by Rob Aspinall
“No, it’s an old counter-interrogation technique,” Nadia said. “You free-associate to prevent the subconscious mind from settling.”
I had no idea what Nadia was on about. I was spilling like a drunk carrying pints through a crowded pub. I started to tear up. “I’ll probably never see him again,” I said. “And we didn’t even—”
Nadia slapped me on the cheek. “Stop it, Lorna. Where are the others?”
She shook me hard by the shoulders.
I focused on her big brown eyes. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me.”
“What do you mean?” Nadia said.
“I mean they didn’t tell me, in case . . .”
“In case what?” Nadia said.
“In case you drugged or tortured it out of me. Thank God it was drugs.”
“I think she’s telling the truth,” the guy said.
“You must know something,” Nadia said. “You didn’t wander in here by accident.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m just the decoy.”
I looked over Nadia’s shoulder to the bank of screens at the front of the room. They played on silent. Drone-on-drone action all over the world. In the air, on the ground, out at sea. “Looks like it worked,” I said, smiling.
Nadia turned to look at the screens.
“What the fuck—?” the guy said.
Nadia looked stunned. She stared at the screen, mouth catching flies. “How are you doing this?” she said.
“I dunno,” I said. Some Jedi tech shit.”
The conference phone rang in the middle of the table. Nadia hurried over and answered. “Yes?”
A man yelled over gunfire: “We’ve got a breach, sir, on zero-ninety-nine.”
“What do you mean?” Nadia said.
“Two intruders. One of them armed. They’re in the drone stocks at a mainframe terminal.”
“Put the call out for more units,” Nadia said.
“How many, sir?”
“All of them!” Nadia yelled. She jabbed the cancel button and ran a hand through her hair.
The guy restraining went to say something to Nadia, loosening his grip a moment.
This was my chance.
I didn’t have a whole lot of feeling in my hands, but I’d had enough to slip the pistol from his hip holster while they were distracted by the call.
I put the barrel against his thigh and pulled the trigger.
He cried out in pain. Fell to the floor.
I tried to stand, but slipped off the leather chair instead.
I hauled myself up onto the table, gun in hand. Nadia dashed around the table and out of the door. I took a shot but missed.
The guy reached out and got a hand on the gun. He prised it from my hand. I grabbed my cup off the table, still half-full and hot with tea. Before the guy could shoot, I threw the tea in his eyes. He screamed again. I threw the cup at his face. It broke in two over his nose. He shook it off, but I had the stainless steel jug in hand. As he steadied himself to shoot on one leg, I swung the jug and clonked him on the head.
His forehead split open. He dropped to the floor, leaving a dent in the jug. I dropped the jug and stuck my fingers down my throat. I gagged and heaved until I felt hot molten puke rushing up from my stomach.
I spewed cookie mash and tea onto the conference table. I did it twice more until I was empty. I cracked open a sealed bottle of mineral water and downed half of it on the spot, trying to dilute the drug. I wiped my sleeve across my mouth.
Stay classy, Lorna.
I bent over and picked up the pistol, my body weak. I stumbled out of the conference room and along the hallway, out into reception. “Better get out of here,” I said to the receptionist.
I made my way through the automatic doors. My head was clearing. Full feeling returning to my arms and legs. Control returning to my thoughts.
I heard heeled footsteps. Light and hurried. I broke into a run and caught sight of Nadia taking a right at the end of the corridor. She glanced back at me as she went, peeing her steam-pressed pants.
I gave chase and rounded the corner.
That’s right, you stupid cow, you can run but you can’t—
Damn. She wasn’t there.
Just an empty hub, with three other corridors breaking off.
I slammed on the brakes.
And in even worse news . . .
Philippe stepped out of a corridor to my right.
He walked slow across my path.
We stood square of each other. Stolen Glock in my right hand. His own weapon holstered on his hip.
You could have cut the air with . . . well, you’d have needed a chainsaw, the beat of hidden cooler fans ratcheting up the tension.
“I knew you were here,” I said. “I felt it.”
Philippe’s hand lingered close to the butt of his Glock. The holster unbuttoned.
“In London,” he said. “Why did you save me?”
“Why did you kill Klaus and Bilal?”
Philippe didn’t answer. He moved left and I moved right. Like some kind of slow death dance.
“You don’t know, do you?” I said. “Do you even remember me?”
“Of course,” he said. “You're the girl from the barn.”
We circled. And we circled. Each waiting for the other to make a move.
Finally, we both did.
43
Machine Death Posse
Inge and Roni found themselves flanked from all sides. Each escape route blocked by a small unit of soldiers, with more rushing onto the scene as support.
A soldier with a loud hailer instructed them to come out and lay down their weapons.
“Which way do you wanna go?” Roni asked.
“Does it matter?” Inge said.
“Yeah, it matters which grids I activate and in what order.”
“Okay, the elevator,” Inge said.
As the soldiers laid down the first fire, Inge and Roni ducked low, staying close to the mainframe terminal.
Roni held down Ctrl and Alt on the keyboard. She jabbed several keys in a row. A grid system lit up green onscreen—four different blocks.
