The redhead snorted. “You’ve got a lot more spirit than I expected.” She crossed her legs calling his attention to her big military shitkickers.
“We aim to please,” he said. “And so what should I call you?”
“My people call me the Fury,” she replied. “I find that it fits well enough.”
Walken grunted. “All these people with their nicknames. Right, then. You’ve seen me. I take it that you didn’t come to Mexico to – ah, wait a moment.” He muttered into the pickup for Jacinto to hear.
He looked back to the Fury. “The master of the house is on his way. Why don’t we wait until he arrives?”
“Fine,” she said, the dismissive smile still on her lips. “We’ll wait.”
It only took a moment. The door slid open, revealing a stormy-looking Jacinto, helmetless and with a large pistol in hand. As angry as he seemed upon entry, the mood paled in comparison to the blaze that set in his eyes as he saw Strikeboy’s face. “Corazon…” He moved to the hacker’s side and stooped over to embrace him. “You all right?”
Strikeboy’s muttered affirmatives drew his attention back to the woman.
“You,” he hissed. “What the hell is the matter with you? This is not what I agreed to when I said that I would help!”
The Fury’s expression shifted in an instant – her hawkish face grew hard. “Your ‘retirement’ was never sanctioned, soldier.” She sprang to her feet. Her character changed from lounging cat to drill sergeant with disconcerting suddenness, and even Walken found himself flinching. “You still serve the cause, and therefore I’m the one calling your shots.”
“This is exactly why I left in the first place!” Walken almost thought Jacinto would empty that gun of his into the woman, but he did not. Instead, he clipped it to his suit belt and put his arm around Strikeboy’s shoulders, his face growing darker still. “And I serve the cause, but I don’t serve you, sir. Keep that in mind.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her dark eyes carbon bits drilling into Jacinto’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind, yes.”
She gathered up the camo drape and put it over her shoulders, clipping it around them like a cloak. After dismissing Jacinto with a glare, she approached Walken slowly. “Interesting, you look like everyone I’ve killed in the last few years.”
Walken gave her a thin smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Surely, you would not waste your time with anyone unimportant.”
The Fury dipped her head. “I take it that the ghost has told you where I stand about you.”
“He has told me a great many things,” Walken said. “But yes, I am aware that you are…concerned about my involvement. Honestly, it’s a wonder why he helped me escape at all.”
“It’s that you’ve sought to escape that I have any interest in you at all,” she said. “I am told that you disabled the Seal in your skull.”
“With a high-voltage cable. I did not want her following me.”
“You could have been killed.”
“Better that than the alternative.” Despite the flatness of his tone, he surprised himself with how fierce that sounded.
“I see.” She peered into Walken’s eyes. She was a tall woman, and did not need to tilt her head to do it. He matched her stare, letting her try and find whatever she searched for in those synthetic organs. She drew back after a moment and shrugged.” Well, it appears that we need you, in any case. You will not interfere in my operations, I trust?”
“It was not part of my plans, no.” Walken did not like this woman. She reminded him of his father. “Though I’d like to know when you’re going around blasting things. It might help me in the future.”
The Fury snorted. “You’ll find out when we’re done, I’m sure. In the meantime, I will take my leave of you.”
From behind him, Jacinto’s words were an angry rasp. “Why did you come here at all, then?”
She did not look at him. The Fury merely shrugged and proceeded toward the door. “To see him for myself, of course. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
After the door sealed behind her, Strikeboy muttered, “bitch.”
Such was the effect of the Fury.
If this is how she treated allies, Walken wondered how she treated her own people.
The excellent meal Strikeboy cooked did not entirely break up the dark cloud hanging over them, partly thanks to the Fury’s presence, but in Walken’s case especially, because he could not partake of it. The two other men sat at their plates in the little kitchen set up in the back of the bunker, eating empanadas and machucca at a small table while roundly abusing the woman.
“I can’t believe that she was ever given command of anything,” Jacinto ranted. “She can send people to fight, but she doesn’t respect anyone except as cannon fodder.”
Walken nodded. “She certainly seems to have the commanding down. But you’re right, esprit de corps doesn’t seem to be her specialty.”
“It’s because of the cause,” Jacinto said, stabbing at the air with a metal fork. “You’d better believe that she’d never have any kind of command in a private company. She’d be out on her ass the moment troops started giving notice.”
Though PMCs sculpted much of the twenty-first century, Walken knew little about their structure. “Is that something that happens? Can troops just…quit?”
“Well, they’re typically under contract,” said Strikeboy from around a mouthful of empanada. “But you can request transfers. It’s not at all uncommon for troops to request transfers in numbers when there’s a problem with a commanding officer. Commanders with angry troops mean lawsuits, or worse, reduced market share.”
“Can’t have that.” Walken shook his head.
“No, you can’t,” Jacinto said. “That’s partially why I left the damned companies. Great paycheck and benefits, sure, but I just…I don’t know. Fighting for corporations never seemed right for me. Probably why I worked so well with a merry band of misfits.”
