Deus Ex: Icarus Effect

by Swallow, James

  A year ago, it was the kind of gamble he would never have considered making; but a lot had changed since then, and nothing had made it more clear to him than the events of the last few days that his life was turning into one long roll of the dice.

  He gave up the sister's name and waited for the one called Powell to put a round in his head. The guy wanted to do it, that was plain as day all over his face; but instead the other guy, the one called Lebedev, had a couple of blokes help him inside a nearby warehouse. Behind the derelict look of the place it was a regular staging post. They dumped him in a hospital tent and left him to the ministrations of a severe-looking medic.

  Fatigue held him in tight coils, tighter than the metal nets that the robo-trawler had used to snag him from the ocean. In the grip of the steel wire, dragged under the frigid waves, Saxon had been certain that death was upon him.

  It was only when he awoke inside the wet, reeking, meat-locker chill of the trawler's intake bay that he started to piece together what had happened. His attempt to contact Janus from the Tyrant jet had been at least partially successful, enough for the hacker to pinpoint where he was and track the vu-phone. After his explosive midair exit, Janus had retasked the nearby trawler as an ersatz lifeboat.

  In the cold and the dark, Saxon fought all the way to stay free of hypothermia and unconsciousness. His augmentations had kept him alive, although the high-fall unit was burned out and would never function again; and as for the Tai Yong-manufactured cyberlegs, his impact with the sea had severely damaged them both.

  The medic dosed him with a pan-spectrum restorative, hooked up a nutrient drip, and disconnected his legs beneath the knees with a sparking beam tool; then he left Saxon alone.

  As he lay there, hobbled, Saxon felt more isolated than he ever had before. After the crash in Queensland, during recovery at the field hospital, he'd always had something to hold on to, to drive him ... the need to find justice for Sam and the others. But now, even that was lost to him. Saxon felt dead inside, as if the energy to live on, to fight back, had been sapped from him by the icy waters of the Atlantic.

  As far as Namir and the Tyrants were concerned, he was a dead man. He was compelled to agree with them.

  There was movement at the tent flap and the woman from the docks entered, carrying a plastic hard case. She gave him a level stare. "You remember me." It wasn't a question.

  He nodded. "You're Anna Kelso. U.S. Secret Service."

  "Not anymore," she said bitterly. "No thanks to your friends."

  "I had nothing to do with that," he insisted, shifting on his gurney. "I wasn't part of it..." Saxon's words died in his throat. That wasn't true, was it? A nagging voice in the back of his head demanded an answer. You were in all the way. You were just too bloody thick to see what was going on. Or maybe you did see, but you were too gutless to face up to it.

  "Why did you let me live?" she asked. "At the house. You had the shot. You could have killed me."

  He glared at her, and an ember of the old rage flickered deep inside him. "I'm a soldier! I don't kill unarmed civilians!"

  Kelso seized on his words. "But the Tyrants do. They don't have principles or compunction. They're assassins. And you're one of them."

  "Not anymore," he repeated back to her. "I don't think I ever really was. I couldn't... couldn't stop being the man that I was. Before."

  She saw something honest in his expression and her manner softened a little. "Why were you working with them?"

  "I could ask you the same," he noted. "I know who these jokers are." He gestured around. "I recognize the hardware, the weapons, the setup. Juggernaut. New Sons of Freedom. They're all on the most-wanted list. That's a long way from the Secret Service."

  She offered him the hard case. "I'll tell you what. A trade. You tell me how you ended up on Janus's radar and I'll give you these." Kelso cracked open the case to reveal a pair of replacement legs. "Caidin make. They're compatible with the TYM chassis you got."

  He nodded and took them. "Fair deal." Saxon had extensive field training in augmentation repair, and he set quickly to work on his limbs. As he spoke, he let it spill out of him; from the incident in the Grey Range to Namir's recruitment pitch, the events in Moscow and Janus's first challenge, to the moment in the grounds outside Temple's house. "I suppose that's when I knew it," he concluded. "When I couldn't stay silent anymore. I thought I was going to make a difference in the world. But all we did was exercise someone else's power."

