldier flopped back, his skull fractured and his face a bloody ruin.
“They’re – unh!”
Jack threw the chair at the agitated soldier. The man shielded himself with his baton. The chair rebounded off the weapon with an electric pop. Jack stomped hard on the man’s shattered knee.
“Arghhhh!”
The soldier swung feebly at Jack’s leg. Jack hopped above the swing and kicked him in the face. The soldier sat back hard. His head thumped against the concrete floor. He didn’t move. Jack twisted the shock baton out of his grasp, then staggered to the far side of the room and leaned heavily against the wall.
His breath, usually even, came in ragged gasps. His pulse raced. The tang of blood and ozone in the air was sharp. He had slight tunnel vision. Jack felt the sting of an electric burn on his side and a fresh bruise forming across his shoulder, but neither injury hurt as much as it soon would.
Jack stared at his blackened thumbnail, using it as a meditative focus. He had to get his mind right, think clearly, resist he urge to batter the four soldiers with the shock baton until the battery gave out.
That was the Compound 12 talking.
The first jolt from the shock baton had tripped Jack’s neurological circuit breaker. In his vocation of seeking out trouble and adventure here and there around the world, Jack had a higher than average risk of suffering significant injury from gunshot wounds, blunt force trauma, extremes of heat and cold, or electric shocks and burns. Dangers the human body was not well evolved to sustain or survive, at least not without help.
Some risks could not be mitigated, but Jack did his best to design contingencies and defenses for those that could. Electroshock weapons – stun guns, shock batons, and the like – were a predictable threat. Most worked on similar principles, delivering a short high-voltage, low-amp electrical discharge. This caused debilitating pain. It also jammed the electrical signals by which the brain normally controlled the muscular system. A Taser-style weapon was tuned to send pulses at the same frequency the nervous system used – in effect hijacking the body’s muscles and ordering them all to contract at once. A few seconds of contact from a typical civilian or law enforcement stun gun could daze, disorient, and incapacitate. Some of the military grade stuff could kill – convulsing muscles so hard that bones broke, sending the heart into ventricular fibrillation, or paralyzing the diaphragm so the target could not breathe.
Jack’s defense was a custom-designed $50 million pacemaker attached to his perfectly healthy heart, along with several neuroprosthetic microimplants in his brain and spinal column. Exposure to a strong electric shock triggered the system. The adaptive pacemaker stabilized his heartbeat. The neural implants temporarily altered the working frequency of Jack’s muscular nervous system – in effect switching muscle control from the jammed channel to a new one. The implants also released Compound 12, a synthetic biostimulant, into his bloodstream. Compound 12 facilitated the neurological reset that let him shrug off the second hit from the shock baton. It also dulled his pain receptors.
Another side effect of Compound 12 made Jack temporarily hyperalert and hyperaggressive. He had made a bloody mess of the four soldiers, done more damage than was needed to take them down. But he didn’t feel much remorse. Jack doubted he was the first prisoner these thugs had worked over with shock batons. Only the first one able to fight back.
Jack needed time to compose himself. The Compound 12 would wear off in a few minutes. His nervous system would revert to normal. His mind would clear.
Sounds outside the room grew louder. More shouts. The steady rising and falling wail of sirens. Gunshots.
He only needed a minute.
H
e wasn’t going to get it.
The door opened.
13: Taking the Tour
Jack swung the shock baton like a baseball bat.
“Whoa, kemo sabe!”
He checked swing just short of striking Galahad.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was expecting someone else.”
“O ye of little faith.”
Galahad wore blood-stained orange prison pants and a soldier’s boots. He was shirtless, revealing an electric burn on his bronzed abdomen. His chest, shoulders, neck, and upper arms were punctured with dozens of small open wounds from birdshot. A trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth dripped off his chin, and a large contusion protruded around his left eye.
“You look like hell, Gal.”
“You should see the guys who did this to me.”
