Dyson's Drop (10 page)

‘Create property and you create theft’, it was said. Well, Black had his own saying: ‘Create trust and you create betrayal’. Of course, there was the Envoy. Despite his misgivings, he trusted the alien in ways he had never trusted anyone, but doing so made him feel vulnerable. He woke sometimes at night with panic attacks.

In some ways, he understood, the Envoy was beyond trust. But did he have his own agenda? If he’d been human, Black would have had no doubt that he did, but how did one measure - or even comprehend - an alien psychology?

And where the hell was the Envoy right now, when Black could have used him?

Black wiped the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic, and made a mental note to have the tunic washed. Fear sweat was different from normal sweat, a fact forensic analysis could reveal.

Black was taking a huge risk, aware of the irony.

If he was caught now, his Grand Plan would take a serious hit, setting it back three years, and it would be Anneke Longshadow’s fault. Even incarcerated, about to be consigned to the software factories of Urkor, she was still threatening his existence, goading him to take unnecessary risks.

How sweet for her if she brought about his exposure after all!

Black had hidden overnight in a cramped robotics maintenance closet, squeezed between an inert droid and the automatic door, having sneaked down to the floor above the detention level using a far-from perfect cloaking field. From here, he had made his way to the closet, hidden himself with a chameleon cloak, and waited till the skeleton night shift had come on duty below him.

Then he’d cut a hole in the back of the closet and tapped into the main conduit carrying electronics to and from the detention level. Using a quantum tunnelling device similar to Hawkeye’s, only larger and more sophisticated, he tapped into protected surveillance systems, and uploaded a nano-virus concealed in his repaired fingernail.

The virus was designed to wait patiently until the AI on the detention level ran a routine diagnostic, when it would insinuate itself, dumbing down the AI and venturing into a diagnostic sub-routine. From there it would make its way to the main surveillance hub and the techies.

At the hub, the virus would wait for the surveillance system to effectively ‘look the other way’ then quickly create several virtual realities, each nestled within the other, and then embed the entire system
inside
these multiple realities.

Once this was done, the surveillance system would no longer be reading the ‘real world’, but a replicated copy of the last snapshot it had taken of the real world, down to the last photon and vibration. And in that world, it would find nothing to worry itself about.

Unfortunately for Black, the ghost system was inherently unstable, and needed constant monitoring. By him. From close by.

That’s why he was sweating.

Meanwhile, Alpha One studied the readout in front of him. The mole inside RIM had done its job well. He could see what the surveillance hub ‘saw’ - nothing special. All RIM personnel were represented on the readout by clear pulsing dots and not a single member of Alpha Force was showing.

Alpha One’s squad was now down to eight. Another two had deployed like the first two, protecting their escape route and providing backup if needed.

He stationed two more at the ‘bottleneck’ in the system.

That left him six in all. The perfect number for an export - or execution - mission.

He signed everyone to be ready. Timing was everything.

When his sleeve display hit zero seconds, they surged out of their hidey-hole and sprinted silently through the corridors, moving towards the control room that led to the detention cells.

The squad encountered no resistance till they approached the control room. A young man stepped from a restroom, his zip still self-sealing as he adjusted his trousers. He blinked at the squad of silent men and women and died silently with his throat burned out.

Then they vaporised the door and burst into the control room.

It was child’s play. Apart from being three in the morning, when a human being’s biorhythms are at their lowest ebb, the detention crew were fatally complacent.

They had never expected an attack here, in the centre of RIM headquarters.

That complacency killed them as easily as it immobilised their AI system. Quickly and quietly. Before any alarm could be raised.

Suddenly, Hawkeye signed, ‘The ghost image is back.’

Alpha One studied the readout, but could not interpret it. He left two of his squad at the vaporised doorway and signalled the others to follow.

The detention cell complex was large and maze like, a final confounding trap to any who got this far. But it was no challenge to Hawkeye’s electromagnetic decoders and the informant’s area readouts.

Within minutes they were on the right tier in the right section.

Alpha One counted off the unnumbered, soundproofed cells - another attempt at baffiement and stopped before the one containing Anneke Longshadow.

He readied himself outside the door while a grunt placed a vaporising charge on it and flicked the tiny countdown button.

Further back, Ice Queen checked all directions before peering over Hawkeye’s shoulder at his readout screen. Hawkeye was watching the cell door, tense with anticipation, everything else in the clear.

Suddenly, the cell door melted into a cloud of hot particles. There was a soft
whoosh
as air rushed in to fill the space the door had occupied, then Alpha One and the grunt rushed into Anneke’s cell, guns blazing with energy.

A NNEKE paced her cell while muttering a series of profanities under her breath. It was incon ceivable to her that she could have been treated so badly by RIM. It was a heavier blow than she had let on when she’d seen Jake. It cut her to the core, the worst rejection of her life.

She had done so much for RIM, risked so much. As for Urkor, and the infamous software factories with their coding benches and bleak locale, she gave the place little thought. Her youthful optimism took care of that. There would be opportunities for escape along the way, she was sure. If not in transit, then from Urkor itself For the umpteenth time she bumped her head on the low ceiling. Grunting in pain, she forced herself to lie down on the hard cot in the corner.

Several times she caught herself on the brink of talking aloud, but just as quickly stifled the urge.

‘They’ would be listening and she had no doubt ‘they’ included the mole, who would be celebrating her incarceration. In any case, she would give them no satisfaction. So she fumed in silence instead.

The first day and night were the worst.

