Ure Infectus

by Caleb Wachter

  So by employing ‘operators’ like Benton, Shu, and the late Baxter, he had managed to overcome that particular limitation. But Obunda required no such assistance during his own Adjustments—a fact which he often waved under Jericho’s nose in belittling fashion.

  Obunda had dabbled in tech crime since he was a youth, and had managed several Adjustments via remote from the comfort of whatever place it was he called ‘home’—including that of three Senators in one night, who had conspired to manipulate the Sector’s currency value by shifting massive amounts of labor from one pool to another over a period of five years. He had stopped them during the first year of their plan, and had therefore accrued nearly the theoretical maximum number of RL possible once the extent of their crime had been confirmed.

  Naturally, the prevention of a crime against the body politic was worth more than simply punishing an official who managed to complete such a crime. So, the more ‘lives’ which would be proven to have been directly saved by an Adjuster’s actions, the higher the percentage of the affected population’s lifetime productivity quotient that Adjuster was awarded for acting in defense of the voters’ interests.

  With that single Adjustment, Obunda had launched himself into a position of authority and oversight over all Adjustments made in Virgin’s assigned zone of control. Chief among the package of perks had been Obunda’s acquisition of Virgin-exclusive access to Tyrannis Adjustments, which were usually of far higher value than their Infectus counterparts—and required considerably less paperwork to execute.

  “Fine,” Jericho said, swiping the data crystal from the tabletop. “I’ll need it verified remotely after I’ve finished.” He then stood from the table and opened his jaw wide in a vain effort to clear the horrific music from his ears.

  “Taking a trip, are we?” Obunda asked playfully.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Jericho lied, before adding more truthfully, “I just can’t stand to set foot in this place again.”

  With that, he turned and exited the den of indulgence as quickly as he could without making a scene.

  Chapter XV: Plan ‘B’…as in ‘Brutal’

  With a heavy duffel bag in each hand, Jericho stepped off the hovercraft and onto the grassy field before nodding his thanks to the craft’s operator. Benton had arranged for the conveyance after thankfully accepting the job of operator for this unexpected Adjustment on such short notice.

  “How far to the safe house?” Jericho asked, having placed a tiny, high-quality earpiece in his left ear just before stepping off the craft.

  “We be lookin’ at…” Benton replied, “six clicks by crow’s flight, probably more like seven and a half if you stick to the flat. But you only need four point two clicks to make the top of that hill and set up for the shot.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” Jericho muttered as he set off toward the proposed blind atop the hill.

  “That cannon can punch through Class II vehicle armor at three clicks, easy, my man,” Benton chided, referring to the long-range weapon Jericho had brought with him for the mission. “All you need is a line of sight and you be golden—hey!” he yelled unexpectedly, causing Jericho to duck instinctively as his adrenal glands began flooding his body with epinephrine. “Dammit, Eve, I done told you to stay outta my God-damned vids—them shits is private!”

  Jericho set his jaw and took several deep, cleansing breaths before coming out of his crouch and resuming the journey to the setup point. “Problems?” he asked in a voice little more than a growl.

  “Sorry, my man,” Benton apologized after several seconds of silence, “bitch just won’t stay outta my stuff, feel me?”

  “No,” Jericho replied shortly. After a few more steps he stopped and looked at the hill before him. He had initially planned to set up on top of that hill and, using a high-end targeting scope, execute the Adjustment from long-range with a single shot. But the more he had thought about it, the more he became convinced that it was all a setup.

  Jericho had learned things about Obunda in recent years which had cast doubt on more than just the other man’s trustworthiness, but he had never accumulated sufficient evidence to support any kind of meaningful action.

  “We’re dropping Plan ‘A’,” Jericho decided, literally dropping the duffel bag containing the disassembled cannon.

  “Say what!?” Benton asked incredulously. “This be the simplest job you ever done, boss man: just walk up that hill, lay flat against a rock till nightfall, then blast that fool through the eye with the BFG and you be back in time for breakfast!”

  Jericho considered it, and even though Benton had confirmed that the top of the hill was completely clean—no EM signatures, no heat blooms, not even a slight disturbance of the fauna had taken place in six months of accumulated satellite imagery—he shook his head in negation. “We’re going with Plan ‘B’,” he said as he broke into a jog that would skirt well around the hill—in fact, he meant to go around at least two hills to the left of his original setup point before making for the safe house.

  “You the boss,” Benton sighed. “I thought you was just bitchin’ about bein’ too old for this shit, though…now you wanna take on a six man detail up-close-and-personal-style? You ain’t no borg, feel me? These be in-their-prime military types who get paid to do one thing: kill dudes like you who try to get up in their business.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Jericho snapped. “Work up some high-res imagery for me; I’ll need an approach in about two hours.”

  “You got it,” Benton agreed reluctantly, and Jericho quickened his pace for what he estimated would be an extra fifteen kilometers tacked onto his planned hike.

  But at least he would be breathing clean, unpolluted air while he ran it.

