The Lies (Zombie Ocean Book 8)

by Michael John Grist

  The Sandbrooke-like assistant fished a headset from a bag and pressed it down over Joran's head, slipping the ear pads into position so they cut out the loud chopping of the rotor blades. Joran lay still while it happened, manipulated like a piece of meat. Reeling.

  Had he done what Sovoy was claiming?

  The brown-eyed man on the screen waited, then spoke.

  "Joran Helkegarde, you are now under arrest." His voice came through the headset in a calm, strong baritone. "As mandated by the SEAL council, in accordance with Article 33 of the Geneva Testament. The charges laid against you are Crimes against Humanity, and the punishment if you are found guilty of these crimes will be summary execution or lifetime imprisonment, whichever serves our purposes more fully. Your only chance in this matter is full, frank, complete disclosure of your crimes. Am I understood?"

  Joran stared at the screen. He didn't know this man. He hadn't heard of the Geneva Testament. He knew about the SEAL, the research conglomerate that funded his research, but summary execution?

  "Who are you?"

  There was a momentary delay. "I'm the head of your project, of all the projects in the SEAL. My name is James While. You haven't met me because I never deemed it necessary, but you should know that I'm the one who championed your research grant. I've been watching over your operation since it began, assessing risks with an independent team, but somehow you slipped your transmission past all of us. I don't know how you did it, but I'm going to find out. If it takes your arm, a leg, your eyes, believe me, I am going to find out."

  Joran tried to keep up. "My other arm?"

  "I believe Deputy Richard Sovoy said as much to you. Helkegarde, you need to close your mouth and understand your situation. Your actions have put a very great deal at risk, and I can advise you that your personal human rights have been put on hold until the threat is fully understood and placed under control. Now is the time to tell me who you were working with and to what end, or it's very unlikely any of the vehicles currently leaving the facility will make it out of the snow. More bombs will fall to ensure this sabotage goes no further. Am I clear?"

  Joran felt like he was gasping at the air. He'd barely come to grips with what Sovoy had said, and before that the Array, and now this? "More bombs?"

  "I would rather kill all your staff than allow a terrorist in league with you to escape," While said calmly. "These are the realities. Now, I need you to speak. Everything you say will be recorded as evidence against you, but there is nothing you can do to control that now. The chances of you even surviving this flight are very low. Your one and only hope is to tell me everything. How did you engineer a T4 retrovirus to respond to a signal sent out across the hydrogen line? How did you slip that signal past all of our detection protocols? Who else is in your network, particularly in the Logchain Group, and how did you contact them? How did they propagate this altered T4 into the broader DNA stream? What is your endgame beyond this point, and to what end did you trigger the signal now?"

  Joran could only jaw at the air. His bitten arm was forgotten.

  "I d-don't-" he stammered, "I d-don't know..."

  James While turned slightly and nodded to the side. Joran followed his gaze, and saw the Sandbrooke-clone reaching into his breast pocket, to pull out a large folding Bowie knife. He straightened it and held the blade so it hovered over Joran's face.

  "Left eye or right?" James While asked.

  Joran squeaked. He tried to thrash away, but found he was strapped down on his gurney, unable to move. "I don't-, I…"

  "Try," said the man on the screen, as the knife drew in.

  Joran racked his brain, and caught upon the one thing he'd thought he'd never have to share. The place that the idea had come from. And spilled it.

  He told James While about the email he'd received one snowy night three months earlier. He stared at the knife as if mesmerized, and kept talking even though he knew nothing more than that; explaining his dream of greatness, the low morale of his team, the spoofing procedure he'd put into place, the simple message he'd programmed to transmit, the safety cutouts he'd instituted himself. The knife remained hovering above him throughout.

  * * *

  James While shut the connection and paced away from the center of his tower office. The video feed of Joran Helkegarde's terrified face faded from wall screen seven, and While strode round the office's perimeter, letting the new facts percolate in his head.

