Consolidati, p.9
Consolidati, page 9
Rufus noticed the two guards moving closer to him and before he could stop them he felt two immensely strong hands around each of his arms. They picked him up and threw him into the oily black of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Relief washed over David Cordon as the door shut behind Rufus. Despite all his years in the military and tactical services, the Colonel's assurances, and even the presence of Gene Charrington – perhaps the most experienced member of the team besides its leader – despite it all, God himself seemed to have cursed the task at hand. A heavy presumption for an atheist, he thought to himself. If God exists he would lay a curse on mankind for creating those monsters, and once again for harboring them.
“No time to lose focus,” Gene admonished him over the skullcom. “We still need to seal this tomb up again.”
Cordon nodded his head and tried to respond to his compatriot but found his pathway blocked. The skullcom, so nicknamed by the Spotters, had been a development of the military in the late 30's, it allowed men and women to communicate to each other using only the brain's speech signals. Provided the person had the necessary implant – two microchips inside the Broca's and Wernicke's area, the parts of the brain linked to speech production and recognition – a person could communicate telepathically with others without the use of their physical speech centers.
Except that it wasn't working. He reached out to Gene, who was stalking quickly down the hallway in front of him but suddenly found himself unable to extend his arm. He tried to call out but a ghost muffled his voice. All that he managed was a faint, “G . . . ge.”
Still, for Gene, whose hearing had been augmented years before, the sound was easily loud enough to hear. The whites of his eyes glowed bright in the dark hall. He saw Cordon stumbling roughly into the wall.
Suddenly, a loud bang and screaming shot through the closed door.
“Shit, looks like you’re hacked, buddy,” said Gene to Cordon. The slumped man's eyes were rolling wildly back into his head.
Gene reached down and grabbed the collar of Cordon’s body armor. As he dragged the other man toward the opposite end of the hallway, toward the door that might seal them safely away from danger. Cordon began flailing spastically. Someone's entered his nervous system, Gene thought. He looked behind him. The noise from the door reached a crescendo of wretched screams. It was Rufus, crying a dreadful threnody.
The sound ceased.
Gene braced himself as the door was flung open violently. It bashed into the wall with such force that it dislocated the top hinge. Gene held his grip on Cordon and hurried toward the other doorway peeking backward from time to time, vangarding against the danger he knew was coming.
The entryway remained clear only a moment before one last shriek rent the air and Rufus flew through the air into view. He flew almost weightlessly, far into the hallway looking like a torn rag doll. Blood covered the man's face and arms and left a gruesome trail behind the skidding body. Finally, it stopped and remained still, lifeless.
“There’re two more o' the little blokes!” a booming, dumb voice exclaimed.
Shit, thought Gene, only moments now. He was almost to the door, another twenty feet. He continued to lug Cordon as the giants came into view. He could probably take them in the narrow hallway, but not with Cordon like he was. He tried to call the Colonel on the skullcom but found himself unable.
That meant one thing. Hacked. He too was being hacked. He dropped Cordon, who struggles had ceased moment's before; his expression remained blank, mouth drooling, eyes half shut, his face a pallorous and sickly white. Stuck in some inexorable malaise.
Gene checked the interior of his brain. He was a more skilled operator than Cordon was, or had been, but if he didn't find the root of the problem quickly it would become systemic, and he wouldn't be able to defend himself against anything, let alone the triplets.
As his consciousness receded into the inner reaches of his cyber psyche, two enormous ugly heads thrust simultaneously through the doorway, knocking into each other.
“Blockhead! Yous gottda last uvum. Dis’s mine.”
William's gigantic face swiveled, etched with disgust for his brother, and without so much as a nod punched his brother Bert in the center of his stomach. Bert doubled over coughing a horrible retching slimy cough and William rushed through into the hall. He was so tall he was forced to stoop. He shoulders nearly scraping the edges. His yellow eyes focused on Gene and Cordon.
Gene saw this, but only half-mindedly, as he continued to search for the unknown affecting him; he plumbed the depths of code. First, he reached into his communication units, then his optical augments, then his hearing augments, his joint microprocessors. Finding nothing. He searched his muscle enhancers, his shock absorbers, and ultimately found a small change made in the microprocessors of his medulla – the enhancement designed to consolidate each of the augments into a fluid one, the code had been changed, just pieces here and there, almost unnoticeable but easily fixable. He switched into autistic mode and rewrote the code.