Strikeboy smirked and reached over to lay his free hand on Jacinto’s. “I thought it was just your rugged good looks.”
The attempt to lighten the mood seemed to work. Jacinto grinned at him and took the younger man’s hand, squeezing it. “You say the loveliest things.”
Walken coughed. “Well, I think I will see if the doctor has sent any news.”
He got up and walked out of the kitchen, tucking his hands in the pockets of his suit. Of course, he had no idea how to get that information, but he thought he’d leave the two of them to the budding peace. It didn’t seem right to spoil the moment with his presence. He went down the hall into the waiting room, found a seat, and thought the situation over.
Three parties were involved in this conspiracy: the intelligence currently claiming to be Stadil, including himself, Jacinto, Strikeboy and Knightley as apparent catspaws; the Fury, whatever her real name was, plusher paramilitary forces; and Bobbi’s outfit, which apparently was not yet connected but somehow existed as an equal partner. Or no, perhaps they kept him outside this arrangement. As far as he could see, he seemed more of a treasure, something people made a great deal of sacrifice to liberate and maintain. For what? He didn’t question if they needed him, more a question of why.
He had his own issues on that front, of course. Since he had been reawakened, the Mother of Systems had done nothing but try and get him to renounce his humanity, to open up and let the monster in. He knew that he could do that, at least, but of course he wouldn’t. So what was so important about the bogeyman in his particular closet? Why give him the body that he had? None of it made sense. Even if he were extremely important to the Yathi, he could never see himself, were he an evil alien overlord, giving a human survivor of mind-indoctrination techniques a powerful artificial body and not, as she had put it, disconnected its limbs before being certain they were on your si
de. There had to be something more to it.
He wished Knightley would hurry up and get that damned analysis done. Did it really take as long as it already had? The cold edge of paranoia drew across the intact hemispheres of his brain like a razor. What if he had somehow led the Yathi to Seattle in his meeting with the doctor? No, certainly that thing pretending to be Stadil would anticipate and block any possibilities of that. Hindsight made him regret not asking after the data before leaving the table.
Walken sat there for a while, flexing his limbs, wondering at the ridiculous mystery he currently lived, until finally Strikeboy appeared in the doorway.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, somewhat shyly. “But I wanted to let you know that you’ve got a call.”
He looked up from examining his fingers. “From whom?”
“Lionel.” Strikeboy gestured over his shoulder. “In the comms room. You know, where you talked to the ghost. It’s all ready for you.”
“Thank you.” Walken rose, collecting himself mentally. He had a great deal of questions, most of which he would probably unload on Knightley in short order. He hoped he would be talking to calm, controlled Lionel Knightley, and not the loon that he’d walled off. Walken passed Strikeboy in the doorway and headed for the comms room, where he found not a three-dimensional rendering of the black-market surgeon waiting on him, but a giant holographic display panel in which the man waited.
“Ah, the Walker,” said the image of Lionel Knightley. “There you are. I’m sorry for the delay in contacting you.”
The backdrop looked like an apartment, modern, but the walls seemed padded. Odd. “Not at all, doctor. I take it that you’ve been busy?”
Knightley nodded. “I am. Forgive me, brother, but I don’t have much time. I am in transit, and there’s a very short transmission window before we break orbit.”
Walken’s brows arched. “I’m sorry, but did you say ‘orbit?’”
A rueful smile crossed Knightley’s lips. “That is indeed what I said. I am on a shuttle as we speak, heading to a place off-planet. Don’t worry, this is all according to plan.”
More plans within plans. Lovely. “I see. But why, well, space?”
“The enemy does not travel off planet,” Knightley said. “Babylon is of Earth, brother. Or rather, they seem to be afraid to leave it. Don’t worry, I’m sure that at some point in the future you will be joining me. In the meantime, however, my analysis has been concluded.”
“I see,” Walken said, these words just what he wanted to hear. “And what have you discovered?”
“A great deal,” Knightley replied. “I’m afraid that I don’t have time to tell you myself. However, I am sending a data packet that should tell you everything that you need to know. You’re going to need to upload it directly into your brain, however.”
“But you see, Lionel,” he said. “I don’t have any way to do that. Remember? No data ports, much frowning and consternation on your part?”
“Jacinto’s man has all the necessary equipment to do the job,” Knightley said. “I will send along instructions. But I recommend that you be careful not to let anyone try and open that file. It would be…very bad for all involved.”
“Encrypted?”
“Laden with layers of virus code which young Strikeboy has no hope of unraveling, but your headware will completely ignore. It would prove incredibly fatal for him to try.”
“Wouldn’t want that.” He grunted at his own experience getting skull-fried over the network. “Well, then I suppose you should send it over.”
Knightley nodded. “Already on its way. Do you have any questions for me before I go?”
“Well, yes,” Walken said. “Two. First, this woman, the Fury. I met her. Can she be at all trusted?”