  His office filled the top floor of a spire atop the Marmara Hotel in central Istanbul, an empty octahedron with no desks, chairs or furniture of any kind. On each of the eight sides was a tall, broad window, flanked with two full-length wall screens. Each window showed a different view of the city, some overlooking the bland, cement Taksim Square where his efforts had helped put down the Arab Spring in 2010, some overlooking Gezi Park, some the Levent financial district, some the Bosphorus bridges and one perfectly framing the Golden Horn where the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque sat so beautifully. It was an office he'd selected and designed himself, allowing him complete sightlines across the city, and with the sixteen wall screens added on; complete sightlines across the world.

  They provided a flood of data, but it still wasn't enough. The truth of what had happened four hours ago was still very much in flux, with reports flashing up constantly across his screens. As he paced by each of them he took on board the new information; aftermath and containment of radiation in the Far East, updates on the evacuation on the eleven remaining stations from the Multicameral Array, updates on analysis from the Logchain, results of speedy interrogations he'd ordered the world over.

  It was chaos. Three hours ago he'd recommended that the SEAL board drop a nuclear weapon or face imminent destruction, and they had done it. Now the destruction may be less imminent, but there was no way to know when a second attack might land. The world was spinning out of control at a rate he'd never seen before, but within the chaos there had to be a kernel, a human actor who was responsible for driving events so far out of alignment, and as with any operations management situation, he just had to isolate that kernel and cut it out. It seemed clear already that it wasn't Joran Helkegarde.

  While paced and thought and worked.

  Helkegarde's terror and confusion had seemed genuine. He'd nearly lost his arm. He'd nearly died trying to help the creatures in his Array, and would he have done that if he'd known it was going to happen? Yet the blast on the hydrogen line had almost certainly emanated from Alpha Array, and Helkegarde was research head of the entire Multicameral Array. It required much deeper investigation.

  He stopped at wall screen eleven and replayed choppy footage of the evacuation from Station Gamma. The creatures in the Array were disturbing, but he was able to put emotion aside and study them. Of course he'd seen them before, as prototypes theorized through the Logchain experiments. Helkegarde hadn't.

  It was only because of that, the genuine shock at what he'd seen in the Array, that While hadn't taken his eye. He walked on. It was unlikely the man would ever use the two he had left to see the light of day again, but perhaps. If he was loyal, if he hadn't initiated this crisis but merely been a tool of another hand, then perhaps he could be of use. No one knew the hydrogen line better than him.

  And if he was useless, the black site below Istanbul Airport would do for now.

  "He didn't know anything?"

  James turned to face Rachel Heron, standing upright in the wall screen he'd reserved for the Logchain investigation. She'd been following the notes of his interrogation, while conducting her own amongst the heads of her own facilities, just as James had followed hers. The Logchain was smaller logistically than the Multicameral Array, but no smaller in ambition, and far older. It was comprised of ten stations in a clustered string on Sakhalin Island, north of Japan and east of Russia, barely populated and claimed by both nations.

  The Logchain's original mission pre-dated While's time with the SEAL by thirty years; a longstanding investigation into the effects of agi
ng, which for the past decade had been focused primarily on the role of telomeres in human DNA, with the hope to reverse the effects of cellular decay. Their discovery of the T4 virus three years back had somewhat overtaken those studies though, offering a far more fruitful realm of knowledge.

  Heron had been running Logchain for nine years total, and While trusted her as much as he trusted anyone. It was too early to cut her out of his loop, not without a deeper strategic reason in play.

  "He got an email," While said, carefully measuring his words, "but tech has found no trace of it. It could have self-wiped, but still there should be some trace of it. Perhaps someone hacked it onto his screen locally."

  "So you're isolating every evacuee from the Arrays?"

  While nodded. Rachel was a beautiful woman, with dark Middle-Eastern looks that often reminded him of Princess Jasmine from Aladdin, one of his favorite Disney movies. Watching it was a rare treat he still allowed himself occasionally. Of course her appearance was just a shell, as his appearance was to her. What mattered was what lay behind the surface; the skill, the knowledge, the competence. If anything attracted him to her, it was that.

