Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm

by G T Almasi

  “Nice.” Grey nods. “You like the Russian players, eh?”

  Brando resets his pieces. “And the Chinese. Everybody back home studies the Europeans and the South Americans, but fewer people follow Asian players.”

  The two brainiacs begin another game. Falcon quietly sits up front with me. He rotates his head around like he wants to see every single thing we pass.

  “Hey, F-Bird.” I blow smoke out the window. “What are you gonna do when we get home?”

  He takes a minute to answer. “I don’t know. I’d rather die than go back to the ARI.” He turns to me. “Maybe I can work for ExOps.”

  I glance over at him. Now that he’s fatigued and road-weary, he looks a lot more like my dad. His skin is smoother and his teeth are a lot better, but Falcon’s eyes have acquired the same silent intensity Dad’s eyes had.

  Do. The same that Dad’s eyes do.

  “Yeah, I’ll vouch for you,” I say around my cigarette. “You’re the best goddamn shot I ever saw.”

  “Thanks. Do you think ExOps will have a problem with my … resemblance to your father?”

  “Hell, no.” I take one last drag and toss the butt out the window. “They’ll think you’re manna from heaven.”

  Falcon doesn’t respond, but his lips are pressed tightly together like he’s about to say something major. Finally, softly, “Scarlet, I’ve been meaning to … to ask you something since we met in Brussels.” He looks at his hands. “Do you have a problem with my resemblance to your dad?”

  This question has already cost me a few nights’ sleep. The fact that Falcon is a clone of my father should weird me out as much as Brando used to, but for some reason it doesn’t.

  “Not really. I mean, it’s not like you asked for it.” I close my window. “It might be strange when you’re older, but for now it feels kind of like you’re my brother.”

  Falcon’s reaction surprises the shit out of me. His lips tremble, and his skin flushes red. He turns his head away, but before he does, a teardrop flows down his cheek and drips onto his collar.

  I keep an eye on the road, but after a moment I sneak another peek at Falcon. He holds his head in one of his hands.

  I wait a minute, then comm just to him, “Hey … Falcon, what’s wrong?” I reach over with my right hand and put it on his leg.

  He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. He quickly checks that the two boy geniuses in back are still engrossed in their chess game, then turns his tear-streaked face back to me and comms, “Thanks, Scarlet. I don’t know if someone like you … can have any idea how much that means to someone like me.”

  “Someone like me how?”

  “Like that you have parents, and grew up in a house, and had Christmases.” He lets go of my hand and wipes his face on the back of his sleeve. “Like that you don’t care I’m a … fucking lab rat, copy of someone else …” The young version of my father takes a deep breath and whispers. “Like that you don’t care I’m a clone.”

  “You’re right, Falcon. I don’t care about that.”

  CORE MIS-ANGEL-5203

  ANGEL SIT-REP: BERLIN. 10 March 1981

  Countrywide slave revolt and sympathy strikes have thrown country into absolute chaos. Our work here is done.

  —Tiger, L17 Infiltrator

  43

  Same day, ten hours later, 8:45 P.M. CET

  Carentan, Province of France, GG

  Carentan is a cute place. Not that I want to move here, but of all the towns with top-secret mad-scientist laboratories, this one isn’t bad. Gotta give the Krauts credit. Hiding one of the nine Carbon cloning labs in this sleepy little burg is like hiding a 100-karat diamond in a bread box.

  We’re parked across the street from the German Veterans Medical Center, which squats next to the town’s main church, the Notre-Dame de Carentan. Grey silently smokes a cigarette as he keeps a close eye on everyone who enters or leaves the modern and brightly lit hospital. Most of them are civilians visiting patients.

  Then there are the husky Staatszeiger creeps. Two of them are always posted at the entrance, and two more patrol the hospital’s perimeter. We saw a small squad of them enter the building, and a few minutes later only two walked out, got in an officially marked Staatszeiger car, and drove away.

  I say to Grey, “There isn’t much competition. Why don’t we just F.U.C.K. ’em up?”

  Grey taps the ash off his cigarette. “We need to keep the con after we’re gone.”