“Hand me a gun,” Roni said.
Inge handed Roni her pistol.
Roni emptied the clip into screen and hard drive. The terminal sparked, smoked and caught fire.
“You just used up a whole clip,” Inge said.
Roni threw the gun away. “Trust me, you won't need it,” she said, tapping her phone. “Get behind me.”
“You’re unarmed,” Inge said.
Roni smiled. “Oh no I’m not.”
As they rounded the steel pillar into the open, a wall of soldiers fifty metres away took aim. Roni tapped at speed on the screen of her phone.
A pair of humanoid drones on the end of a row stepped out in front of Roni and Inge. They returned fire on the soldiers, shrapnel bouncing off their armour.
Inge backed up behind Roni, rifle at the ready. Another unit appeared. Six men running and ready to open fire. “Behind us!” Inge yelled.
Roni tapped some more.
Two canine drones activated and flanked them left and right. Two more humanoids woke up and stepped across their rear.
Together, they moved as a pack. Inge and Roni shielded in the centre. Rear drones walking backwards. Dog drones walking sideways. All six machines absorbing the soldiers' fire and unleashing hell in return.
Base security didn’t stand a chance. The more who appeared, the more the body count rose.
Inge and Roni kept moving across the warehouse floor, until they reached the elevator.
The drones stopped firing, gun barrels smoking. Missile pods empty. Bodies left strewn in their wake. Roni tapped on her screen and powered them down. They slipped out between the machines. Inge pushed the button for the elevator. The doors opened a few seconds later.
“Now for the real show,” Roni said, still on her phone. “Activate all?” she asked herself. “Sure, why not.” With one tap o
f her screen, Roni woke up the entire warehouse of drones. She backed into the elevator. Looked up from her screen. “You’d better get in. I just woke up the entire stock. They’re gonna destroy each other. And everything in their way.”
“I’m not going up, I’m going down,” Inge said, detaching a spent clip from her rifle.
“Don’t give me that shit, bitch.” Roni said. “Get your skinny ass in here. Stick to the plan.”
“This was always the plan,” Inge said, jamming her last clip into the rifle.
The doors closed before Roni could speak. The elevator rose high towards the upper reaches of the complex. Inge turned and saw every warehouse floor come alive with drones. All shapes. All sizes. As the destruction began, she sprinted for the stairs.
44
No Way To Win
Philippe was lightning. His weapon drawn as fast as I could raise mine. Instinct took over. I darted forward. Pushed his gun away as I pulled the trigger. But he mirrored my moves. Bullets landed in the overhead roof panels.
Philippe snatched the gun from my hand. I returned the favour. He emptied my clip and I his. Barrels and slides detached, too, with the next bullet in the chamber dropping to the floor.
All those drills we’d gone over between missions—they all came back. My reactions hardwired to his.
He pushed me away. Gun parts on the floor. No time to pick them up. He went for a knife on his hip. I whipped the belt from my waist. As he flew forward with the blade, I sidestepped and wrapped the belt around his wrist. I twisted hard. He cried out. The knife popped out of his hand.
I kicked the blade away as it fell.
Philippe dove forward, reversing his wrist out of the hold. Momentum took me with him. He threw me to the floor.
I forward-rolled out of it and rose to my feet.
We squared off again.
“You’ve improved,” Philippe said.
“Don't have you slowing me down anymore,” I said.
We went again. I flew at Philippe with a sidekick. He blocked it easy, but it was just a dummy. I spin-kicked him with the other foot. Straight in the jaw. He staggered. I followed through with a leg-sweep. He blocked it with the sole of a boot, grabbed me by the collar and threw me against a nearby wall. I bounced straight off, coming back with a punch. He took it on the jaw and drove the flat of his hand into my chest.
It knocked the wind out of me. He threw me over his shoulder to the floor.
I rose to my feet and caught my breath. Rolled the pain from my right shoulder.
“This is a suicide mission,” Philippe said, flexing his jaw. “You won’t get out alive.”
“Funny, no one mentioned the getting out part.”
“Then why come here?”
I shrugged. “You know me. Girl with the shortest straw.”
Philippe shook his head and came at me this time. He threw everything at me. I blocked, I ducked, I backed off. Staying alive.
The first chance I got, I returned fire. An elbow to the mush.
It gave me confidence.
I did another.
And another.
Block-block-punch.
Block-block-kick.
Block-kick-elbow.
I drove him back. Techniques I'd learned from watching Ling.
Philippe wasn’t ready for it. Thought all my moves were his.
He stepped away. Wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. I got cocky and flew in. Just what he wanted. He caught me mid-air and slammed me against the roof. The light panel shattered. I fell to the floor, but landed like a cat, showered by sparks and filament.
“You can join us,” Philippe said, pacing around me. “We can work together.”
“And have my brain turned to noodles? No thanks.”
“It’s painless,” he said. “You won’t feel a thing.”
“That was kinda my point?” I said, rising to my feet.
As I stood up, I felt the tunnel shake. A deep boom from far above.
“Doesn’t sound good,” I said. “And we can’t do this forever.”