His full attention snapped back to life, just as William stomped up to him. Gene stood his ground under the towering creature, who lunged at him viciously. Gene avoided the grasp but miscalculated the brute's intentions; William’s hand found Cordon's ankle, picked up the limp man and swung him around wildly. Gene watched in horror as Cordon's body struck the walls and ceiling. He heard his bones crack and break in a sickening staccato even before William let out a thunderous roar and flung the man toward Gene.
Gene deftly jumped aside to avoid the flying body. He looked down at his partner, and saw that he was dead. Already Gene's eyes could see the heat flooding from his body. Rescue was out of the question. The only objective left was withdrawal.
He crouched near the side of the hall, pressed a hand to his other forearms and launched a taser shard. The device, a small disc pronged with three minute spikes, shot into the monster's leg and struck out with a furious electrical charge that crippled him immediately.
William went down on one knee, groaning like a beast, and Gene retreated to the breach door. Bert and Tom had also managed to put aside their differences long enough to both get into the hall and made their way toward their fallen brother.
Upon reaching the door Gene threw himself inside and sealed it behind him. He lost no time walking back up the stairway. The deep wails and pounding fists of the predators echoed like a vicious dirge. He said a silent prayer for Cordon and walked back up the way he’d come.
10
Sure as the coming of nightfall, the lights of the city swirled luminously like a colony of fireflies. Colonel Hurn was seeing them all from the second highest vantage point in all of Europe. He could see all the way to the Outskirts as they cut a distinct but uneven border far to the east of the Villa 5 tower. He sat completely still next to the window of purportedly London's most advanced restaurant, trying very hard to ignore the posh snobbery of the clientele and monitoring the security systems of the tower itself.
This, in itself was entertaining enough, especially for one who had lived in London before the first tower had been completed and lived through the invention of the marvels contained within. Through his minds eye and the connection he'd opened through the restaurant computer, he could see and explore every part of the tower. Though naturally it was all too much to take in at once, he still peered into individual game rooms, eateries, cocktail lounges, and even a few private residences.
The game rooms were by far the most interesting for, although they'd taken their inspiration from the gaming systems of the early twenty first century, these rooms had their gamers fully immersed in a very new and very different world. They looked highly comical. Their faces intent on some invisible product of the creators' imaginations, moving about wildly at times, lying on the ground sleeping, swinging about objects brought down from the ceiling by a mechanical arm. All the while they seemed completely unaware of themselves. They would run furiously at times as the floor moved to compensate for their movements. Sometimes they would shout joyously at some victory, sometimes look behind themselves with expressions of fear. But most of the time, they looked so much like automatons, eyes unseen beneath their vision goggles, cords attached to their arms and legs.
A well-dressed and clean shaven waiter approached the table.
"Excuse me, sir. If you're ready to place an order, you can simply turn your attention to the table screen." The waiter pressed a button on the side of the table.
"No, thank you. I'm waiting for another."
"Very well, sir."
The waiter inclined his head and turned to go back to the service counter, and Hurn turned back to staring out the window. The screen in the table began to emit a light blue ambiance that cast a glare on the window and obscured the view.
He continued to focus his eyes out the window, but maintained his concentration on the security systems. Hurn smiled to himself. He would have continued to watch all the many private moments, but he saw the man he was waiting for in the reflection of the restaurant’s windows. The other walked slowly over to the table and the same waiter rushed over to pull out the chair as the man sat down.
"We're glad to serve you again, sir," said the waiter.
"Indeed," noted the Big Man, "I think we're ready to start." He inclined his head toward Hurn. "Greetings, Nicholas. The sooner we order the sooner we can get down to business."
The waiter nodded, "I'll bring your palate cleansers. Please feel free to make a selection at anytime." He bowed his head respectfully and returned to the service desk on the other side of the restaurant.
"Now then, first things first." The Big Man, who despite his monicker was several inches below Hurn's height, touched the table surface and coerced the dense mass of pixels to life, Hurn did the same. He flicked through the menu and finally settled on one of the meal plans—or 'Experiences' as the restaurant had dubbed them. He tapped the icon on the table. He looked across the table to find the Big Man already staring at him.
"Now, if you wouldn't mind, Nicholas. I'd like you to tell me more about this incident." His voice held the air of command typical of powerful men. He was an older man, old enough to suit the brilliant whiteness of his hair, but his face held remarkably few wrinkles. Hurn had often noted this trait in the seventy-some year old and attributed it to his seriousness. However, much he might owe this man, it was undeniable that he almost never smiled.
"I'm afraid we were caught out. No one, myself included, anticipated being attacked by a hacker. I was monitoring the four's location by way of the grid link but was unable to help them."
"Needless to say, if you'd been with your men this would have turned out very differently." He paused, waiting for confirmation.