  He sealed up the last of the connections and pushed off the gurney. Saxon stumbled a little as the gyros in the replacement modules ran through start routines and synchronized.

  Kelso nodded at the legs. "You can consider that repayment for not shooting me."

  He jerked his chin at the door flap and the warehouse beyond. "And the rest of this raggedy lot? What's their take?"

  "Half of them think you're a security risk and want you killed. They found an inert tracer in your damaged leg. The other half want to interrogate you. Pull out everything you know about the Tyrants."

  Saxon snorted. "Hell, I'll give you that for nothing. I'll sing like a bloody canary, as long as you promise me I get to be there when the Tyrants are taken down." He looked away. "I got no loyalty to them. Once, maybe ... I thought I did. But right now, the only thing I want to do is break them."

  The woman gave a nod. "Well, we got that in common, then."

  The tent flap opened and a young guy peered in. His face was flushed with excitement. "Kelso! We got the uplink! Looks like our new pal here was on the money."

  Saxon stepped forward, limping slightly. "This I wanna see. Show me."

  Kelso followed D-Bar back to the hacker's work pit. In the center of the warehouse was a section of the building that had probably been a cluster of bathrooms; now all that was left was a square patch of yellowed, cracked tiles and the brick roots of partition walls demolished in the name of some refurbishment project that had never come. There were ragged holes in the tiled floor, from which snaked thick knots of cabling; the Juggernaut hackers had helped the New Sons set up their base here by drilling directly into the municipal power lines running from the city, snatching watts from the raw feed.

  A ring of consoles, server units, and eclectic computing hardware circled the cable trunk. Every one of the decks was alive with screens and holos showing complex, overlapping panes of data. D-Bar dropped into a canvas chair and set to work. Lebedev and Powell watched like a pair of sentinels, faces grim.

  Anna saw the flash drive, the case broken open and festooned with jury-rigged connectors. Nearby, another of D-Bar's team had Saxon's vu-phone wired up to a console, which in turn was cabled to a collapsible satellite antenna.

  "Here we go," D-Bar said, cracking his knuckles. "Data sources are linked in parallel. All we need to do is ping the main Tyrant server and the rest is easy."

  Lebedev folded his arms. "How much risk is there to us? We're opening a live connection to the Tyrants. What's to stop them backtracking it to this location?"

  "Agreed," Powell added. "We could be calling an air strike down on ourselves."

  D-Bar made a face, as if those were the dumbest questions he'd ever been asked. "Okay, forgetting the fact that I'm bouncing our signal through a hundred other locational IPs around the country before we even send it, forgetting the copious layers of active subnet masks being run in real time by my troop of monkeys here"—he threw a wave at his team—"not to mention nigh-invulnerable firewalls written by yours truly, there's this." The hacker laid his hand on a black box lined with glowing indicators. "It's a speed-imager. I need to get only a couple milliseconds of access to duplicate what we need from the Tyrant server. Then we can disconnect and run a virtual analog of it right here, without them ever knowing we were there."

  "So there's no chance we'll be detected?" Saxon asked.

  D-Bar grinned. "I never said that. But if I screw up, the last thing we'll see is the sky going white as some orbital laser array burns us off the face
of the earth. So why worry, yeah?"

  "Yeah," Saxon replied flatly.

  Lebedev sighed. "Do it."

  Anna stood back and watched. She really didn't know what to expect; on the screens, timer windows opened as a web of virtual system nodes unfolded, depicting a representation of the connection, the servers, the target. D-Bar's face became a study in calm as he plunged into the lines of code. His augmented hands were a blur across the keyboard in front of him, and flashes strobed down the connector cables that wound from a terminal behind his ear to the console.

  Saxon looked up at the grimy skylights over their heads. "Nothing yet."

  Rods of data reached from node to node across the screen, the alarm timer falling with each passing moment. At zero, the network would go into lockdown and the tiny window of opportunity to invade the server would slam shut. It would be the virtual equivalent of sending up a flare in front of the Tyrants.

  Nodes turned green where the hacker team had been successful, others blinked red where the invading code was not taking root. Anna realized that D-Bar and the others here in the warehouse were not the only members of Juggernaut working on this digital attack; other inputs from across the globe were leading their own assaults. But of Janus, there was no sign.