  "Helkegarde and the gunship will drop at Istanbul, the rest in the Alpha Array evacuation will detour to Brezno, where they'll be split and questioned. We may get something, but if they've covered their tracks this well…" He trailed off.

  Rachel nodded. "Likewise here. Too many people to get anything meaningful yet. We've only been working on forced modulations of the T4 for the past year, barely long enough to genome-mark it. Forcing it to express at a cellular level was an action only ever undertaken with the utmost security, at the most granular level. Most of my stations are still working on how those first cells interplay with the telomeres. We've seen hints of the evolutionary types witnessed in your Arrays, but every sample is destroyed before it can grow. No code has escaped our lockdown."

  While nodded. He'd looked over the science from the Logchain already, moments after video reports came in from the Arrays. They had theorized a whole range of potential 'human' states, creatures modeled on humanity but different in key ways: black and white ones with electrostatic properties, gray ones with glowing eyes, giant red ones. They'd projected these types from the T4, but no one could tell him how a transmission on the hydrogen line could have triggered them. Of course there were depths to the Logchain he'd never yet been able to plumb.

  "I'm coming out there," he said.

  "I expected as much," Rachel answered. "We need you."

  "I'll be on a plane in three hours. For now we have the SEAL Heads."

  "I'll see you in there," said Rachel, and her signal cut out.

  While stared at the empty wall screen for a moment after she was gone, spinning the world in his head. He'd risen so far and so fast in the SEAL for this very ability. In IQ tests he'd always excelled, though in certain portions only, scoring highest in the tests of pattern recognition. They'd invented a new battery of tests just for him; puzzles and data sets presented in ways never set on paper before, and he'd beaten them all.

  It was his brain. It was a good brain; competent, fast, smooth-running. It had never let him down before. Riding it, he had become the SEAL's Chief of Operations six years earlier, and run their global systems without any major flaw for all that time, precisely for his ability to hold the globe in his mind and spin it.

  His gift allowed him, at some level, to understand the immense jigsaw of the SEAL's operations all at once; all the pies they kept fingers in, all the revenue streams coming in and cost streams going out. The Multicameral Array had become a large part of that budget in recent years, but so was the Logchain, the Free Radical Trials, the Apotheo Net, and so on.

  Throughout his time as COO he'd pressed to increase the SEAL's spend on science, not because he had any special belief in it, but because that was where the possibilities lay. Dealing with countries, nations, governments had been largely automated by his predecessor, outsourced to the various Heads of Persuasion, Unification, Disarmament and so on. They plodded along with the ongoing work of Globalization, keeping trade lanes clear, politics under control, populations satisfied and quiet, rogue states buttoned up and struggling.

  On a good day they required no oversight from him. All the plates were in the air and spinning, the globe turned without major incident, only occasionally requiring the lightest nudge. It wasn't vision, it was systems management, and it fulfilled him more than anything he'd done before.

  Now his plates were in chaos, and he projected startling shifts in the future. The data coming in was limited, but the implications were stark. The Logchain's greatest finding, the T4, had expressed itself onto reality, to destructive effect. An enemy out there had tried to tear not only the world order down, but the existing genetic basis for the human race, and there was no way yet to tell how successful they'd been.

  Nothing was going to be the same.

  Thirty minutes passed while he sent out a flurry of commands, reshaping the SEAL. Preparations had to be made, assets had to be placed, heads had to roll, investigations had to be stepped up, and traps had to be set. Everything that he could do, he did, minute-by-minute driving splinters into an international system he'd worked for six years to preserve.

  When that was done he brought up his sixteen wall screens and called on a Council of the SEAL.

  6. HANGAR 13

  Hours before a hot Istanbul dawn, after catching snatches of a fitful sleep, Anna limped through the camp of her enemy. She was weak still, barely able to carry her own weight on trembling legs, but she couldn't rest any longer.

