Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm (12 page)

Brando kneels down. “Let me dress that.”

“Okay, but hurry up. Raj can't hold that bridge forever.” I sit back down. My partner's hands dive into his X-bag, whip out his first-aid kit, and quickly wrap up the cut.

I peek at my dad's watch. Only four minutes have passed since we first entered the White Tower. Nothing like a crazed firefight to make you lose your sense of time.

“That'll do for now,” Brando says. He helps me up again.

“All right, gents, let's go.” Me and my MP-50 lead the way upstairs, followed closely by Brando and Victor. A low thrumming sound, like a huge beehive, echoes from upstairs. As we climb, the stairway's stone walls begin to reflect a pale blue light. The thrumming sound is deeper now, a long, low
wOWww … wOWww …

“Darwin, do you hear that?” I comm.

“Yeah,” he comms back. “Sounds like a big generator.”

We emerge into another large chamber. The White Tower is simply a stack of these big rooms with connecting stairs. Here the walls are lined with about thirty metal boxes, each seven feet tall and three feet square. They resemble coffins except they have thick bundles of cables and tubes sprouting from their tops. The cables and tubes all climb up the walls and penetrate the middle of the ceiling.

In the center of this room is a doughnut-shaped desk, like an information desk at a museum, except the desk's surface is one big computer screen. From behind the desk, two blond women in white lab coats stare at us. One of them has glasses on and the other has short curly hair, so I nickname them Four-Eyes and Curly. Victor and I aim our weapons at them. We each move to a different half of the room. Brando calls out to them to put their hands up.

Four-Eyes grabs for something in her coat pocket. I squeeze the trigger of my submachine gun and pound six rounds into her chest. Four-Eyes twitches and jerks and flips backward over the desk. Curly screams and cringes as her coat and face are spattered with Four-Eyes's blood. My partner shouts at Curly to stand still. The terrified woman trembles so hard I think she might faint. She cries and breathes in shallow gasps.

Brando walks through a small gap in the desk that serves as the entrance. He takes Curly's hands and leads her toward the stairs, speaking softly. She docilely follows and nods her head. Then Brando gently rummages through Curly's pockets and removes a few pens, a small notebook, and a short silver cylinder. He dumps all this stuff on the floor and kicks it away.

I comm, “What's that silver thing? A cigar tube?”

He comms back, “I think it's a suicide needle. If Carbon gets breached, this woman is supposed to kill herself to protect what she knows about this program.”

“Ask her what's on the fourth floor.”

Brando turns to Curly and asks a hushed question. She still shakes as she answers him.

“She says the Originals are all kept upstairs. The specimens here are clones.” He indicates the metal boxes along the walls.

The clone chambers all have glass panels on the front so you can see inside. I inspect the nearest techno-coffin. A young, fair-skinned blond woman stands inside. She's strapped into place and wired all the hell up. Blondie has a tall forehead and a long straight nose with a strong jaw. Her pale skin is as smooth as polished marble and her pale blue eyes are open—wide open—like she's startled. Blondie's frozen expression of terror makes the fine hair on my forearms stand up. I check the next box and do a double take. It's the same woman.

Duh, Scarlet. Clones.

This Blondie is all strapped and wired too, but her eyes are shut. I circle the room. Each box contains the same woman in varying postures and restraint systems. Three of the chambers are filled with a light amber liquid, with the specimen inside hovering motionlessly. These floating clones don't wear any breathing apparatus.

“Hey,“ I say, “these three are submerged in fluid. Why haven't they drowned?”

Curly answers in a mild German accent, “Perfluorocarbons.”

My perplexed expression telegraphs that I have no idea what she just said.

“Liquid breathing,” she clarifies.

“Like deep-sea divers or premature babies,” Brando says. “It looks like the Carbon engineers are testing multiple approaches all at once.”