  I frown in confusion.

  He elaborates, “We don’t want Fritz to know ExOps pulled this job. The plan is to make it look like it was the Circle of Zion. So, to do it like the Circle would, we’ll sneak in through the church, avoid the hospital guards, and make a clean getaway.” He pauses. “Unless you feel like killing every potential witness in that hospital.” He gives me a steady stare. I don’t say anything. “Right.” He turns back to the car’s window. “We do it the sneaky way.”

  Notre-Dame de Carentan is much smaller than Notre-Dame de Reims, but it’s still cluttered with statues, stained glass, and carvey knickknacks. It’s like a really fancy cupcake except for the tall, spearlike central tower that stabs a hole into the night sky.

  After we got here, I tried to use Li’l Bertha to comm my dad. I’d hoped being so close would put me in range again, but I haven’t had any luck. Patrick quietly keeps an eye on me when I hold my pistol next to my head.

  The decision about when to begin a mission falls to the senior Level in charge. In this case, that’s Grey. He exhales smoke from his nose and says, “I think it’s time to get this show on the road.”

  I start the car and drive up the street past the fancy little church. I park in front of a small shop. Grey stubs out his cigarette, and we exit the Barge. I stand up too quickly and get a head rush. I breathe deeply and have my neuroinjector give me a swish of uppers.

  We double-check our toys of mass destruction. Falcon holds his sniper’s rifle flat against his side.

  “This is gonna be close quarters,” I say to him. “Sure you need that cannon?”

  “Like the man says,” Falcon smirks, “don’t leave home without it.”

  I smile and poke my elbow into his arm as the four of us stalk down the street. We creep up to the side entrance of the foreboding unlit Cupcake and try the heavy wooden door. It’s locked. Brando pulls out his lock-breaker kit. Falcon and I keep watch and Grey shines a penlight on the lock while my partner does his thing. Except for the hospital’s hustle and bustle, the neighborhood is quiet.

  Brando’s efforts bring about a declarative clunk. “Got it,” he whispers.

  Grey shoves the door open and enters first. He comms to us, “All clear.”

  The rest of us slip inside. The dark stone walls and floor in here seem to suck the warmth right out of me. I tighten my jacket around me and—

  Alix?

  It’s him! I hold Li’l Bertha beside my head.

  “Daddy? We’re here!”

  Alix, I …

  “What? Dad, what’s the matter?”

  No answer. A dancing crowd of spots appears before my eyes, and my dizziness returns.

  “Hang on, Daddy, we’ll get you out of here.” The floor shifts from left to right so dramatically that I feel motion-sick.

  Brando, still watching me, remains silent. Grey and Falcon have already walked to the shadowy rear of the church. I hook my arm through my partner’s arm, and we follow them down a gloomy flight of stairs. A black metal door yields to Brando’s lock-picking prowess, and we’re in. The pitch-black air in the Cupcake’s cellar—or “undercroft,” as Grey calls it—is thick with the smell of fresh mouse turds, damp earth, moldy stonework, and ancient corpses interred in the walls.

  “Not creepy,” whispers Falcon. “No, sir. Not at all.”

  We follow Grey in the glow from his small flashlight. He leads us into a low hallway. Even I have to stoop to get through. We quietly assemble at the end of the hall and all get down on one knee. I’m grateful for
the chance to steady myself.

  Grey comms, “Okay, this is the old entrance to the main catacombs.” He reviews our next steps. Grey and Falcon will rush through the lab and secure the entrance. Brando and I will fan out and find the Originals. Then we’ll do the extraction.

  My partner reaches into his X-bag and takes out his millimeter-wave radar sensor. He begins to pass it back and forth across the wall, looking for the old doorway.

  As he works, an avalanche of nausea crushes my stomach. My brow frosts over, and my hands shake like a pair of worms on a hook. The floor turns into a frozen lake and slips out from under me.

