Masked (4 page)

"
W
hat the hell was that
?" Alan growled as we stumbled into the tech-room; charred, blistered, battered and confused.

The masked woman and her cohorts had disappeared once we'd made it back to the ground. But not before they'd rescued over forty children and their teachers from near death. The streets were abuzz with praise. Masked they were being called. As if a new caste had been created. Not Elite with all the trappings of privilege. But not Citizen or Cardinal either. Somewhere in between all three.

Even Si had the newsfeed running on the largest screen in his room. Rolling credits speculating on who the Masked were. Where they'd come from. And if Lena, or The Zebra, had anything to do with them.

I glanced across the room at her now; soot covered, grazed, worn out. And silent. Her pale eyes skimming over the screens at Si's disposal, clever little cogs whirring away inside her head.

She had no answers. Neither did I. The so called Masked were an anomaly.

In a city that had changed so drastically only a few short weeks ago, it seemed determined to change yet again.

"The Civil Defence Force station doors were doctored," Si announced, making every single person in the room halt in their tracks. "If they were tampered with, then it was done for a reason. One can only assume that reason coincided with the Pherres disaster."

"That woman," Alan ground out between clenched teeth. "The rescue effort was well under way before we got there. And we drove like bats out of hell to reach the scene as soon as it exploded."

"Are you saying they knew it was going to happen?" Paul asked, collapsing into a chair at the back of the room.

Alan didn't bother to reply. Economy of speech was his speciality.

"If they knew..." Si started.

"Then they locked the Civil Defence Force behind closed doors to put on a better show," I finished for him.

"We've got would-be martyrs," Si added. "If they're capable of something like this, then what will they do next?"

"And why are they doing it?" Lena added in a contemplative voice.

"Attention seeking?” Paul offered.

"Something of this magnitude would indicate attention for a cause," Lena offered. "Not simply because they want their masked faces to appear on vid-screens."

"So, what's their cause?"

"Find that out and you find them," Lena replied, moving across the room to the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, the question more abrupt than I'd intended.

"We're speculating," she replied, not bothering to turn to look at me. "I need a shower."

"Because we're speculating?" Alan queried. Again with the fucking bear stick.

"Call me when you have a plan," was the only reply he got.

"Why doesn't Lena want to be in on our plan?" Paul asked, abandonment issues rearing their ugly little head. Paul doted on Lena. He could almost be an honorary zebra-lookalike. Which made me wonder just where Xiu Ying & Zhang Jun exactly were.

"Lena's already making her own plan," Alan said in a deadpan voice.

"Undoubtedly," Si added, both looking at me with expressions of mirth.

Yeah, yeah, my girlfriend tended to do whatever she damn well liked. A dedicated member of the revolution Lena had never been.

"Anything from Tan?" I asked instead of opening up that can of worms.

"He's requested we meet with him at midday," Si supplied.

"Great, luncheon at Parliament House," Alan grumbled.

"Who said anything about feeding us," Si shot back. "He's more likely to eat us instead.”

"Does he think we're involved?" I asked in shock.

"His aide didn't say as much, but I got the impression the invitation wasn't a request."

"Typical," Alan muttered.

"He is our President," Paul offered.

"
Interim
President," Si, Alan and I said in unison.

The road to freedom was paved in many potholes and rocks.

"So," Alan said after a few seconds of silence. "What
is
our plan?"

I stared at the largest vid-screen, the devastation at the Pherres displayed in realistic high definition colour. Our once iconic wheel lay in a crumpled mess. Water flowed forlornly out of the odd fire hose still being used to douse the smouldering ruins. Civil Defence Force personnel wandered the scene in reflective jackets. Cardinals stood out in their utter lack of self preservation; cloaks twisting on their shoulders, flapping down their backs. A stray spark could have ignited any one of them. Citizens stood by and watched; drawn to the macabre, drawn to the salvation delivered.

They all wanted answers. How could this have happened in Free Wánměi?

Could Shiloh have prevented it?

The answer was simple. Wánměi wasn't free.

"Tan's not our problem," I said into the heavy silence of the room. "This new caste is."

"The Masked," Alan spat.

I nodded; eyes still glued to the vid-screen. "We need more information."

"Maybe Tan has something," Si offered.

"Tan is as blind as anyone," Alan replied.

"Wouldn't he be investigating?" Paul asked.

