Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm (25 page)

Same day, ten hours later, 8:45
P.M.
CET

Carentan, Province of France, GG

Carentan is a cute place. Not that I want to move here, but of all the towns with top-secret mad-scientist laboratories, this one isn't bad. Gotta give the Krauts credit. Hiding one of the nine Carbon cloning labs in this sleepy little burg is like hiding a 100-karat diamond in a bread box.

We're parked across the street from the German Veterans Medical Center, which squats next to the town's main church, the Notre-Dame de Carentan. Grey silently smokes a cigarette as he keeps a close eye on everyone who enters or leaves the modern and brightly lit hospital. Most of them are civilians visiting patients.

Then there are the husky Staatszeiger creeps. Two of them are always posted at the entrance, and two more patrol the hospital's perimeter. We saw a small squad of them enter the building, and a few minutes later only two walked out, got in an officially marked Staatszeiger car, and drove away.

I say to Grey, “There isn't much competition. Why don't we just F.U.C.K. 'em up?”

Grey taps the ash off his cigarette. “We need to keep the con after we're gone.”

I frown in confusion.

He elaborates, “We don't want Fritz to know ExOps pulled this job. The plan is to make it look like it was the Circle of Zion. So, to do it like the Circle would, we'll sneak in through the church, avoid the hospital guards, and make a clean getaway.” He pauses. “Unless you feel like killing every potential witness in that hospital.” He gives me a steady stare. I don't say anything. “Right.” He turns back to the car's window. “We do it the sneaky way.”

Notre-Dame de Carentan is much smaller than Notre-Dame de Reims, but it's still cluttered with statues, stained glass, and carvey knickknacks. It's like a really fancy cupcake except for the tall, spearlike central tower that stabs a hole into the night sky.

After we got here, I tried to use Li'l Bertha to comm my dad. I'd hoped being so close would put me in range again, but I haven't had any luck. Patrick quietly keeps an eye on me when I hold my pistol next to my head.

The decision about when to begin a mission falls to the senior Level in charge. In this case, that's Grey. He exhales smoke from his nose and says, “I think it's time to get this show on the road.”

I start the car and drive up the street past the fancy little church. I park in front of a small shop. Grey stubs out his cigarette, and we exit the Barge. I stand up too quickly and get a head rush. I breathe deeply and have my neuroinjector give me a swish of uppers.

We double-check our toys of mass destruction. Falcon holds his sniper's rifle flat against his side.

“This is gonna be close quarters,” I say to him. “Sure you need that cannon?”

“Like the man says,” Falcon smirks, “don't leave home without it.”

I smile and poke my elbow into his arm as the four of us stalk down the street. We creep up to the side entrance of the foreboding unlit Cupcake and try the heavy wooden door. It's locked. Brando pulls out his lock-breaker kit. Falcon and I keep watch and Grey shines a penlight on the lock while my partner does his thing. Except for the hospital's hustle and bustle, the neighborhood is quiet.

Brando's efforts bring about a declarative clunk. “Got it,” he whispers.

Grey shoves the door open and enters first. He comms to us, “All clear.”

The rest of us slip inside. The dark stone walls and floor in here seem to suck the warmth right out of me. I tighten my jacket around me and—

Alix?

It's him! I hold Li'l Bertha beside my head.

“Daddy? We're here!”

Alix, I …

“What? Dad, what's the matter?”

No answer. A dancing crowd of spots appears before my eyes, and my dizziness returns.

“Hang on, Daddy, we'll get you out of here.” The floor shifts from left to right so dramatically that I feel motion-sick.

Brando, still watching me, remains silent. Grey and Falcon have already walked to the shadowy rear of the church. I hook my arm through my partner's arm, and we follow them down a gloomy flight of stairs. A black metal door yields to Brando's lock-picking prowess, and we're in. The pitch-black air in the Cupcake's cellar—or “undercroft,” as Grey calls it—is thick with the smell of fresh mouse turds, damp earth, moldy stonework, and ancient corpses interred in the walls.