I back away from the big box of scientific creepiness. Even though my partner is a clone, he seems much less unnatural than these poor lab rats. Yes, he spent exactly zero time in a real mother's womb, but he and his brothers were raised from infancy as normal kids. Plus, there were only three of them, like triplets. There are thirty copies of this blond woman in here.

There's no way making so many of the same person can be a good idea. People aren't Ford Mustangs. You can't just crank out an endless number of them. I don't know a lot about psychology, but the moment these poor women get out of these tanks will be the moment they go completely bonkers.

Victor has stopped pointing his gun directly at Curly but holds it ready in case she tries any funny stuff. Brando turns to him, “Mr. Eisenberg, will you watch this woman while my partner and I go upstairs?”

Eisenberg's lean face creaks into a smile, “Anything for you, my friends. And please, call me Victor.”

Same morning, 1:58
A.M.
GMT

Tower of London, London, Province of Great Britain, GG

He's not here. I knew he wouldn't be, but there was still a part of me that hoped my father was being kept at this Carbon installation.

This uppermost chamber is lined with glass-fronted computer cabinets, deep racks of pressurized tanks, and a swarm of thick tubes slinking through holes in the floor. In one corner is a raised platform holding three computer workstations. It's obviously the control center. Brando makes a beeline for one of the workstations.

Centered in the space is what appears to be a gigantic electro-sarcophagus: twenty feet long, six feet wide, and five feet tall. It's like a shipping container for a limousine. This must be the Original.

On top of the container is a thick glass plate for viewing who's inside. I stand on tiptoe and take a look. Inside is a silvery rectangular slab the size of a big dining room table. A thick rod connects the slab's short edges to the inside of the sarcophagus, so the slab is mounted in there like a piece of food on a spit.

The slab moves, rotating along its long axis, and smoothly flips over. The other side reveals the Original, a woman, although I can't see much of her. A breathing tube is mounted over her mouth and nose, and her hair is covered by a chrome helmet with a zillion thin wires coming out of it, like a metal Afro.

From the neck down the woman is tucked into the hollow core of the slab, which is essentially an articulated, padded body envelope. The cloning process must take enough time that the subject's position has to be shifted periodically. The silvery manvelope has a few large hinges along its length, I think so the subject can be bent at the waist and knees. Maybe to help blood circulation? Jesus, how long do they keep her in there?

She seems to be asleep or unconscious. There are dark circles under her eyes. I can only see the half of the Original's face. The rest I have to fill in from the clones I saw downstairs. The overhead lights glare off the viewing glass, and I move my head to the side a little so I can see inside better.

The Original's eyes pop open and stare at me. I yowp and spring away from the sarcophagus. When I lean back over the window, her terrified gaze tracks my face.

“M-my God,” I stammer. “Darwin, she's awake!”

My partner sits at the control station and reads from the screen in front of him. “Yes. It says here the subject has been placed into a locked-in state with a steady dose of pancuronium bromide.” He leans back and covers his mouth with one hand. “She's paralyzed but cognizant.”

“Can this lady feel anything?”

“She can feel everything. The Carbon researchers don't want the subject's mental activity dulled with anesthetics.”

The woman's head doesn't budge. She blinks, and her eyes move. That's it. Small drops of water course down the sides of her face.

“She's crying.” I place my hand over the glass. “We've got to get her out of there!”

“Oh, my God, Scarlet. No way!”

“She's in agony, Darwin. They've got her on a breathing machine!”

“Yes, exactly. Her respiratory functions are paralyzed along with the rest of her. We don't have any of the drugs we'd need to reverse the effects of the pancuronium, and—”

“We can't leave her there.”

“We have to, Scarlet! If we pull her off that ventilator, she'll suffocate and die.”

The mission that killed my first partner resulted in a heap of intel about Germany's cloning program, including Carbon's success at speed-growing clones to the physical equivalent of twenty years old in one-tenth the time it would take naturally. That phase was called Gen-2, and for a few precious moments it was the most mental thing I'd ever heard of.