"Sure," Alan agreed, then pointed to the screen. "That's him investigating. A bunch of Civil Defence Force assessors and a few Cardinals asking them pertinent questions."

"The answer isn't at the scene," Si added, backing up Alan's words. "It's on the streets."

"The Masked have to live somewhere," I said quietly. "Congregate somewhere. Communicate with each other. If anyone understands subversive techniques it's us."

"Are they subversive?" Paul asked.

"Have you even been listening?" Alan demanded in a growl. "Lena's right. A gig this big is not just for attention. It's for a cause."

Paul frowned and looked down at the floor of the room, suitably chastised. We were all on edge. Alan more so than the rest of us, and for a moment I couldn't understand why. I stared at my best friend. The one person to have been with me from the very beginning. Even before I found Si. Alan had known my father. Had been part of the rebel army I grew up in. He knew more about my past than any other person save Lena. He knew more about what sacrifices we'd made along the way.

I stared at him, but no answers came to mind. He was taking this personally, as if the fact that the masked woman was not of Anglisc descent, like him, made it his responsibility. It'd be like Lena taking the blame for all of the Overseers, just because her father had been one.

Alan was pissed. And taking it out on every one around him.

"Go get cleaned up," I instructed. Alan's head shot up, not missing who the order had been directed at. "Both of you," I added, because I might have been raised to lead a rebel army, but that didn't make me a replica of my dear old dad. "We're going in circles here."

Paul started for the door to the room, Alan stood stock still and stared at me.

I waited for the door to close behind Paul before I spoke.

"Do you think the rebellion is over?"

"What do you mean?" Alan replied, voice low.

"Do you think just because we freed Wánměi that our job is done?"

He didn't reply.

"My father once told me that battles were won in the command tent and then lost in the same command tent mere days after." My father had been an arrogant, abusive sonofabitch, but he'd known how to lead an army.

He'd just never won a fucking war.

"The rebellion didn't end because we won," I said softly. "But it will end if we don't keep fighting."

"Who are we fighting?" Alan asked.

And that was the question. We'd fought General Chew-wen. We'd fought Harjeet Fucking Kandiyar. We'd fought Shiloh. Who was left? Our own people? These so-called Masked?

I shook my head. I was exhausted, filthy, and craving Lena.

How many more battles would there be before I could hang up my hat and call it a win?

"Does it matter?" I asked. "Wánměi is not yet free."

Alan let out a long breath of air and then scrubbed a hand over his grimy face.

"Just once," he murmured. "Just once I'd like to believe it is over." So like Lena. Alan and Lena butted heads daily, but that was because they were so alike.

Loyal. Protective. Courageous. The moral fibre that makes this city-state what it is.

"Go get cleaned up. We've got a rebellion to end."

He nodded his head, straightened his shoulders, and left the room.

I stood still, staring blindly at the vid-screen, wondering what the fuck would hit us next.

"Lena's Shiloh worked perfectly," Si said into the strained silence.

And there it was. The next hit. Which, in my tired and battered state, I'd completely forgotten.

"Still online?" I asked, moving to look over his shoulder at a smaller screen within touching distance of Si's hands. Lines of binary code scrolled across the display; none of it meant a bloody thing to me, but Si swore he could see pictures inside the code. Beautiful drawings, expertly rendered, remarkably lifelike when you knew how to read it.

It all sounded gobbledygook to me, but that's why I had a Simon Richards.

"I didn't have the heart to disconnect," he admitted, stroking the screen as though it was his lover.

"Dangerous isn't it?" I pressed, feeling like a fucking voyeur as I watched.

"He was utterly brilliant. Calvin Carstairs. He created an isolation programme that continues to evolve when presented with new threats. Any security system has to be updated as new and more lethal hostilities arise. But not this one. It's self-perpetuating."

"Just like Shiloh," I said.

"Yeah, just like..." His voice faded away at my meaning.

"Shiloh evolved. And Calvin created her first."

"He learned from his mistakes," Si pushed.

"Did he? Or would you like to believe that so you can keep playing with SMII?" Shiloh Mark II was our name for Lena's device. Carstairs had created it after he realised Shiloh Mark I was going batshit crazy. It saved the day. But it was still too close to Shiloh Mark I for my liking.

For Lee Tan's liking as well.

"Flick the switch, Si," I ordered softly. "It's a double edged sword. Let's remember to treat it like one."

"And how do you intend to find the Masked?" My teeth gritted at his apparent ease of using the new caste title.