“Trusted to kill the Yathi? Yes. She hates them with the same energy that her namesake suggests. Trusted not to kill you in the process? No. In fact, you should assume that if she has the chance, she will wipe anyone associated with the Yathi off the face of the earth as a matter of housekeeping. She is a zealot, and she wants nothing more than for this particularly dire piece of human history to be buried entirely.”
Not surprising, this revelation, but certainly alarming. “I see,” Walken said in his stony way. “Thank you for your honesty. And the second…what am I supposed to do next?”
“That,” said Knightley, “is an excellent question. The ghost will know what to tell you once you have made the upload and taken in my findings. I warn you, however. The information you will absorb will take some time to process, and it isn’t complete. I’m going to need more minds behind some of your systems to figure out precisely what they can do. In the meantime, don’t try to do too much until you have had an opportunity to fully recover…“His image began to fray along the edges with digital artifacts, suggesting a fading connection.
“That’s…very ominous, Lionel, thank you.” Walken tried to smile, but he felt it come on more like a grimace. “Your brand of honesty can be very worrying, you know?”
Knightley’s smile conjured the image of some mischievous trickster god, wide and bright and giant in the oversized display panel. “Truth is never comforting, brother. But you can take comfort in what it allows you to achieve. Jah love you and guide you, Walker. Time to go.”
Even as he spoke those last words, the artifacting worsened in earnest.
“Have a safe trip,” Walken said lamely, and the screen cut out to white, the JAL logo and sans-serif text stating ‘CONNECTION TERMINATED.’ He stared at the panel for a moment before it winked out of existence, leaving him in the dark. He thought about Knightley heading for parts unknown, a Black Star Liner of his own making, ostensibly to some other free land. The Yathi did not like space, or were afraid of it. Had he heard that in the past? He wondered if the data from Lionel would let him remember.
He turned to the door, and went to go find Strikeboy. Potential liberation awaited him.
Barbed noise filled his senses. Alien words. A woman’s voice.
Walken opened his eyes to find himself floating in nutrient solution, another tank dream come to him. Did he remember when this was? The bitch herself stood at the base of his tube with her magnificent robes framed by barbed holographic glyphs like a balefire halo. On either side of her, a coven of horrific shapes. Beings like her, or perhaps rather less, the technicians and scientists freakish things in once-human bodies, swallowed by gray robes. They stared up at him with heads shaved and studded with devices, empty eye sockets bristling with waving antennae, lower jaws removed and filled with batteries of sophisticated sensors or other devices bristling savagely in their place. He knew them as some of the oldest among the incarnated horrors, Yathi who did not bother going out among humans and had distorted their vessels to best fit whatever purposes they required. Monsters.
But the Mother of Systems paid no attention to their hideousness. She smiled up at Walken, beatific and serene like an inverted Madonna. He knew this day. It was the first day he reawakened, the day he came back to life. She stood at the base of the pedestal upon which his tank rested, and her expression shone with adoration, her visage singularly terrifying.
She said something he couldn’t understand, barbed and terrible words, each one a blade dipped in what sounded almost like love.
His reply was rather opposite in sentiment.
She paused a moment, and tried again. The love still there, though less so. Confusion gave her voice a satisfying tinge for him.
His voice came from all around, radiating from hidden speakers.
Her expression hardened in an instant, an
d she turned to spit more savage sounds at the scientists, who gestured and chittered in response. Even then, he knew something had gone wrong, that he’d come out wrong.
She turned to look at him again, and this time her expression the one that he knew from the top of Genefex Tower. The snake queen, her eyes silver narrows in the darkened lab. “I’m sorry. There appears to be some kind of mistake. You are supposed to be dead.”
“You tried to kill yourself,” said the Mother of Systems with a faint smirk. “But like all other attempts at human resistance, you failed. You managed to blow out a portion of your brain, but we were able to salvage you.”
Walken floated in the tank, his body naked, a white-skinned, anatomically male – but neutered – doll. His face remained the same, but his curly hair had become platinum blond, his eyes silver mirrors. He could see it, but his dream-self had no idea.
“We salvaged you.” She folded her arms over her breasts. The glyphs spun slowly on their axes behind her head, a wheel of damnation. “Much of you was defective. We scrapped damaged tissue, replacing it with new synthetic components.”
The Mother of System merely shrugged. “We made you into what you were always meant to be. You are a vessel. You were always meant to be a vessel. Now you are. Only it appears that your imperfection, that part of you still clinging to your notion of being Thomas, has yet to fade away despite our best efforts.”
he said, as fiercely as he could.
“Resistance is your prerogative of course, but ultimately futile. You did not kill yourself, and you did not manage to dislodge my kin from your mind. We have managed to replace all the damaged parts of your brain, replace them with synthetic components, and give you a new body more suitable for him. You are a brain in a jar, a condition which does not affect our kind but will ultimately drive you insane. Or you will simply dissolve as the mental connections allowing him to reassert control finally reform. It’s simply a matter of time.”
Gathering Ashes (The Wonderland Cycle Book 3) Page 19