“Not creepy,” whispers Falcon. “No, sir. Not at all.”

We follow Grey in the glow from his small flashlight. He leads us into a low hallway. Even I have to stoop to get through. We quietly assemble at the end of the hall and all get down on one knee. I'm grateful for the chance to steady myself.

Grey comms, “Okay, this is the old entrance to the main catacombs.” He reviews our next steps. Grey and Falcon will rush through the lab and secure the entrance. Brando and I will fan out and find the Originals. Then we'll do the extraction.

My partner reaches into his X-bag and takes out his millimeter-wave radar sensor. He begins to pass it back and forth across the wall, looking for the old doorway.

As he works, an avalanche of nausea crushes my stomach. My brow frosts over, and my hands shake like a pair of worms on a hook. The floor turns into a frozen lake and slips out from under me.

I sink through the ice, and my skates drag me down to the bottom. I push off the mud and punch the shimmering roof, but the thick water clutches my hands like a thorn bush. I try to swim back to the hole I made, but I'm all turned around and I can't find it. Bubbles of air rush past my nose. I'm not cold anymore. Something heavy crashes in on top of me and—

—hands prop me against a decrepit, dusty old barrel. All three of my companions bend down to look at me. My mouth tastes awful. I clutch my head in my hands to keep it from splitting apart.

“Oh, my God,” I groan, “this feels worse than a hangover.” Something drips off my sleeve and down my arm.

Brando fusses around me. “Hang on, hang on. Let me clean you up.”

“Scarlet,” Grey hisses, “you need to stay quiet.”

I take a slow, deep breath. This helps clear my head, but now I'm aware of something else. “Ugh! What's that smell?”

“Alix, you got sick, and then you blacked out.” Brando whispers. “Stick your arm out. I'll clean off your sleeve.”

Sweet Jesus!
I fainted in the middle of a mission. Grey silently holds his penlight and watches my partner clean puke off my jacket sleeve. “Darwin,” he slowly asks my partner, “what's the matter with her?”

Brando finishes his nursemaid duty. “She'll be fine. It's only a nervous reaction.” He helps me sit upright. Grey squats down in front of me and has Brando return to waving his radar gadget at the wall.

Grey says to me, “You all right, kid?”

“Yeah.” I goose some Overkaine to suppress my headache. “I'm sorry, Grey. That won't happen again.”

“It shouldn't have happened at all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has it happened before?”

“Not like that, sir.”

Grey frowns, “How
has
it happened before?”

Oops.

“Sir,” Brando interjects, “I've got the doorway.”

Grey's expression softens a little, and he says, “Scarlet, we'll get him out. Just stay cool, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I wipe sweat off my forehead and rub my hands on my pants. “Thank you, sir.”

Grey points at Brando's X-bag. “Okay, Darwin, let's try out that Super Momma we got from Jacques.”

CORE TECH-SPRMAMA-003

Sonically Powered Retrogressive-Method Anti-Material Array (SPRMAMA)

This handheld device generates a pair of short-range, high-intensity, high-frequency self-balancing sonic waves that can be employed against a variety of surfaces to cause everything from mild damage to complete structural disintegration.

Although SPRMAMA is nearly silent on its own, when this system is used against a wall, floor, or ceiling, the demolished elements are likely to create significant aural disturbance.

Prototypes have been adapted into the casings of cordless drills. A few teams involved in Operation ANGEL have deployed with these pre-production models. The operatives will field-test SPRMAMA at their first opportunity.

Same day, one minute later, 8:46
P.M.
CET

Carentan, Province of France, GG

Brando presses the Super Momma against the wall and activates the sonic wave. My headache resurrects itself like a howling harpy, and I clap my hands to my forehead. “Agh, fuck!” I glance up and see Grey and Falcon are doing the same thing. I grunt, “Darwin, hurry up! That thing is killing my head!”