Trick and I also recovered data about Carbon's current phase, Gen-3, which then instantly replaced Gen-2 as the most mental thing I've ever heard of. Gen-3's objective is to map an Original's living consciousness into a clone. This would create an exact age-shifted duplicate with all the maturity, memories, and knowledge of the Original. The Frankenkrauts call it psychogenesis.

ExOps's Med-Techs call it the craziest, most overreaching ego trip since the Tower of Babel. They swear up and down that psychogenesis is absolutely impossible. Then they haltingly admit they said the same thing about Gen-2's goal of accelerated growth.

I use my retinal cameras to record a picture of the paralyzed woman trapped in the chamber. She stares at me, desperately pleading. I sadly shake my head. She presses her eyes shut and keeps crying. I slowly back away from the sarcophagus.

Brando gets back to his torrential typing. I turn in a circle and record everything with my retinal cameras. The air thrums with the dull roar of some serious air-conditioning, but this room is still warm. All this equipment throws off a lot of heat. Despite the warmth, I'm chilled me to the bone.

As I finish my photo recon, Trick comes up the stairs.

“Hiya, Hot Stuff,” he says.

I'm all set to respond, like it's no big deal to see my dead former partner, when I realize what's happening to me. Panic pours through my body, and I cover my face with my hands. Then I catch myself—Brando will think I'm thoroughly nuts—and cross my arms across my chest.

Trick is gone. I choke down a deep breath and command my knees to stop shaking.

Only a ghost, Alix.

Trick's voice echoes from behind me. “Scarlet,” No, it's not Trick. “Check out this file.” Brando comms me a data file. I suppress a shiver and open the file in my Eyes-Up display.

It's a map of Europe superimposed with a scattered constellation of green dots. “What're these dots?” I comm.

“That's where all the Carbon facilities are.”

“Are you kidding? There must be fifty of them!”

“Sixty-five,” he comms, “but most of them are only for research, like the labs we saw in Zurich. There are nine cloning facilities like this one.”

“Which one is my father in?”

“I don't know.” Brando rapidly works the computer's keyboard. “My Info Coordinator may be able to help us figure that out.”

A muffled thud echoes from outside. Sounds like Raj and Victor's men are really putting it to the German police. Raj comms to both Brando and me. “Scarlet, Darwin, we're running low on ammo out here. You two need to finish whatever you're doing and get out of there.”

Brando stands up. “Roger that. We're leaving now.” He types a final flourish into the computer, steps down to the main floor, and heads for the stairs. I follow him, but I stop to take one more look at the big metal cloning coffin.

He's in one of those things, awake and waiting for me.

I hold Li'l Bertha next to my head. “Dad?”

All I hear is the air-conditioning whooshing and the generators going
wOWww … wOWww.

My skin crawls with goose bumps under my scuba suit, and then a chill runs from the cut on my leg up through my spine.

“Darwin, Victor!” I say. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

CORE MIS-ANGEL-2184

Heavily encrypted intercept, source unknown:

START TRANSMISSION : SHE'S IN LONDON : TRANSMISSION END

Same morning, five hours later, 7:13
A.M.
GMT

245 Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill, London, Province of Great Britain, GG

The cigarette makes a gentle crackling sound as I take a drag. I leave it dangling out of my mouth for a moment, but a curl of smoke wafts right into my eyes. I blink a few times and grab the butt between the first two fingers of my right hand to get it away from my face.
So much for Joe Cool.

It turns out Grey smokes not only for the pure tobacco flavor but because the old “can I get a light?” routine is such a perfect icebreaker for Infiltrator work. Grey was casually smoking on the steps in front of the safe house when Victor, Brando, and I got back with our captives. On an impulse, I asked him if I could bum one. I'd barely finished the question before he had his cigarette case held out toward me.

“Don't tell your mother I gave you one.” His lighter seemed to pop out of his palm, already lit.

I puffed the cigarette into life. “Thanks, Grey.”