"The old fashioned way."

"Like the Cardinals and Civil Defence Force?" Si pressed, indicating the still chaotic scene on the vid-screen. "Like President Tan?"

I sighed. I was too fucking tired for all of this.

"What other choice do we have?" I turned toward the door and the salvation I knew was waiting in our apartment.

I made it as far as putting my hand on the handle before he spoke.

"You're just as afraid as Lena."

"Lena's not afraid."

"Too scared to see what assets you hold for fear of repeating past mistakes."

"She's angry."

"Are you angry, Trent?" he asked, sharp eyes target locked on my own. "Or are you scared?"

Why me? Why must it be me who has to fucking deal with this shit?

"Just saying," he said before I could snarl in reply. Then turned back to his screen and entered a command. The binary code disappeared. SMII locked down.

I didn't move from my half turned position. Escape and the fresh scent of Lena as she comes out of the shower mere footsteps away. I stared at nothing. My thoughts a tumbling, disordered mess.

I wasn't afraid. But I also wasn't exactly angry.

What the fuck was I?

Fed up? Thrilled? I couldn't fucking tell. And
that
couldn't be a good thing.

I let a slow breath of air out and opened the door. Tan would want answers. He'd demand them. But unlike our new President, we
did
have tools in our arsenal. Not locked up in our armoury, as our small ammunitions and weapons were. Not sleeping in any one of the eight apartments on this penthouse floor, ready to jump at my command.

No. No such fucking luck.

I thrust the door open to our apartment, scanning the open space and coming up blank. I glanced up at the mezzanine floor and heard the shower running. The desire - no
need
- to go up there, forget about everything, bury my head in the sand - or between Lena's breasts - was all-fucking-consuming.

I shook my head and strode across the floor to the kitchen.

Arms crossed over my chest I stared the last standing Shiloh unit down.

The green light was still blinking. We still had a message. Probably Tan. I ignored it and activated the household organiser voice control. My hand was steady, my finger rock solid. My heart thumped loudly in my head.

"Good morning, Trent," Calvin Carstair's voice sounded out through the speakers.

Fucking creepy. But that wasn't the half of it...

"I wondered when you'd finally face me," he/the machine said. "I've been waiting a very long time for this."

Yeah, creepy.

The thing
was
fucking alive.

I
'd told myself
, Lena hadn't been speaking to her father when I'd eavesdrop at the door. She'd been communicating with a computer, programmed to sound like him and nothing else.

I'd told myself that a hundred times over the past six weeks.

I'd lied.

"Run system check," I said through numbed lips, clinging to the fantasy, knowing I'd have to face the reality before this little conversation was through.

"Checking," Calvin replied.

The green light flashed rhythmically. My heartbeat matched its rapid pace. I ran a hand over my damp brow and stared down at the black grime that coated it. Rolling my head on my shoulders I gave the lounge and the spiral staircase a quick glance and prepared to get on and fucking do this.

Before Lena came back down.

"Check complete," Calvin advised.

I let a long breath of air out, trying to release any pent up frustration with it.

Didn't work.

The waiting message was the only warning on the screen. The device was offline. No way to have been pinged. Isolated. Contained. Just a computer maintaining environmental and security controls throughout the penthouse floor.

I reached forward and pressed the screen to expand the information. Checking all the apartments on the floor were locked down, making sure our armoury and safe-room were intact. Paul had completed the stocktake and entered it into the system. We had minimal gear. Enough tech to steal whatever we damn well liked from wherever we damn well pleased, courtesy of Lena. And a small number of knives, stun guns, compact explosives, and even a couple of Wánragěi; straight edged swords taken from the National Museum. Not only Shiloh's mainframe had been left in those dark hallways beneath the ground.

I let another fortifying breath of air out and crossed my arms over my chest.

The Shiloh unit blinked back at me. Calvin silent.

Just a computer. Nothing more. Waiting on a command. Simple. Straight forward.

"Access Net," I instructed.

"Global Net acquired," Calvin replied instantly.

I felt my blood pressure lessen. Just a high powered, lightning fast computer. Nothing more.

"Search for feeds pertaining to the Pherres incident this morning."

"Searching."

"Locate Masked reference. Compile."

The light blinked. I scratched at the stubble along my jaw. Then walked to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. My throat was still parched, despite downing two bottles in the van on the way back here.

"Thirty-three references," Calvin replied over my shoulder. To be expected. I shut the fridge door. "Thirty on the Wánměi Net. Three on the Global."