My partner moves the Super Momma on the wall and “draws” a door-sized rectangle. Severed pieces of wood, crumbling chunks of plaster, and piles of stone filler tumble onto the floor. Fluorescent light spills through from Brando's sonic-boom doorway into the undercroft. He shuts the goddamn thing off.

“Wow,” he exclaims over the settling debris. “Talk about instant hole!”

My headache recedes almost as quickly as it came on, but I still make sure to voice my low opinion of this new hoozie from the Technical Department.

“Next time let's just use a fucking chain saw.”

We take a guess that our vision Mods may have resonated with the frequency from the Super Momma, since my partner wasn't affected and he's the only one of us with plain old eyeballs.

We pick our way through the carpet of rubble and enter the Carbon lab. A layer of ground-up plaster has settled over a few sets of tables and chairs. A refrigerator hums in the corner next to a counter and kitchen sink.

Falcon and Grey hotfoot it out of the kitchen and into a main hallway. Brando and I turn the other way. My partner has decided he'd better stick with me in case I have another lunch-spewing panic attack. We hustle past a long row of offices and cubicles.

A pair of dull thuds echo down the linoleum hallway.

“You got ‘im?” Grey's comm voice snaps.

“Yes, sir. He's down,” Falcon replies.

The two of them have taken over the hospital's entrance to this secret lab. Brando and I run past the offices, looking for the Originals. The office doors are all secured with pass-code locks. At first we take the time to carefully disable them, but takes too long. I start kicking the doors in, which speeds things up significantly.

We emerge in an open area with a series of long, low planter boxes arranged in a circle like Old West wagons defending themselves against an Indian attack. The big green plants are fake, but they still take the edge off the decor-by-Sparta feel of the place. It's also the only area with any decent signage. We turn around and read the signs as fast as we can.

“There!” Brando says. He takes off past a placard that reads
PRIMÄR
ENTWICKLUNGSLABOR
. Primary Laboratory. I catch up to him, and we push open a pair of frosted-glass doors.

We're in a wide, rounded room laid out like the lab in the Tower of London. The floor is dominated by a huge metal casket-shaped sarcophagus snaked all around with thick cables and tubes. Most of this techno-spaghetti runs across the floor to a series of person-size cylindrical tanks lined up against the walls. Each tank contains a person, a clone presumably, viewable through a glass window. The tank people are all male, but they don't look like each other. Their features remind me of some of the clones I fought in Zurich last year.

Brando moves off to my left toward a raised platform slathered in computer gear. I run to the center of the room with my stomach in knots and look into the window of the Original container.

It's him! It's really him! I hug Li'l Bertha to my cheek. “Daddy, can you hear me?”

Yes!

“I'm here, in the room with you! I've come to take you home.”

I … I knew you'd come for me, Hot-Shot.

I press my right hand on the glass and study my dad's face. It looks like him, and it doesn't look like him. His eyes are closed, he's very pale and his lips are dry and colorless.

“Can you open your eyes?”

I can't … move anything.

Maybe it's because I haven't seen him in nine years, but I almost don't recognize him. It's weird how lifeless he is in there. He was always in motion, even when he slept. When I used to find him passed out on the couch down in his workshop, I'd study his face. The muscles in his jaw would twitch while he dreamed.

He's in a padded metal envelope, like the woman in the White Tower back in London. A breathing mask covers his mouth and nose, and the tubes disappear past my line of sight into the sarcophagus. I can't see his hair under the metal helmet they've got on top of his head. The helmet sprouts a small galaxy of fine wires leading to a silver gadget with blinking lights mounted to the inside wall of the chamber.

“Darwin,” I comm, “do we take that helmet off his head?”

“Only after we've disconnected the wires,” he comms back. “But we need to detach them in the correct sequence.”

“How can I help?”

My partner says, “I need you to talk with your father. Have him tell you what he feels as I switch his IV from pancuronium to neostigmine and atropine.”