  “I’m in position,” Jericho said between deliberately deep breaths after he had completed his trek. It was nearly night, and according to the intel on the data pad—intel which Benton had largely corroborated—General Pemberton would be transferred off-world the following evening, which meant that he and his 'escort' would be departing the safe house early in the morning. The time crunch was just one of several aspects which heightened Jericho’s wariness, and when he received Benton’s data packet with the information he had requested for the small fortress, that wariness proved more than justified.

  “We be dealin’ with twelve, not six, professional killers,” Benton said through the earpiece. “I be readin’ a detection field like nothin’ I’ve ever seen—at least not outside of a full-blown military base or global bank vault—and these dudes each be packin’ some serious heat. I’m seein’ plasma pistols on each of them mo-fo’s, along with a pair of concealed autocannon turrets with near-total coverage of the zone, and even an HVM inside the southern house—which obviously ain’t no house, feel me?”

  “Where’s the nearest autocannon?” Jericho asked as he worked through the situational breakdown in his mind.

  “Ain’t gonna happen, dawg,” Benton replied promptly in negation of his short-lived plan. “Them shits is controlled from inside the compound—ain’t no manual control to be had.”

  Jericho swore under his breath. If he tried to sneak into the safe house the detection grid would reveal him, and if he tried to shoot his way in the autocannons would cut him down before he got his third shot off.

  He hated using one of his only remaining aces, but decided it was worth the potential reward. “As far as entry goes, she is one frigid bitch,” Jericho muttered before taking the plunge, “maybe we can slip her something to loosen her up?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, dawg,” Benton replied enthusiastically, and Jericho could almost see the grin on the big guy’s face even though he was two thousand kilometers away. “Let me crunch this out for a second,” he said before severing the audio feed.

  He sat there as the sun set over the horizon and considered the distances between each of the points marked on his tactical overlay of the surprisingly well-fortified installation.

  Jus
t as he had arrived at a timetable for each potential entry point, Benton’s voice crackled in his earpiece, “According to our readings, we be lookin’ at some stiff shielding on most of the central components so we can’t knock them off. But,” he added just as Jericho felt his stomach tighten at the news, “I do think we can give you a window to get into the house without tippin’ off the guards by spikin’ the relays between the central control system and the field or turrets. After that, you be on your own.”

  “How long can you give me?” Jericho asked as he rolled his head around, cracking his neck in a long-practiced warm-up routine.

  “We’ve got enough juice to drop the detection grid for twenty one seconds,” Benton replied promptly, before adding, “but the autocannon’s automatic reset cycle is only fourteen seconds, and without more info on their system’s setup that’s what we need to work with.”

  Jericho glanced down at his data pad’s tactical overlay and considered his options. Of the nine reasonable approaches he had devised, six of them were out entirely because each would have taken more than twenty six seconds even if everything went perfectly. He considered the autocannons’ firing arcs, and eliminated yet another approach since he would still be within both of their fields for at least four seconds longer than the window would provide.

  “You goin’ high or low?” Benton asked, apparently having deduced the options as Jericho had done.

  “What do you suggest?” Jericho asked blandly, unable to decide between them. The first option would see him exit the overlapping fields of the autocannons and reach the house with one second to spare, while the other would only leave him in the field of one autocannon—but he would be in its field of coverage for at least three seconds.

  “Hang on,” Benton said before once again severing the link. He returned after a few seconds and said, “We be thinkin’ you should take the low.”

  Jericho nodded to himself slowly as he considered Benton’s advice to enter the single autocannon’s field for more time rather than entering the multiple autocannons’ fields for less. Then he caught something Benton had said and rolled his eyes, “’We’? Don’t tell me you’re asking the sexbot for tactical advice.”

  “I heard that, Jericho,” Eve’s voice cut in over the line. “You take that back this very instant!”

  “He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, baby,” Benton tried to assure her. “He just be under a lot of stress…you know how it is: humans be humans. We can’t be perfect angels like you.”

  “Well…” Eve said as though considering the matter at great length, “all right. But you need to get me something nice when you come back or I’ll never forgive you!”

  “Sure thing, Eve,” Jericho said as he rummaged through the duffel and considered which gear to bring, “but I think I’m going high. One autocannon’s more than enough to turn me into pudding if it locks on, so minimizing exposure time is key.”

  He looked long and hard at the bullpup slug-thrower he had brought, which could be reconfigured for medium-range sniping, before deciding against bringing it. He had a smaller shotgun, which had been loaded with explosive rounds that would be absolutely devastating in closed quarters, and concluded that it would pay to have a short-range weapon once he made it into the house.

  He also strapped a pair of gas-powered needle-launchers to his forearms, each of which had been loaded with a high-powered tranquilizer dart. The darts were fairly ingenious—and absolutely illegal—in that they not only administered the requisite chemical restraints into the target’s body but they also produced an electrical surge which would instantly stun the target and persist until the chemicals had taken effect. If any of the guards were augmented, or even extensively modified genetically, they would likely be capable of resisting the darts long enough to sound an alarm—but Jericho was betting his life that they were far from super soldiers.