The bottle of water stopped as it reached my lips. I didn't drink. Turning back to the device, I stalked closer. The green light blinked merrily. My heart missed a beat.

"Where on the Global Net?"

"Searching," Calvin replied. Then immediately, "Source blocked."

"Can you unblock it?" I asked, then shook my head. "No! Don't do that." Giving SMII that sort of free rein could be disastrous. I'd have to have Si take charge of anything as delicate as that.

"Go offline," I said, my thoughts tumbling.

"Offline," Calvin agreed.

"What do the newsfeeds say about the Masked?" I asked, chancing another sip of water. "Read headlines."

"Masked Crusaders," Calvin started. "New Saviour Caste. Who Are These Masked Men?" The list went on with similar questions to those we'd thrown about the tech-room, but one did stand out. "Explosion In Wánměi: City-State In Disarray With Masked Citizens Running Amok."

"Stop! What feed said that?"

"Unable to acquire source."

I felt my body fall back against the kitchen bench, the bottle of water forgotten beside me. It took a second for my brain to catch up with my mouth. But not before I said aloud, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Clearly," Calvin said, as if the question had been posed to him, "Someone overseas is watching us carefully."

A chill raced down my spine. So many different reasons why my body had suddenly gone from hot and sticky to fucking frozen and damp. I honed in on the one most immediate.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, Trent," the machine replied, "The feed originated on the Global Net."

"No," I said shaking my head. "I get that. Why do
you
say it. You're a fucking machine."

"And I am extrapolating the answer to your question from information gathered in the search you desired."

Shiloh had never talked like that.

"You're just a machine."

"Yes," Calvin agreed pleasantly.

Just a machine. A computer.

"But if you ask my opinion, I will give it," the machine added.

"Your opinion?"

"Ask. I need a command."

My chest ached with the need to breathe. I sucked in a lungful of air, scrubbed my face with shaking hands, and stared the device on the wall down.

"Are you a new programme? Something more advanced than even Shiloh?"

"Not the command I was expecting," Calvin admitted. "But the answer is yes."

"When did he write you?"

"When did who write me?"

"Calvin Carstairs," I all but ground out between clenched teeth.

"I am Calvin Carstairs," the machine replied.

I started laughing. "No you're fucking not."

"How can you be sure?" the machine asked in all seriousness.

"Because he's fucking dead," I snapped back.

The computer remained silent.

This was lunacy. Clearly Calvin had written this sub-programme and buried it deep in SMII. Knowing that the device needed to blend in with Shiloh's normal code or be spotted. Once Lena shut down Shiloh's mainframe for good, then the sub-programme rose to the surface.

We had a new Shiloh called Calvin.

Fuck. No wonder Lena spoke for hours to this thing.

I was tempted.
Fuck
was I tempted. I'd only heard snippets of her conversations with the device, and nothing had indicated the dialogue was suspect. But then, had Lena really known I wasn't listening? Nothing got past Lena Carr. Maybe she curbed her tongue. Maybe the fucking machine did too. When they both knew I was listening.

I wanted to ask.
What do you talk about with Lena?
But was that going a step too far? Invading her privacy, checking up on her like a wayward child. I couldn't do it.

But I wanted to.

Instead I said, "What's your opinion, Calvin?"

"On what, Trent?" the fucking machine replied.

"On the new Masked caste and Global Net reference to them."

The light blinked green.

Then, "That is two commands," Calvin pointed out. "Command one: I have no opinion on the Masked, save to say I believe they are a new caste. Castes are created when the need to define social orders is required. No society is without varying levels of social order. This new division has been created by the people. Not by the government. Therefore it is a social order arrived at a time of public need."

What the fuck?

"Command two," he said. "Interest in our nation from those outside its former borders has always been known. Trades have ceased, that interest is now economically motivated. Tie in the fact that our Net is no longer sat-locked, and we have no control over satellite coverage, then knowledge of this morning's events will be globally known. Therefore reference to the Masked in relation to the Pherres incident is a given."

That's it?

"My opinion on this is we must prepare for invasion, if it has not already occurred."

That chill I'd felt turned to ice.

"What do you mean, already occurred?"

"I mean, Trent, that we have no borders anymore."

"I know that," I snapped. "What makes you say we've already been invaded?"

"I didn't say that. I speculated that we may have been."