Raj came out and escorted the people from Carbon into our safe house. Meanwhile, from the corner of my eye, I saw Brando tilt his head and look at me.

I turned and faced him. “What? My leg hurts.”

My partner quietly watched me smoke. He knows I've got Overkaine for things like leg wounds. He turned to Grey without taking his eyes off me. “Sir, will you help me question these pris—uh, I mean, these guests of ours?”

Our senior Level closely observed our mostly unspoken conversation with a tilted smile. “Sure thing, Darwin,” he said, “and call me Grey.”

That was a few hours ago. Since then I've changed back into my street clothes, rebandaged the gash on my leg, and had a bite to eat. Then I hooked Victor up with a comm headset so he can talk to us, stowed the scuba gear in its ExOps duffel bag, and bummed another cigarette off Grey while he assigned me and Rah-Rah to come up here to the roof to keep a lookout for
der Fritz
.

Raj and I alternate from the front of the building to the back every twenty minutes or so to help us stay alert. Neither of us talks unless we see something. It's early Sunday morning, and this is a residential neighborhood, so we're pretty much silent.

Brando keeps me and Raj tuned into how things are going downstairs. I can't follow the technobabble, but I gather we're harvesting even more Carbon intel than what I brought home from Zurich. The scientists we brought here are fed up with how much the Reich has “perverted their talents.” The woman, Curly, says she might as well cough it up to us so “somebody can do some good with it.”

Raj and I exchange knowing looks when she says this. Raj sighs and shakes his head before turning back to his post. Suddenly he tenses up and cranes his neck to check out something in the street.

He comms to me, Grey, and Brando all at once. “Team, this is Raj. A large six-wheeled van has stopped a hundred feet from our front door.”

I throw my cigarette down and get up on tiptoe to view the rear of the house better. “Raj, it's clear back here. Should I come up front?”

“No, Scarlet. Stay there. If this is a raid, they'll come from all directions at once.”

“Maybe we should have had Victor bring his guys with him,” I comm.

Raj has hunched down so he can see the van below without exposing himself more than he needs to. “No, it was better to get them out of the city. We couldn't have armed or supplied them, anyway.”

This is true. In fact, we can barely arm and supply ourselves. Raj and I have our ExOps-issued weapons, of course, but both of us have been in-country for so long we're running out of ammo for our specialized people-perforators. To supplement our draining ammunition supply, we've each got a stolen MP-50 with as many clips as we can hump around. Curly got all of us out of the Tower via a series of abandoned tunnels that used to be some kind of intra-city mail delivery system. One of the corridors went by an underground armory, and we took a minute to get ourselves all heated up with weapons, a crapload of bullets, and some of those Kraut grenades on a stick.

I scan the garden behind the house. The whole neighborhood is lined with two-, three-, and four-story white stucco buildings like the one we're standing on. In the middle of the block is a red brick church Grey calls The Tabernacle[4]. It's surrounded by narrow trees, lush hedges, and small plots of remarkably green grass. Even after decades of occupation, the Brits still can't be beat for their gardening skills.

Then I spot a problem in the little rectangular paradise: snakes.

I comm, “Gentlemen, this is Scarlet. Three armed men are sneaking through the park to our rear.”

Raj comms, “Roger that, Scarlet. Grey, did you copy?”

Apparently so. Grey instantly comms, “Team, we are bugging out right fucking now. Darwin, join your partner upstairs. Victor, cover the front door. I'll take care of our guests.”

“Roger that, Grey,” Raj comms. “You'll find your own escape route, I assume, sir.”

“Affirmative, Raj. You exit with Scarlet, Darwin, and Victor.” Infiltrators are so good at hiding they've got their own response to this kind of situation. It's called Evade In Place, meaning he'll use his cloaking and speed to stay here, but he'll remain out of sight. He'll listen in and find out what the Germans make of the situation and then report back to ExOps.