  "Ten seconds," Powell said, reading off the time. "Can you do this or not?"

  "Do it?" D-Bar sniggered. "It's already done!" With a flash, all the nodes went green, and the hacker lolled back in his chair, jerking the connectors from his skull socket. "Piece of cake." The film of sweat over his pale face put the lie to his words.

  With five seconds left on the clock, the connection was severed; but now a new construct was blossoming on the holographic screens. A meshing of three complex clusters of information—the flash drive, the vu-phone's memory core, and the duplicate server.

  D-Bar saw her staring into the display. "We still gotta work fast," he said. "The ghost copy of the Tyrant server won't maintain parity for long. It's like trying to catch an echo. Longer you hold on to it, faster it degrades."

  "Open it up," said Saxon. "Let's see what I almost died for."

  A fourth data node emerged from the shared flux and blossomed like a flower made of newsprint, petal-pages spilling out. "The Killing Floor," said Lebedev. "This is the means through which the Illuminati commune with the Tyrants, the method they use to give them their targets and their missions."

  Anna glimpsed vast libraries of files as they swept past. On some of them were names she had seen from her own investigations, but many were unknown to her. "We have to get a drop on them," she said, thinking aloud. "We need to know the name of their next target before they attack it."

  "Exactly," agreed Lebedev. "Find us a face and a name," he told D-Bar.

  "Look for something connected to an operative named Yelena Federova, code name 'Red.'" Saxon pointed at the display. "She was deployed separately from the rest of the Tyrants. That has to mean something."

  Anna tensed with a moment of memory. "I think ... she was the one who tried to murder me."

  "Likely," Saxon agreed, with a grim nod. "She enjoys the close-up work."

  "Got something," D-Bar announced. On the screen, a single blue-haloed file moved to fill the image. The image seemed grainy and hazed. "Parity is starting to drop quicker than I expected. Better make this fast."

  Powell stepped closer to read the data presented before them. "Operative ident 'Red' tasked to shadow target-designate 'Alpha,' " he read aloud. "Action: terminate with extreme prejudice."

  "That's it," said Lebedev. "But who is Alpha?"

  "Gimme a second..." D-Bar typed in a few commands, and on a tertiary screen a new image appeared; a publicity still of a man in his sixties, with gray hair and glasses. He wore a dark suit and an expression of patrician earnestness, both of which were impeccably tailored.

  Anna had seen him before, from a skybox balcony in downtown Washington. "That's William Taggart. He's the founder of the Humanity Front."

  Saxon raised an eyebrow. "What, that anti-augmentation bunch? The ones always whining about 'science gone too far'?"

  "Why would the Tyrants be targeting him?" She turned to Lebedev. "He wants the same thing as the ones holding their leashes! Restriction and regulation of human augmentation technology. Why kill him?"

  "More important," Powell broke in, "why haven't they done it already?" He glanced at Saxon. "This Federova woman. If she's already shadowing Taggart, could she ice him?"

  He nodded. "In a heartbeat. She's a phantom. Could make it look like natural death and no one would ever know she'd been there."

  Anna saw something on Saxon's face as he said the words. "What is it?"

  "Powell's got a good point. If Taggart's the next mark, why isn't he a corpse?"

  She studied the image for a moment, thinking back to what she recalled from the last series of briefings she'd had at the agency. "Search for a connection between Taggart and the United Nations," she told D-Bar.

  New data unfolded before them. Anna saw images of the Palais des Nations, the foundation and European headquarters of the UN in Geneva. "There's stuff here from a sealed memo to the Secret Service from the U.S. State Department," said the hacker. "Designating Taggart as a citizen of note. He's going to be part of the American delegation in a meeting with some of the movers and shakers at the UN."

  "The vote," Lebedev muttered. "Taggart's going to the United Nations to spearhead the push for a ballot on augmentation control."

  Saxon gave a dry chuckle. "Huh. Oh, yeah, now I get it. Makes sense." He glanced at Anna. "You want to know why Taggart is still breathing? Because they don't want to kill him quietlike. They want to do it out in the open, in front of people. They want an event."