"Is there evidence?" I pushed, and God knows why I was having a conversation with a computer programme as though it was a sounding board.

I suddenly realised how easy it would be for Lena to get caught up in the moment with Calvin.

"Searching."

Great, we were back to straight-up computer and nothing else. I almost missed the wise cracks.

"Four weeks ago the Masked appeared on our streets," Calvin suddenly said, green light blinking steadily and not giving a warning that he was about to talk. With humans you get a cue. With a souped-up artificially intelligent computer you took the hits as they came at you.

I let the hastily sucked in breath out, thankful Calvin was just a machine and didn't have eyebrows to raise at me.

"We could assume their arrival is coincidence," he added.

"But you don't think so," I guessed.

"No," the computer, which I had just asked what it "thought", said. I wasn't sure who was crazier. Me for entertaining this thing. Or Calvin Carstairs for creating it.

"Well?" I pressed, because I'd come this far, I might as well go all in.

"If we look at the state of the nation at the time," Calvin offered, bringing up images of Wánměi post revolution, and cycling through newsfeed headings as the weeks passed. "Disorder was the most prevalent state of being."

"Chaos," I offered.

"Yes," Calvin agreed. "History tells us," he went on, changing the images and headlines on the vid-screen to those pertaining to Wánměi's infancy, "that some form of order is required for people to band together. Times of need do create a sense of heightened camaraderie, but castes such as those we are witnessing develop now, only ever came about when nations are more settled. Some form of organised advertisement or propaganda needs to be used to obtain full societal coverage."

"What if it's just a fashion statement?" I murmured.

The vid-screen image changed to a shot of the Pherres; footage, I realised. Then the lens turned to show those people around it.

Masked. But also in amongst the Masked were normal Citizens. Not wearing masks, but with white blonde hair, like Lena's. The new post Zebra look.

"That doesn't mean..." I started, and the footage flickered. A second boom sounded out, cries of shock joining it, the device shook as the person holding it started to stammer.

"Wh...where are they going?
" he said, the camera imagery became unfocused; the man controlling it must have been shaking like a leaf.

But you could still see that the only people standing beside him now were normal Free Wánměi Citizens. A lot with white blonde hair. But none wearing masks.

Up ahead, as he zoomed the shaking lens in, you could see the Masked running towards the yellow-orange flames and mushroom cloud rising above it. They moved like highly trained Cardinals. They dashed across the street, and leapt obstacles without hesitation. The light of the explosion glinting off the jewels in their masks.

"Had this been a fashion statement," Calvin announced, "then we would expect some percentage of those compelled to offer aid to have white hair and no masks."

"But they don't."

"No," Calvin agreed. "A caste is a social class, but it can also be a social status. A name given to a group of people at a particular time indicating their role in society."

I stared at the screen, watching the blurry images of masked men and women stream towards mayhem without a single thought for themselves. Just like Lena. Just like Alan and Paul and all those water vase wielding impromptu fire fighters. Just like me.

But one thing was different between those on the screen right now and those I'd seen at ground zero.

None of our lot had worn a single mask.

"And what, do you think, is their role?" I finally asked.

"Searching."

I shook my head, then had a thought.

"Where did you find this recording, Calvin?"

"Wánměi Net," he replied, the green light indicating he was still searching for an answer to my last question.

"How come Si didn't find it?" I thought aloud.

"Because it was removed from the Net less than five minutes after it had been uploaded."

I frowned.

"Unable to find an answer to your command," Calvin suddenly advised. "Without access to the Net I am inadequately empowered to ascertain the role of the Masked."

Good to know the bloody machine didn't simply go online when it liked it.

I cocked my head, my mind whirring.

"So how did you find that recording?"

The green light blinked, then Calvin replied, "I was commanded to monitor all available channels at the time of the crisis."

"All available channels?" I queried, my gut plummeting.

"Yes." That meant the device had been online even before Si flicked the switch.

And Si hadn't noticed.

Or...

"Did Simon give the order?" I'd fucking give him a dressing down if he did. Just because he thought the machine was ingenious, did not mean he could play with it whenever he liked. There were avenues of command in this place. Damn it!

"No," Calvin advised. "Not by Simon Richards."

Huh. Then...

"By me," Lena's voice sounded out from over my shoulder.

I spun around and stared at her, mouth open, mind blank.

Ah, fucking hell. Guess I'd be giving that dressing down to Lena instead of Si.

Not
a welcoming thought.