Brando emerges onto the roof. He zips to the front of the house and recons the street. Then he runs back to my post and leans out over the park. “Crap,” he says.

Raj comms, “Team, that van just unloaded a dozen SZ troops in full riot gear. Grey, should I engage them?”

Grey responds, “Raj, you big animal mother, I would consider it a personal favor if you would light those foxtrots right the hell up. Scarlet and Victor, the same for you two: any SZ or Gestapo targets you see, you kill. Try to abstain from cops and Wehrmacht.”

I unload a bucket of Madrenaline into my bloodstream. My pulse, breathing, and blood pressure all ratchet up. A serving of Kalmers swirls in to keep my hands steady. I lean out from the edge of the roof to see if the park is being infiltrated by regular assholes I need to gently cripple or if they're extra-strength assholes I can send to the big Oktoberfest in the sky.

I zoom in with my enhanced vision. Their collars all have the silver insignia of the Staatszeiger: zigzag SZ runes on the right and an upraised hand with fingers made of lightning on the left.

“Raj,” I comm, “I've got confirmed SZ back here, too. Let me know when you're ready.”

“Roger that,” Raj comms back. “Three, two, one, now, Scarlet!” He opens up on the troops in the street with a long rattling overture of fully automatic fire from his MP-50.

I stand on the roof's edge and carefully aim a series of short bursts, one at each of the three intruders creeping through my little green heaven. Intruder One is easy since he doesn't know I'm up here. Intruder Two tries to hide under a small bench, but my second burst takes him apart. Intruder Three has the most time and disappears into a hedge. I pepper the place where he vanished.

“Scarlet …” It's Brando, comming. I can barely hear him over the cacophonous firefight Raj is engaged in at the front of the house.

“Hang on, Darwin. I've almost got this fucker.” I fire into the hedge on either side of Intruder Three's hiding spot to make sure.

“SCARLET! DOWN!” Brando isn't comming now, he's shouting. My weapon's sights abruptly swing away from the park. I fall backward—no, I've been pulled backward. I land on something softer than roof as a loud crack splits the airspace formerly occupied by my head.

“Raj!” Brando comms from underneath me. “Sniper, across the block to our rear! Behind a low wall on that four-story building with the small water tank on it.”

I roll off my partner as another shot rips through the air. It hits Raj in the back. He loses his grip on his MP-50 and drops to one knee with a loud grunt. His weapon is strapped over his shoulder, which is the only thing that keeps it from falling off the building.

I stand up. A third shot rings out from the rear. This one hits me, but it only tugs a hole through my shirt, under my armpit.

That's enough of this bullshit
. I drop my MP-50 and activate Li'l Bertha. She lights up and vibrates like a puppy, happy and eager to please.

“C'mon, baby. I've got a job only you can do for me.” Li'l Bertha jacks in through my WeaponSynch pad, uses her sentient intelligence to detect the situation and my intentions, and sets herself to fire .12-caliber suppression pellets.

I zoot myself up to full speed, then bound across the rooftops and circle the block, back to where the sniper is hiding. I'm still low on ammo for Li'l Bertha, so I refrain from laying down the hail of suppression fire my sidearm anticipated for me.
Crack!
The sniper tries to nail me as I race along the side of the block.
Crack! Crack!
I bounce across the building on the back corner. Now I'm on the same edge of the block he is, and I head straight for him. I side-step shot after shot.

Then I fuck it up.

He's on a four-story building, and the house I'm on is also four stories tall. Between us is one house that's only two stories tall. Rather than jump down and then back up, I launch a huge vault over the shorter house. For almost two full seconds, I hang in the air like a big balloon. Since I haven't suppressed the sniper, he's got time to anticipate my flight and line up a shot. All I can do is fly right into it.

I stick out my gun hand and authorize Li'l Bertha to take complete fire control while I scrunch my body into as small a target as possible. She switches to .45-caliber Incendiaries while her gyroscopes swing my hand over so she's aimed at the SZ sniper. I don't even have to pull her trigger. My pistol fires at the same instant as my opponent. Our bullets scorch past each other like bats out of hell.