  I sink through the ice, and my skates drag me down to the bottom. I push off the mud and punch the shimmering roof, but the thick water clutches my hands like a thorn bush. I try to swim back to the hole I made, but I’m all turned around and I can’t find it. Bubbles of air rush past my nose. I’m not cold anymore. Something heavy crashes in on top of me and—

  —hands prop me against a decrepit, dusty old barrel. All three of my companions bend down to look at me. My mouth tastes awful. I clutch my head in my hands to keep it from splitting apart.

  “Oh, my God,” I groan, “this feels worse than a hangover.” Something drips off my sleeve and down my arm.

  Brando fusses around me. “Hang on, hang on. Let me clean you up.”

  “Scarlet,” Grey hisses, “you need to stay quiet.”

  I take a slow, deep breath. This helps clear my head, but now I’m aware of something else. “Ugh! What’s that smell?”

  “Alix, you got sick, and then you blacked out.” Brando whispers. “Stick your arm out. I’ll clean off your sleeve.”

  Sweet Jesus! I fainted in the middle of a mission. Grey silently holds his penlight and watches my partner clean puke off my jacket sleeve. “Darwin,” he slowly asks my partner, “what’s the matter with her?”

  Brando finishes his nursemaid duty. “She’ll be fine. It’s only a nervous reaction.” He helps me sit upright. Grey squats down in front of me and has Brando return to waving his radar gadget at the wall.

  Grey says to me, “You all right, kid?”

  “Yeah.” I goose some Overkaine to suppress my headache. “I’m sorry, Grey. That won’t happen again.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened at all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has it happened before?”

  “Not like that, sir.”

  Grey frowns, “How has it happened before?”

  Oops.

  “Sir,” Brando interjects, “I’ve got the doorway.”

  Grey’s expression softens a little, and he says, “Scarlet, we’ll get him out. Just stay cool, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” I wipe sweat off my forehead and rub my hands on my pants. “Thank you, sir.”

  Grey points at Brando’s X-bag. “Okay, Darwin, let’s try out that Super Momma we got from Jacques.”

  CORE TECH-SPRMAMA-003

  Sonically Powered Retrogressive-Method Anti-Material Array (SPRMAMA)

  This handheld device generates a pair of short-range, high-intensity, high-frequency self-balancing sonic waves that can be employed against a variety of surfaces to cause everything from mild damage to complete structural disintegration.

  Although SPRMAMA is nearly silent on its own, when this system is used against a wall, floor, or ceiling, the demolished elements are likely to create significant aural disturbance.

  Prototypes have been adapted into the casings of cordless drills. A few teams involved in Operation ANGEL have deployed with these pre-production models. The operatives will field-test SPRMAMA at their first opportunity.

  44

  Same day, one minute later, 8:46 P.M. CET

  Carentan, Province of France, GG

  Brando presses the Super Momma against the wall and activates the sonic wave. My headache resurrects itself like a howling harpy, and I clap my hands to my forehead. “Agh, fuck!” I glance up and see Grey and Falcon are doing the same thing. I grunt, “Darwin, hurry up! That thing is killing my head!”

  My partner moves the Super Momma on the wall and “draws” a door-sized rectangle. Severed pieces of wood, crumbling chunks of plaster, and piles of stone filler tumble onto the floor. Fluorescent light spills through from Brando’s sonic-boom doorway into the undercroft. He shuts the goddamn thing off.

  “Wow,” he exclaims over the settling debris. “Talk about instant hole!”

  My headache recedes almost as quickly as it came on, but I still make sure to voice my low opinion of this new hoozie from the Technical Department.

  “Next time let’s just use a fucking chain saw.”

  We take a guess that our vision Mods may have resonated with the frequency from the Super Momma, since my partner wasn’t affected and he’s the only one of us with plain old eyeballs.

  We pick our way through the carpet of rubble and enter the Carbon lab. A layer of ground-up plaster has settled over a few sets of tables and chairs. A refrigerator hums in the corner next to a counter and kitchen sink.

  Falcon and Grey hotfoot it out of the kitchen and into a main hallway. Brando and I turn the other way. My partner has decided he’d better stick with me in case I have another lunch-spewing panic attack. We hustle past a long row of offices and cubicles.