Philippe glanced at the floor. I looked down and saw gun parts between us. A gun in pieces at my feet. A gun in pieces at his.
I laughed, nervous. “Call it a truce?”
Philippe wiggled his fingers. Shit, that was his pre-game ritual.
We’d played each other a hundred times in that mountain cabin.
I wasn’t fast enough.
There’s no way I could win.
Another rocking of the tunnel. A panel falling from the ceiling. I was dead if I did. Dead if I didn’t.
“Fine,” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Say when.”
45
Ling’s Mission Journal: Part IV
The game reloads. I check the big screen. The social feeds—kids still fighting like crazy. A little black girl and her brother double-team in their front room.
On the news feeds, drones lying smashed. Cars and buildings on fire. The world in chaos. But better a good chaos than a bad order.
Most are hiding from the battle. Some didn't listen. They came out and now they’re getting hurt in the crossfire.
We’d warned everyone across social media. Stay indoors. Off city streets and public areas. But some casualties are inevitable, whatever you do.
I get ready to go back in. Notice a bar chart on the corner of the screen. Friendly blue rises as we convert one drone at a time. The red dropping fast, the enemy running out of numbers. The grey bar rising, too—the number of drones destroyed.
Zak pushes up his glasses. He looks at me. Kid in a candy store. “This is so fucking cool. I love this!”
I think everyone else agrees.
Zak drinks some more black coffee and Red Bull. He jumps back into the fight, wired on caffeine.
I drop my glasses and re-engage—a dogfight over sea. Me, part of a squadron chasing a friendly UAV.
I pull my elbow back and hit the air brakes.
I drop behind three others. I launch a sidewinder and knock an enemy out of the sky. Chase the other two with a spray of hot machine gun fire.
I destroy the tail of the one on the left. It smokes and nosedives into the sea.
Zak’s right.
This isn’t just about Fu and Bao living in a free world. It’s a total ton of fun!
46
Death Of An Assassin
I took a deep breath. Let it out slow . . . And then we moved.
I dropped to the floor.
I grabbed the frame, added the slide, then the barrel, slotted in the recoil pin. Picked up the clip and slapped it in.
I aimed and pulled the trigger.
A fraction too late.
A shot rang out before I could shoot.
I hit the floor.
Not from a bullet, but a weight.
A force.
A body lying on top of me.
I looked up and saw Philippe’s pistol smoking.
The body rolled off me onto the floor.
It was Inge.
My God, she took the hit—bleeding from her chest.
I knelt over her with both hands pressed on the wound. “Inge, what are you doing here? That was my bullet, you silly cow.”
Philippe turned his gun on me again.
“Kill the girl,” Nadia said over the PA—that bitch, watching this whole time. “Finish them both,” she continued.
Philippe glanced up to his right. A CCTV camera. He looked at me and Inge, like he was wrestling with it.
“You’ll be okay,” I said to Inge. “I’ll get you out—”
Inge coughed. She laughed. Shook her head. “He doesn’t shoot to wound,” she said. “None of us do.”
Philippe stepped in close. Barrel lingering near my temple.
“You seen the news?” I asked Inge.
She shook her head.
“It worked,” I said, smiling and gripping her hand. “We’re winning.”
“Vasquez, what are you waiting for?” Nadia said over the PA.<
br />
I looked up at Philippe.
I squeezed Inge’s hand. She squeezed mine.
Philippe's eyes moved from mine to hers.
“Kill the fucking girl!” Nadia said. “That’s an order.”
Philippe dropped his hand to his side. The gun slid loose from his grip, onto the floor. He collapsed to his knees and leaned over Inge.
I let go of Inge’s hand. Gave them some space.
The tunnel rumbled.
“Lina,” Philippe said.
“Ricardo,” Inge said.
“I'm sorry,” Philippe said, stroking her hair.
“I didn't have to run in front of it,” Inge said.
“Philippe,” I said, “are you back?”
Inge put a hand to Philippe’s face. She searched his eyes and smiled. “We both are.”
Her eyes closed and her hand slipped from Philippe’s cheek. Her arm fell limp to the floor. Her head rolled to one side.
Philippe held onto her. I wiped my tears on my sleeve. I stood up and backed away, wondering what to do.
“Take her,” Nadia said over the PA.
Suddenly, I was rushed from behind. An armed unit. They dragged me away before I could react. Four of them—my feet not touching the floor.
I cried out for Philippe.
He stayed slumped over Inge’s body.
They dragged me into a corridor.
Through a set of automatic security doors.
One of them forced a black bag over my head with a rope tie. I squirmed and fought, but it was no good. They ran me fast in the dark, then dumped me onto a solid steel floor. I heard the sound of helicopter rotors overhead. More deep rumbles shaking the floor.
“Set up perimeters,” a guard shouted.
“Get her in there,” another said.
The guards rolled me over. Took the hood off me. I was in a giant black body bag. They zipped it up over my face. I struggled with the zip from the inside, but it was stuck fast.
“Take her onto the chopper.” I heard Nadia say. Close by, in person, shouting over the rotors.
“He’s coming!” cried one of the men.