  "The founder of the Humanity Front, murdered by an augmented killer in full view of the global media, on the steps of the Palais des Nations ..." Powell shook his head. "Can you imagine the fallout from that? Taggart becomes a martyr to his cause. His organization already has a lot of momentum. They lead the charge and do the work of the Illuminati for them. It's brilliant."

  "Who?" Saxon asked, catching on the word, but Lebedev spoke over him.

  "It's what they do. They find others and manipulate them into following their agenda." He frowned. "How long until Taggart arrives in Geneva?"

  "His flight lands in Switzerland around midday our time," said D-Bar. "According to this, eighteen hours later he's at the UN to give his speech. We got less than a day before they waste him."

  Powell drew himself up. "We've got to stop the kill from going down."

  Lebedev nodded. "I'll contact our colleagues in France, get them to mobilize."

  "That won't be enough," Powell insisted. "We need to be there. I'll assemble a unit. You get us some transport."

  Anna watched the other man mulling it over. "All right," he said after a moment. "It can be done."

  Powell gestured toward Saxon. "I want him to come with us."

  Saxon snorted. "You trust me now, all of a sudden?"

  Powell ignored the question. "He can provide visual identification of any Tyrant operatives."

  "Fine by me," grunted the soldier.

  Lebedev nodded again. "Agreed." He turned to the hacker. "D-Bar, gather your gear. You're going along as well."

  D-Bar's pale face flushed red and he blinked. "What? Why? No!" He shook his head. "I can do this from—"

  "No arguments!" insisted Lebedev. "We can't go in without an information warfare specialist. You're always telling me how good you are—now you can prove it."

  D-Bar jabbed a finger at the screens. "What, this wasn't enough for you?"

  "Cheer up, son," Saxon offered. "You'll get to see it from the sharp end for a change, yeah?"

  Anna listened to the interchange and it was as if she were falling away from it all, being left behind with every passing moment. When she spoke, the words came of their own accord, without her conscious control. "I'm going, too." Anna searched herself for a good, convincing reason, but
she came up empty. All she could grasp was the distant, undying anger deep in her chest.

  Powell shot her a look. "No. We don't need you."

  "How about she goes and I stay?" offered D-Bar.

  "I have to!" she insisted, with a force that came from nowhere. Anna went on, her voice rising. "I've been chasing the Tyrants for months! I've thrown away everything—"

  "Kelso is right," Saxon broke in abruptly. "She should be part of the team. We can use her."

  "How, exactly?" Powell demanded.

  Saxon made a look-see gesture. "She saw the faces of the Tyrants. Two sets of eyes, mate." He gave Anna a look that was unreadable. "Right?" he asked her.

  "Right," she repeated. "Yes."

  Powell seemed as if he was about to argue, but Saxon gave him a look and tapped his wristwatch. "We don't really have time to waste arguing, do we?"

  "Get the veetol and head for the shore," said Lebedev, ending the debate. "I'll contact you with the details once you're airborne."

  CHAPTER TWELVECape Charles—Virginia—United States of America

  The veetol was an old air-ambulance model stripped to the bare metal, a bulky and ungainly thing like a fat gull borne up on bright thruster nozzles that spat exhaust from the wingtips. They flew fast and low, following the line of the canal from Baltimore, until the river mouth opened up before them. Saxon felt it in the pit of his gut as the veetol rose up in a near-vertical ascent, trading altitude for thrust. He made an attempt to glance out the porthole; along with the Kelso woman and the hacker, Saxon was crammed into the rear of the flyer with Powell and four of his men from the New Sons. None of them looked like soldiers of any stripe he thought worthy of the name; they had a different air to them, which reminded him of the feral intensity of the gang kids he'd grown up with on the streets of North London. He pegged them for ex-cons or militia types. Kelso sat with her head down, lost in her own thoughts.

  D-Bar gave him a smile that was all fake bravado. "What's wrong? Don't like flying?"

  Saxon didn't allow himself to dwell on the similarity between this veetol and the one he'd rode into the wilderness six months ago. "Something like that," he offered. It was a tight fit in here, and he was starting to get tired of it. "Hey, Powell!" He had to shout to the other man to make himself heard over the roar of the engines.