At Galahad’s feet was the inert form of a guard whom he had evidently just clubbed senseless with the stock of the tactical rifle he held loosely in one hand.
“Who gave you a Ruker Mini-14?” asked Jack.
“The guy it used to belong to. Catch.”
He tossed a key ring. Jack snatched it from the air and knelt to unlock his feet. Galahad took in the carnage in the interrogation room.
“Have a nice chat with the boys?”
“Just small talk,” said Jack. “I see you wound up on the wrong end of a shotgun.”
“Among other things.”
“You don’t happen to know where we’d find Major Anson, do you?”
“Down the hall choking on the shock baton I stuffed in his mouth.”
“Conscious?” Jack unlocked the manacles on his wrists and rubbed the chafed and torn skin to restore full circulation.
“Eh.” Galahad wagged his hand in a Monoga gesture of dismissal.
“Too bad.”
“He’s not the guy in charge,” said Galahad.
“I know. But I had some questions for him.”
“I’ll bet. Ready to move?”
“Hang on. That guy’s boots might fit me.”
“European sizing, man. They pinch on the instep.”
Jack stripped a pair of boots from one of his would-be assailants. He and Gal moved warily into the wide corridor outside the interrogation room. Emergency lights strobed in white flashes. The grating three-pulse tone of an alarm echoed off the hard surfaces of the tiled floor and brick walls. Jack noted the bullet-riddled remnants of four security cameras dangling from the vault ceiling.
To the left was the small detention area where they had been held overnight after being transported to San Marcos by helicopter. There were eight cells, empty save the two Jack and Galahad had occupied.
“I came from that way,” said Galahad.
“I can tell.”
Half a dozen unmoving soldiers lay sprawled down the length of the corridor, several with their limbs splayed at unnatural angles. The steel door to the cell block was twisted off its hinges.
“Not even going to ask,” said Jack.
“Good.”
To the right the corridor came to a dead end at another steel security door.
“Only way out,” said Galahad.
“Only obvious way.”
On the wall beside the door was a small keypad panel with a card swiper attached. Jack knelt to study it, recognizing it as an Industrial General Controls unit. He shook his head in bewilderment. “Magnetic card swipe? This was old in the nineties. And IGC was acquired ten years ago.”
“Want me to shoot it?” Galahad raised the Mini-14.
“That only works in movies, Gal. I need a –”
Galahad handed him a white plastic card emblazoned with the seal of the San Marcos army, and the name, rank, and serial number of its currently unconscious owner, Major Anson. “Thought you might.”
“Thanks,” said Jack. He stood. “Now let me borrow the rifle.”
Galahad arched an eyebrow as he handed the weapon over.
“You’re going to shoot it?”
“Movies, Gal.” Jack smashed at console with the butt of the rifle until the dented faceplate of the keypad fell off and rattled on the floor. He returned the Mini-14 to Galahad, then swiped the pass card. A pinpoint-sized red light on the exposed keypad illuminated, prompting for a pass code.
“Don’t tell me you know their pass code.”
“No,” said Jack. He adjusted a tiny switch on the exposed circuit board of the keypad. “But I do know the standard IGC diagnostic override PIN. Which I guarantee –” The red light winked out, replaced by green. “—they never reset.”
The magnetic lock clacked to the unlocked position. Jack pushed the heavy door open. Galahad leaned through and sprayed the room beyond with a burst from the Mini-14, aiming high.
There was no return fire.
“Empty, man,” said Galahad.
Beyond was a large open workspace furnished with modular desks, rolling chairs, metal file cabinets, and plain work tables.
Jack clucked his tongue. “This is a military police site. My guess is Major Anson and his intel boys kicked the MPs out and commandeered it to hold us.”
“How thoughtful,” said Galahad. “But army spooks don’t get their own romper rooms? Seems odd.”
Jack studied the network cables leading from the nearest desktop computers. “I’m sure they have their own site, and their own reasons for not taking us there,” he said absently. “Probably playing hide the ball from the National Police. Big rivals of the military. This way.”