  A pair of dull thuds echo down the linoleum hallway.

  “You got ‘im?” Grey’s comm voice snaps.

  “Yes, sir. He’s down,” Falcon replies.

  The two of them have taken over the hospital’s entrance to this secret lab. Brando and I run past the offices, looking for the Originals. The office doors are all secured with pass-code locks. At first we take the time to carefully disable them, but takes too long. I start kicking the doors in, which speeds things up significantly.

  We emerge in an open area with a series of long, low planter boxes arranged in a circle like Old West wagons defending themselves against an Indian attack. The big green plants are fake, but they still take the edge off the decor-by-Sparta feel of the place. It’s also the only area with any decent signage. We turn around and read the signs as fast as we can.

  “There!” Brando says. He takes off past a placard that reads PRIMÄR ENTWICKLUNGSLABOR. Primary Laboratory. I catch up to him, and we push open a pair of frosted-glass doors.

  We’re in a wide, rounded room laid out like the lab in the Tower of London. The floor is dominated by a huge metal casket-shaped sarcophagus snaked all around with thick cables and tubes. Most of this techno-spaghetti runs across the floor to a series of person-size cylindrical tanks lined up against the walls. Each tank contains a person, a clone presumably, viewable through a glass window. The tank people are all male, but they don’t look like each other. Their features remind me of some of the clones I fought in Zurich last year.

  Brando moves off to my left toward a raised platform slathered in computer gear. I run to the center of the room with my stomach in knots and look into the window of the Original container.

  It’s him! It’s really him! I hug Li’l Bertha to my cheek. “Daddy, can you hear me?”

  Yes!

  “I’m here, in the room with you! I’ve come to take you home.”

  I … I knew you’d come for me, Hot-Shot.

  I press my right hand on the glass and study my dad’s face. It looks like him, and it doesn’t look like him. His eyes are closed, he’s very pale and his lips are dry and colorless.

  “Can you open your eyes?”

  I can’t … move anything.

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him in nine years, but I almost don’t recognize him. It’s weird how lifeless he is in there. He was always in motion, even when he slept. When I used to find him passed out on the couch down in his workshop, I’d study his face. The muscles in his jaw would twitch while he dreamed.

  He’s in a padded metal envelope, like the woman in the White Tower back in London. A breathing mask covers his mouth and nose, and the tubes disappear past my line of sight into the sarcop
hagus. I can’t see his hair under the metal helmet they’ve got on top of his head. The helmet sprouts a small galaxy of fine wires leading to a silver gadget with blinking lights mounted to the inside wall of the chamber.

  “Darwin,” I comm, “do we take that helmet off his head?”

  “Only after we’ve disconnected the wires,” he comms back. “But we need to detach them in the correct sequence.”

  “How can I help?”

  My partner says, “I need you to talk with your father. Have him tell you what he feels as I switch his IV from pancuronium to neostigmine and atropine.”

  “In English, please?”

  “I need to activate his musculature. Then we can get him off the ventilator and move him much more easily. Disconnecting all the Carbon crap will take some guesswork, and if I know what he’s experiencing, it may help me get it right.”

  I look back at my father. One of his eyelids spasms, and his faint comm voice strains with great effort.

  Oh, my God! Honey, they must have found my comm connection.

  “Dad, don’t worry. In a few minutes you won’t need it anymore.”

  No, listen, they’ve set … it’s a …

  “Scarlet,” Brando says. “You ready?”

  “Shh! Hang on. My father’s trying to say something.” When my dad finally gets the word out, it nearly stops my heart.

  Trap.

  A loud bang ricochets down the hall, instantly followed by a sharp exchange of gunfire.

  “Falcon!” It’s Grey. “Back up, lemme get’im!”

  Falcon comms, “Watch it! On your left!”

  The firefight out front goes from zero to bullet-blizzard in nothing flat. The floor vibrates so much that flasks and beakers shake off the table and crash onto the floor.

  “Shit!” Brando yells. “Okay, change of plans. We’ll disconnect him from Carbon first, then run him out of here on our portable ventilator.”