  Hundreds of people lay on the ground around her; feverish, sweating, shaking, silvered by moonlight like breakers on an ocean of troubled waves. She moved through them carefully, picking a path over the weed-sprung asphalt between their tangled limbs, counting the dead as she went.

  A third, perhaps. Of three thousand that was a thousand people gone, killed by Amo.

  The air was warm and wet, carrying the scent of flowers riding atop the sour pall of electrical smoke and sweat. The grumble and groan of bodies rose like morning dew evaporating, and she pictured Amo's face again, deep in the bunker so many hours ago.

  The rage in him had knocked her down. Somehow he'd hit her with it, balling it up like a hammer, and she'd gone down helpless. It made her think of Mongolia, the first time she'd seen a demon in that mountain of Ocean bodies, but more powerful. It was a new and confusing thing, and one she felt in herself now, growing like a tiny seedling of rage. It was something in the air too, in the vacuum of the line, something buzzing like a mosquito in her mind.

  A shiver ran through her, and she realized she was standing still like a scarecrow in that ripe field of the dying, with one hand resting protectively on her stomach. That was a terrifying thing, too. A little piece of dead Ravi inside her, sucking nutrition out of her body. A parasite or a cure.

  She looked up, and listened to the quiet on the line. Amo was out there still, far to the north. The buzz in her head felt like a fragment of him, broken off in the fight.

  She blinked, and a van rolled slowly by, along a narrow, winding path to her right, dredged through the spread of bodies. Bloodstains glistened in the bright moonlight. A crew of four attended the van, darting in and out amongst the sleeping masses, ferreting out the sickest and loading them.

  Anna let her gaze sweep to the right, where Inchcombe had set up Command centers in her old treaty-base, now bristling with activity. She could hear their voices raised on the wind, as they worked in makeshift field hospitals, stacked and organized supplies from the Habitat, prepared weaponry and talked into radios.

  She turned left, cutting a zigzagging trail through the bodies, drawn by the signals of her people on the line, clear ahead. Here she stepped over outstretched arms, heads turned gray in death, puddles of curdling vomit.

  Outside Hangar 13 there were five security personnel standing in a line at the entrance, wearing a hodge-podge of black body armo
r and carrying what weaponry they'd managed to bring up from below; rifles, pistols, a club. In the middle stood Montcliffe, a large and powerful man, who spoke in a low growl as Anna drew near.

  "We're to watch you," he said. "Inchcombe's orders."

  "So watch," Anna answered, not breaking stride.

  Montcliffe shifted his grip on his rifle, but didn't raise it any higher. "Try anything and you're dead," he said as she passed by.

  Anna didn't bother to respond, peering into the darkness as her eyes adjusted. There were pale, organic shapes in the blackness, like bleached slugs, but something was wrong. She felt it on the line before she saw it, a confusion more than a signal. Ten yards in she stopped as she realized what she was seeing.

  Peters hung by the arms from a propeller, stripped naked, beaten and barely breathing. Sulman was slumped in a chair, breathing bloody bubbles. Macy was strapped to a crate and sobbing, Jonathon was stretched between two planes, barely breathing.

  A rush of cold anger welled up and surprised her, despite her exhaustion. She turned back to Montcliffe, who had tracked her several steps in.

  "What have you done?" she demanded. "Inchcombe gave orders."

  "For you," he said blankly. "Not them. They resisted."

  He was enjoying this, she could feel it rising off him. He wanted more.

  "Are you going to resist?"

  The buzzing in her head was getting stronger, and she realized she was feeling not only the presence of her people, but also more. Their pain. It stung her like a phantom limb, written over their locations in her head like a beeping GPS signal. That had never happened before, but now it came to her roughly; a jumbled taste of what Peters was feeling, what Macy was feeling, rising up in a fog of hurt and humiliation, tuning into her through the mosquito buzz in her mind. It made her head pulse with rage.

  "So you stripped them?" she asked. "You beat them. You humiliated them for resisting? They were helping your people! We all were."