“Front door is that way.”
“Right,” said Jack. “Keep an eye on it in case we get company while I’m in the server closet.”
“You got to check in on SocialSpace or something?”
“I need to tell MARISA where to find us.”
“Good idea! She can book us a flight off this island.”
“Tired of San Marcos already? We just got here.”
Gal waved his arm in disgust. “I’ve seen enough. Service sucks. I give it one star, man.”
Jack found the station’s LAN server in a small, well-cooled utility room. He bypassed the system’s trivial security with a few keystrokes, found a broadband connection, and pinged a private IP address, downloading a packet of code that opened an encrypted VPN tunnel for his RISA distributed AI entity – the parent structure for the MARISA avatar that commanded his yacht. RISA propagated through the local network and gave Jack a command prompt a few seconds later. He typed a series of queries and instructions, his fingers a blur. RISA responded even faster, in most instances posting the requested information on a second monitor before he could complete his question.
“Hurry up, honey! Our guests have arrived!” shouted Galahad.
“All done!” said Jack. He typed one last command and rejoined Galahad in the front office.
Through the slit-like front windows they saw an olive-drab eleven-ton military cargo truck jerk to a halt in the parking lot. The rifle platoon seated in the open back of the truck debarked two at a time.
“I’ll drive,” said Jack.
“Roger that.”
Galahad flipped the Mini-14 selective to full auto. He kicked open the front door and swept a long burst over the heads of the San Marcan troops assembled to the rear of the truck. Soldiers flattened on the ground or ducked behind the vehicle.
Jack was an orange blur as he sprinted for the truck’s cab. He vaulted onto the hood and slid across the hot metal like a baseball player coming into home. Grabbing the side mirror assembly on the driver’s side with his left hand he pivoted his body around it as he came off the hood and drove a hard right through the open window and into the startled driver’s temple, knocking him senseless. Jack yanked the door open and pulled the driver out, dropping him on the tarmac. A soldier in the passenger seat clawed at his sidearm. Jack caught his hand and squeezed, crushing his fingers, before he silenced him with a sock to the jaw.
He slid behind the wheel. The engine idled. Jack put the truck in reverse and leaned on the horn.
Galahad, keeping to the cover of the station door, continued to fire. Soldiers sheltering behind the truck shouted as their cover unexpectedly moved away. The few who had hit the open tarmac at the rear forgot about returning fire as they scrambled to get out of the truck’s path.
Galahad emptied his magazine with a final burst to further discourage them. He tossed the depleted Ruker aside and sprinted for the truck as it gathered speed. He bounded onto the passenger side running board, grinned at Jack, then hauled himself over the wooden slats into the rear bed. There were a dozen soldiers to clear. Galahad grabbed the nearest two, slammed their heads together, and reached for the next one. Only two or three men at a time could reach him and Galahad made the most of that advantage. His hands and feet were a blur as he ducked, kicked, punched, and pivoted. He used the soldiers’ numbers against them, coming to grips so those nearest could not fire their rifles or even swing them like clubs, shoving the first rank back against the men behind them, striking nerve centers and pressure points, breaking fingers, crippling limbs, and keeping them all off balance. He flipped two men over the side rails to bounce off the blacktop.
Soldiers sprinted after the receding truck, blocking the aim of several comrades who opted to use their rifles. One trooper got off a shot; the round punched through the windshield and zinged past the head of the unconscious soldier in the passenger seat.
Jack floored the accelerator. The six cylinder diesel engine growled and the exhaust stack belched a black cloud of pollution as the truck hurtled backward across the parking lot. In the side mirror was a flash of dark green as a LandRanger light utility transport turned into the parking lot, with two more trailing behind. Jack smashed the truck into the first LandRanger, driving it back with a squeal of protesting tires to collide with the second in line. The big truck blasted the smaller vehicles aside and gained the roadway as the third driver turned his wheel hard to avoid the pileup.