“In English, please?”

“I need to activate his musculature. Then we can get him off the ventilator and move him much more easily. Disconnecting all the Carbon crap will take some guesswork, and if I know what he's experiencing, it may help me get it right.”

I look back at my father. One of his eyelids spasms, and his faint comm voice strains with great effort.

Oh, my God! Honey, they must have found my comm connection.

“Dad, don't worry. In a few minutes you won't need it anymore.”

No, listen, they've set … it's a …

“Scarlet,” Brando says. “You ready?”

“Shh! Hang on. My father's trying to say something.” When my dad finally gets the word out, it nearly stops my heart.

Trap.

A loud bang ricochets down the hall, instantly followed by a sharp exchange of gunfire.

“Falcon!” It's Grey. “Back up, lemme get'im!”

Falcon comms, “Watch it! On your left!”

The firefight out front goes from zero to bullet-blizzard in nothing flat. The floor vibrates so much that flasks and beakers shake off the table and crash onto the floor.

“Shit!” Brando yells. “Okay, change of plans. We'll disconnect him from Carbon first, then run him out of here on our portable ventilator.”

“What should I tell my dad?”

“Well, normally this is done under anesthesia. It'll feel like hell when he comes off the lab's ventilator.”

I swallow a lump in my throat and prop my pistol against my head, “Dad, we're going to unhook you from the lab. We need you to tell me what you feel so we get it in the right order.”

Understood.

“Then we'll have to switch you onto our portable ventilator. My partner tells me that will be extremely unpleasant for you.”

Let's get it over with, then.

I nod to Brando. He begins typing on the keyboard in front of him.

Hot-Shot?

“Yes?”

I love you very much, honey.

I promised myself I wouldn't cry, even though I knew I would. Twin streams of tears spring down my cheeks. I close my eyes and gently cradle Li'l Bertha next to my face.

“I love you too, Daddy.”

I leave the tears on my face as I holster my pistol. Then I heave the sarcophagus's lid open and flip open a row of buckles that latch the metal envelope shut. When I open the top of the envelope, I nearly faint again.

My father has wasted away to almost nothing. All of his ribs show through his thin white shirt. His white cotton pants droop around thighs and calves as thin as curtain rods. His powerful arms have withered to twigs with nearly skeletal hands sprouting from the ends like the claws of a monster.

Only my partner's stern direction keeps me focused. He has me start with the monitor pads and sensors, the stuff that only reads data. I rip them all off my dad's shrunken body as quickly as possible. My vision has lost all color and looks like our old black-and-white TV. Brando's instructions come so fast I need to pop more Madrenaline to keep my hands moving quickly enough. Then we get to the helmet.

“Dad, you all right?”

Peachy.

“Darwin, he's good so far.”

“Anybody got a free hand down there?” Falcon comms in. “It's gettin' a little radical up here.” His call is almost drowned out by the deep ripping sound of a heavy machine-gun.

“Negative, Falcon,” Brando comms back. “We need another minute or so.”

My vision has lost its midrange shades. Everything is either white or black, like a poster. I'm also sweating like crazy. Moisture sizzles down the sides of my body and soaks into my pants and underwear. My knees tremble, so I lean against the sarcophagus.

On close inspection, the helmet's wire nodes all have little numbers next to them, like network addresses. I zoom in on them with my vision Mods. The numbers appear as thin black characters against a glare-white background. Brando starts at the low end.

“Try 192.1,” he comms.

I find the correct node and pull the wire out.

“Dad? How's that?”

Nothing.

I plug the wire back in.

His depleted body spasms wildly. Li'l Bertha transmits white noise instead of his comm voice. While he writhes, my vision shifts to dark burgundy and white. Then he lies still.

Alix, that wasn't … right.

“Oh, God, Daddy. I'm sorry. Are you all right?”

It hurt, but … keep trying.