"Yes, sir. Had I been present his intervention would have been impossible."
"How long before one of your team can take your place on the surveillance grid?"
"Not long, sir. I've been training two of my best for several months already. They're not ready yet, but it won't be long before they've achieved the level of competency required to be effective."
"What is it you need from me? You have my full support. Your own personal feelings aside, the squatters’ little storm must be quelled."
"Indeed. An impatient cerebral augmentation for my new pair of eyes on the grid and a sniffer implant for another of my men should be enough. Did you manage to get the triplets back undergr. . . "
He paused even before the Big Man raised his hand to quiet him. A group of waiters had emerged from the kitchen and were making their way over to the table. One held an enormous silver tray on the side of the table, while the other two unloaded an array of small plates, cups and bowls onto the table.
The table itself, undoubtedly reacting to the presence of the food, flashed into a set of colors to guide the waiters' hands. When they had finished setting the table, florescent blue light flashed under one of the cups in front of Hurn.
The Big Man reentered the conversation, "As you were saying," he continued, "we have managed to banish them back to another, shall we say . . . lair."
“With respect, sir. This whole situation escalated because we had no knowledge of their whereabouts,” Hurn said quietly. He chose one of the dishes laid out on the table, something that vaguely resembled a slice of pumpkin and scooped it up with a fork.
"Apologies," replied the Big Man as the other chewed his food. "It was an unforeseeable complication, one that likely won't happen again." His acquiescence held only the quality that a master might apologize to his gladiator for throwing a lion into the Colosseum.
The Big Man pointed to Hurn's side of the table where a red alarm light flashed. The right corner of his mouth upturned in mild amusement.
"Perhaps I should have told you more about the sort of restaurant this is." He turned his head toward the service table. A waiter was rushing into the kitchen with an annoyed expression painted across his thin pale face. "The eating experience is set here under the strictest guidelines,” said the Big Man. He pointed to the a flashing blue light under a cup of lemon tea. "This is the first course. The other twenty one will flash in an order set by the head chef." He smiled, a rare occurrence in itself. "They engineer all the food here with neurotransmitters that interact with each other in ways only a master chemist would truly understand. To the likes of me—and perhaps you too—the details are superfluous." He reached for the next dish—a strange looking mixture of fried egg and chives—and took a bite. "It's in the application that the magic truly shows itself. Even before such advances were possible the beauty of food was that it could become greater than the sum of its total parts. But now, the chefs of the olden days would be left to wonder how to achieve such greatness. Before long," he motioned towards Hurn's dishes, "if you eat it correctly, I think you'll find the meal inextricably building to a climax. Like a popular novel or, perhaps more accurately, sex. It's truly the new art of the modern age. As with so many other types of art, it is only for those of us privileged enough to enjoy it. I encourage you to savor the experience."
The waiter had returned bearing a small tray with two plates.
"Sir, a palate cleanser." He handed one dish directly to Hurn and set the other—identical to the one he'd mistakenly eaten—down on the flashing red icon. The waiter bowed his head. "Sir, this time, please. Just follow the blue lights."
"Apologies," Hurn said simply, mimicking the Big Man.
"Quite alright, sir." the waiter said and stepped away from the table.
Once again the Big Man took charge of the conversation.
"And Mr. Rufus? What was his last name, the fellow you found occupying apartment 303. How has he fared with the interrogation?"
"Moderately, sir." Hurn said evenly, "the whole affair turned rather comical after we showed him to his holding cell. It seems the man has a rather acute fear of authority figures. He told us almost immediately that he gave the runaways an address of a library in Brixton. Our dogs checked out the building this morning and from what I can determine, it's one of the few remaining squats not outside the city proper."
"Have your men searched the place?"
"Yes, sir. Although we haven't actually entered the premises, our instruments indicate it’s already empty. We found that the place does have an owner on file. We're researching a link between the owner of apartment 303 and the Polish man who led the escape party through the underground. The owner's name is Ripley Kingston; the public records show he has children and a grandchild, but, given his current absence, we only need to wait and watch before we can safely classify the library a squat and then have full reign under the new codes of law. But, of course," he added, "that course of action seems prematurely heavy-handed at this point."
The Big Man, now on his twelfth of twenty two courses, took a bite of a bizarre looking dish in brown sauce. He clearly was savoring the experience.
"Crocodile hand. A Chinese dish. One of my favorites. Although who's to know what it might taste like in another, more backwards restaurant. Funny to think," he said without smiling,"I might not even like the taste." He mused for a second, cupping his chin in his hand as he chewed.