No one came to see her or spoke to her. She was completely cut off from news outside of her cell. Food and drink appeared on a tray pushed from an automated slot in the wall. Once a jailer made the door transparent to stare at her. A couple of times she tried to signal hello through the soundproofing, but received nothing back other than a shrug.

Seen it all before, no doubt.

The uncomfortable cell was about three metres by three metres in length and width, but only two in height, giving it a claustrophobic feel, like a great weight were pressing down on her. Perhaps its designers intended it as a metaphor for guilt. Cute, when you looked at it like that.

There was a cot in one corner, a sink and toilet partition in another, and a small writing desk with chair and e-pad. She could send coded messages whenever she liked, without knowing whether the censors would pass them on or not, or in what way they would amend them.

In the end, she sent none. The world outside could continue on its merry way without Anneke Longshadow’s involvement. And she knew Jake would keep communication open with Enigma and Oracle.

She concocted a variety of escape plans, but as she had been taken by surprise, she had not come prepared for this. Being imprisoned by RIM while the mole roamed its corridors, free to come and go, was one scenario she had not anticipated.

On the evening of the second night she had a visitor. Jake. They chatted desultorily, avoiding touchy subjects guaranteed to be flagged by silent listeners. However, Jake was adept at the body language codes taught when he first entered RIM, but no longer practised, which Uncle Viktus had, in his interminably insistent way, compelled Anneke to learn.

‘I’ll get you out of here,’ said Jake by shifting an eyebrow, touching his ear, and dropping one shoulder ever so slightly.

‘No,’ said Anneke, employing the same code. ‘The Commander would like nothing better. Besides, I need you to look after Deema.’

Jake slumped slightly, not a code, just sudden weariness. Anneke realised he was looking old. Retirement did not suit him. He was, she guessed, itching for action. Any action.

‘Get me the transfer protocol, if you want to.

Routes, times, vehicle types, jump-gate coordinates. And anything you can on Urkor.’ There was no body code for ‘Urkor’ but she called it ‘that place’.

They chatted amiably for another hour until Jake, still disconsolate, took his leave. That’s when Anneke experienced real depression. The heavy click of the cell door as it slid back out of the wall and automatically closed behind him rang through her soul like a bell struck once, tolling death.

That night she thought of
it.
Death.

Not her own. She had too much faith in life, and her own abilities, to contemplate suicide. But she thought of the death of her parents and the dreams she had been plagued by in the drench vats of Stormhagen.

‘You have the dreams for a reason,’ said Healer Elinor. ‘Do not turn away from your mind’s need to heal because your body has mended.’

Ea{Y fir her to scry,
thought Anneke. Had she ever lost anyone? Well, maybe she had. A sombre expression sometimes crossed Elinor’s face. Perhaps it was generated by past grief. Maybe that’s why she had become a healer; had there been someone she had failed to save?

The universe was a rotten place sometimes,

Anneke decided, full of despicable people.

A slight vibration made her head jerk, but only a fraction. She was too well trained to give too much away. Like that old game of cards, where one needed a poker face, only these days it must apply to the entire body.

The vibration came again, then a series of soft sounds from maintenance machinery behind the walls. The ventilator air in the room changed.

Something had happened. Perhaps someone was commg.

And at this time of night, it could not be official RIM business.

Anneke swiftly assessed the room, but knew there was nowhere to hide and no vantage point. If the ceiling had been higher she would have wedged herself into a corner, or above the door, ready to drop on whoever entered. But the low-ceilinged cell did not give her even that.

So she did what she could.

Overturning the bed, she positioned it in the far corner to make it look as if she was hiding behind it, then pressed up against the wall next to the sliding door, which - like all good cell doors - afforded no blind spots, even when not transparent.

But it did her no good.

She heard a soft scraping noise then a bright flash penetrated her optic nerve and stunned her for several crucial seconds.

When she could see - and think again - she was locked in an unbreakable
ixsin
shackle, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Standing before her was Alisk, lieutenant and lover to Quesada’s former CEO, Lob Lotang, who had stepped down due to ill health, handing over the reins of the Company to Nathaniel Brown, the mole.

Alisk’s expression was unreadable, but the purpose of the laser in her hand, trained on Anneke’s heart, was pretty clear.

Anneke was still clearing the cobwebs from her brain. The stun grenade had not only disrupted synapses and her neural jack, it had disabled voluntary action at an even deeper level. Anneke kept her mouth shut.

‘Don’t bother thanking me,’ said Alisk. ‘We don’t have time.’

Anneke’s internal reality came crashing back to her. ‘This is some kind of trick,’ she said, peering at the other woman.

‘No trick. But if you want to get out of here, we have to go now.’

‘If it’s not a trick then why the shackles?’

‘To stop you from having some knee-jerk reaction.’ She pointed a remote at Anneke and the
ixsin
field shackle vanished. Anneke rubbed her wrists, flexed her ankles.

Alisk lowered the laser. ‘I’m leaving. You want to come along, fine. You want to stay, that’s fine, too.’

‘How?’ Anneke managed.

‘I have a “bubble”. The rest would take too long to explain. So decide now, Anneke. You coming or staying?’

It had to be a trick, Anneke knew that. But it might present more opportunities for escape than the trip to Urkor.

‘Lead the way.’

‘Stay close. The bubble perimeter is two metres.’ Anneke pressed the combination numbers of her cell that she had memorised when first imprisoned.

The cell door slid shut behind her and locked down. Why not give her captors a puzzle to solve?

‘How far do you expect to get using a bubble?’ she whispered when they were outside, moving along the main access corridor of the tier.