Li'l Bertha's shot flies into my competitor's head via his right eye, sets his brain on fire while it crashes around inside his skull, and exits out the back of his neck.

The sniper's bullet streaks toward my chest. If I were on my feet, I could simply sidestep it. Now the best I can do is twist myself around so his shot doesn't damage anything vital. Right before it hits me, I close my eyes. I'm so hopped up on Madrenaline I can track the bullet's trajectory through my body like it was a sizzling insect crawling around under my skin.

The sniper's shot breaks the skin over the left side of my pelvis, clangs into my plated hip bone at an oblique angle, fires through a few inches of abdominal muscle, and then ricochets off the bottom of my polymetal-coated rib cage. The slug rips a egg-sized hole out of my left side and splats it into my SoftArmor vest.

I scream as my body crashes onto the roof, right next to the flaming-headed and wholly toasted Staatszeiger sniper.

Brando comms from across the block, “SCARLET! Oh, my God, are you hit?”

“Augh! Rrrr! Yeah …” My left side is drenched with blood and getting more soaked every second. The pain is incredible, like my side has been crushed in the jaws of a dinosaur. “Oh, fuck! Patrick,
get over here
!” I drop Li'l Bertha and press one hand on the wound over my left hip. My other hand fumbles with my SoftArmor straps, but I can't get it off to reach the exit wound.

I breathe so fast I get light-headed. I rest my head on the roof and squint at the sky. The Madrenaline in my system makes everything worse. I crank a shitload of Kalmers, Overkaine, and CoAgs and try to take some big slow breaths.

My partner finally appears. He doesn't have as many Mods as me, so he's had to clamber across the rooftops like a believably acrobatic person. He unslings his X-bag and digs out his ExOps first-aid kit. This kit saves my life because ExOps first-aid packages are essentially a miniature field hospital complete with plasma, pressure bandages, antibiotics, a suction pack, tools for heavy stitching, sterilized superglue to hold wounds shut, and even a patch of freeze-dried Exoskin.

Brando unbuckles my SoftArmor, rips my shirt open, and quickly inspects the two wounds. His face is knotted with worry, but his voice remains steady. “Only one shot?”

“Only?”

His hands whip in and out of his first-aid kit so quickly I can barely see them. “Sorry. I mean, this is all we're dealing with, right?”

“Whaddaya want,
more
?”

“C'mon, Alix! Fucking work with me here, all right?”

I take a deep breath, which hurts like a bitch. My face is drenched in sweat, and my lips taste like salt. My well-trained brain reports, “Yes, I'm not hurt from falling or anything, and he only hit me with one shot. I felt it enter, and I'm pretty sure I felt it exit.”

Brando slaps a big pressure bandage on the exit gaper, tapes it down, and then turns his attention to the entry wound. I roll onto my right side so he can get at it. I can't see what he's doing to the bullet hole over my left hip, but I feel him picking at it.

“OW! Darwin, what are you doing? That really hurts!”

“Sorry, Scarlet, but the bullet carried a piece of cloth from your pants inside you. If I leave it there, it'll get infected and you'll die. Now, stop moving! It's slowing me down.”

No fucking way do I go out like this.

I take another deep breath and lay as still as possible. My partner carefully uses a forceps to pluck something out of the entry wound. Even with my Overkaine flowing, I can't help clenching my teeth and grinding them together as a streak of roasted electricity swirls around my hip. A few big tears drip onto the roof.

My partner applies a bandage to the entry wound. “Okay, that should do it.” He gently turns me onto my back. His face appears above me. A brown lock of hair hangs across his eyes; he's backlit by a beautiful blue sky, and whatever he's saying helps me calm down.

I reach my right hand up behind his head and pull his mouth down on mine. It's a one-way kiss until Patrick recovers from his surprise. Then it becomes a very two-way kiss.