  In addition to the ranged weapons, he had brought along Captain Sasaki’s tanto since it had been superior to the other blades he might have acquired. The window Benton would provide him would make it impossible to neutralize all of the guards before an alarm went up, so he needed to sneak into the safe house rather than shoot his way in. He also brought a small satchel of pre-filled syringes, most of which had enough veterinary tranquilizers to knock an ordinary person out for twelve hours—or an athletic specimen like Jericho for three to four hours. He had a growing suspicion that parts of this Adjustment were not what they appeared, and he was therefore unwilling to cause unnecessary collateral damage. There were also a few syringes filled with other concoctions which he suspected he would need once inside the mini-fort.

  “You just give the word and I’ll give you a sixty second count,” Benton said, and Jericho could hear uncharacteristic tension in the other man’s voice. “But we only be gettin’ one shot at this, feel me?”

  Jericho donned a bandolier with two dozen explosive shotgun rounds, and attached the sheathed tanto to his belt as he ran through the scenario in his mind’s eye several times, trying to visualize his approach and subsequent entry to the house.

  It appeared there was a vehicle inside the house’s attached garage. He suspected he would be able to use it to create a diversion once he was inside the house and, hopefully, that the diversion would allow him to slip away before he was cut down.

  “How many inside the house?” he asked as he checked his gear. He had worn an energy weapon-resistant bodyglove underneath a thin, carbon fiber vest which would provide protection from at least a few rounds of small arms fire before failing. Jericho could have brought heavier protection, but he knew that this particular Adjustment was one he could not make without relying primarily on speed and stealth.

  “Includin’ the target…” Benton hesitated, “four. You need to slip past the two guards shown as blue icons on your way to the house,” he explained in a more serious tone and Jericho glanced at the data link to confirm that they were on the same page tactically. “Then it be up to you, boss man.”

  “Sounds good,” Jericho replied before closing his eyes and carefully stretching his legs. He needed to move a hundred sixty yards closer to the safe house before Benton made his move. “You’re sure they won’t realize you’ve pinched them?”

  “Nah,” Benton replied confidently, “I got the tech specs on all that gear; this shot be tailor-made to knock out the field and the autocannons’ targeting computers. Even them plasma pistols will be affected,” he said before adding contemplatively, “but only for about five seconds.”

  “I knew it couldn’t be that easy,” Jericho said sarcastically, but he had already assumed as much.

  He carefully moved his way to the perimeter of the compound—which appeared to be nothing but a farm house in the middle of a vast sea of grassy, rolling hills—and when he was in position he stopped to collect his wits. He needed every step to be precisely made, and he had to put every ounce of power he had into each stride or he would be unable to close the distance in time.

  When he had inspected his chosen path to the safe house, and concluded that there was no more preparation to be made—and the nearest guard had turned her back—he said, “Start the clock.”

  “Clock is hot,” Benton replied, “in ten seconds we’ll be cut off until you can get a new link. Six…five…four…three…two…one…she’s hot—good luck!”

  There was the barest blip of static in his earpiece and Jericho immediately took off at a sprint along his chosen route. He made visual contact with one of the guards and saw that the guard’s back was still turned as he cleared her primary field of view and sprinted past a small outbuilding. After four seconds of full-speed sprinting, he saw the second guard he would need to evade—but this guard was facing in his direction and situated on the top floor of a nearby, barn-like structure.

  Jericho reflexively raised his left arm and activated the needle-launcher, resulting in a hiss of gas bursting from the tubular device. The tiny missile sailed through the air, adjusting its course slightly to b
end its arc mid-air and lodge itself into the exposed neck of the guardsman. The guard barely reacted to the attack before going rigid and collapsing to the floor of his viewing nest.

  Jericho lost nearly half a stride while neutralizing the guardsman, which meant he would remain in the autocannons’ overlapping fields of fire for an extra quarter of a second—a potentially deadly increase in exposure time.

  His feet churned beneath his body as he silently counted down the seconds before coming around the corner of the barn and seeing a relatively exposed patch of ground between himself and the safe house. The autocannons—which were concealed within a pair of ancient, rusted farm vehicles—were still down, but Jericho knew that if they managed to acquire him before he left their fields of fire that he would never even realize they had killed him.

  But he had left all doubt back with his high-powered cannon two hours before. His feet pumped up and down like the pistons of a finely-tuned machine, devouring the dry ground between himself and his quarry as he saw—with more than a twinge of relief—that the third guard he needed to pass by did not appear to be looking in his direction.

  He was halfway across the open patch of ground when his silent countdown reach three seconds remaining before the autocannons came online. His legs were heavier than he had expected, and his lungs burned so badly they felt ready to burst in his chest, but he knew he could make the safe house before missing a step.

  With two seconds left, he realized he would remain in the autocannons’ overlapping fields of fire for nearly two full seconds. He briefly chastised himself for overthinking the approach, but Jericho had no place for guilt or remorse anywhere in his being.

  With one second left he tripped over an unseen rock and concluded that there was an eighty percent likelihood that the chip of granite just cost him his life. He managed to keep his feet beneath him, but his stumbling gait cost him nearly another second.