I look at my partner. His snow-white face is wet with perspiration, and his red eyes are jammed wide open. “Christ,” he whispers. “Okay, let's try the other direction. Pull 192.255.”

I find the node ending in 255 and pull the wire.

“Dad?”

Much better.

I spend the next minute ripping wires out in descending order until I'm back to the node ending with a 1.

“Scarlet, hang on,” comms Brando. “That's the wire that'll disconnect him from the ventilator.”

Grey comms to the two of us. “Let's shake a leg down there, people. The competition has brought a lot of toys tonight.” To underscore his point, a piece of the ceiling shakes loose and smashes some glass equipment into skittering shards.

Brando runs across the room and takes a plastic gadget out of his X-bag. It's the size of a hardbound book. The front is covered with knobs and switches, topped by a small screen that lights up as my partner turns it on. From the gadget's side hangs a cluster of clear plastic tubes that converge at a round plastic something-or-other.

Brando leans over the sarcophagus and freezes when he sees my dad. “Oh, my God.”

Grey comms in, “Scarlet, Darwin, we've lost the entrance and are falling back. You need to get moving right now!”

The gunfire gets closer. A shot bangs down the hall and snaps a hole in the lab's door, shattering the frosted glass. Brando recovers himself and reaches in to my father.

He calls out over the din from the hallway, “Now, Scarlet! Pull that last one.”

I pull out 192.1 and stand back. My partner slides the sarcophagus's breathing tube out of my father's mouth and nose. My father begins to convulse again. Falcon and Grey bolt past the door as a stream of bullets explode into the floor behind them, scattering chipped linoleum in every direction. Brando inserts the portable ventilator kit's breathing equipment into my dad's throat and presses the clear plastic mask over his mouth and nose.

Five big black-shirted Staatszeiger men charge past the lab. They fire their weapons at Grey and Falcon down the hall. My vision has gone from burgundy on white to burgundy on black, like a negative print from a slasher movie. I'm sweating so heavily I can shake water droplets out of my hair like a dog at the beach.

Another group of SZ men tromp down the hall, but one of these jerkoffs sees me and Brando here in the lab. Their black figures are silhouetted against the dark red walls as they raise their white weapons.

Madrenaline pours into my system so fast I can watch pearls of white sweat fling off my black hand as I whip Li'l Bertha out of her holster and stab her into air between me and these goddamn motherfuckers.

It feels like Li'l Bertha ejaculates her entire ammo pack all at once. Her squadron of big black bullets blasts into the men and sets off a spectacular multicolor fireworks display that launches out of the riddled bodies and paints itself onto the wall.

That's my girl!

“Fuckin' radical!” It's Falcon. “Scarlet, was that you?”

I stalk into the hall on hooves of blazing coals. Li'l Bertha begs for more ammo. My right hand jams a pack up inside her. She's so ready for me she immediately screams to wake the dead and mercilessly blows the remaining SZ men into shredded dog food.

“Scarlet!”

Black sweat from my hair pours into my eyes, and I go blind. The bawling of the dying troopers and their gushing blood fade away until I can't hear or feel anything.

“Scarlet?”

Mom, Dad, and I sit in a circle. We all wear flowing white robes and leather sandals. My robe smells like damp earth and ancient bones. Mom turns to Dad. “I told you this would happen to her.” Dad pours his drink on the floor in the middle of our circle. It burns a hole through the carpet and floorboards. A long tentacle snaps out from the hole, grabs my dad, and whips him down below. My mom cries out and plunges in after him. Wails of agony as the snaps of their bodies being chewed and crushed erupt from the hole. I scream and scream and scream until someone comes up behind me and drags me out of the room—

—through Brando's instant door and back into the undercroft. My jacket has splats of blood all over it.

“Oh, hey, you're awake!” Brando leans down and looks in my face. “You all right?”

My breath comes in shallow gasps, but I can see in full color again. My hearing has returned, too.