258
Countdown to Extinction
Jennifer E. Kirk
DS Press
Countdown to Extinction
A DS Press Book
ISBN: 0 954 24551 2
ISBN13: 978 0 9542 4551 1
First Published 2002
Second Edition 2006
Reprinted with corrections 2008
Copyright © Jennifer E. Kirk 2002
Cover design ©2008 Zoë Robinson & Jennifer E. Kirk
The right of Jennifer E. Kirk to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections
77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Conditions of Sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way
of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise
circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Published by DS Press
Bolton
BL7 9YA
Countdown
to
Extinction
By Jennifer E. Kirk
©2002 All rights reserved
Also by Jennifer E. Kirk:
Books:
Homo Superior
Countdown to Extinction
Syndicate Dawn
Daytrippers
Orb of Arawaan
The Atlantic Connection
Bringing home the stars
Short Stories:
On the radio
Loneliness of the long distance trucker
Nightmare on privy row
Spacebar
The booth
Electric Jihad
Three, my lucky number
Betrayer of worlds
Double the double cross
Bringing home the stars
The walls have ears
Spending a Penny
War Survivor
Visit Jennifer E. Kirk online at:
http://www.jennifer-kirk.com
Part 1
Off-World
No Credit, Man
"No credit man," chuckled Rob, as Koyaté checked his pockets forlornly, "You know how it is."
"I know. I believe that in my haste to get here I have left my wallet at my lodgings. A most inconvenient mistake on my behalf I must add."
Rob giggled offering the joint he had just lit across. Koyaté waved it away.
"No time, my friend. As much as I might like to, there is not much time to travel across the sector this night, and back. If I stay for one I may be too tempted to stay for many. Perhaps when I return."
"Sure. Just be sure you hurry. I can't reserve any of the new batch for you if there's a rush."
A smile was exchanged. There was never the rush he talked about, but it was part of the talk people came to expect.
Rob returned to the joint, savouring its every texture and feel as the smoke gently drifted into the already smoky air. Never had there been a day when this room had not known smoking to occur. In the ethereal dive of the dope deal, every self-respecting customer stopped for at least one for the road. It was part of the unspoken, unwritten etiquette of the lore.
The man gathered up his long grey coat from the chair, upon which it had only just so recently been draped, ready for the long and tiresome round trip that was ahead.
"So long, my friend. I shall return as soon as is possible. Until then, I am sure that you will find ways to pass the time."
The joint dipped in solemn acknowledgement.
"Maybe then, we shall be able to talk a little and relax. The days are short, and time has become too precious."
The door shuddered shut on the smoky room. Listening to the receding footsteps in the dank outside corridor, Rob settled into a comfortable position on the floor, joint in hand.
And that was Rob
Thick tack smoke billowed lazily into the air from the bong. When a new supply came in, Rob was the man who always took the first toke of the batch. The way he saw it, there was a reputation of sorts riding on the quality of the merchandise, and hell; he had paid for it. What was one little toke? The trouble with Rob was that one toke often turned into a hard afternoon's smoking session with several quarters going up in smoke. But it kept Rob happy, and that was the main thing.
If he had been in it just for the money, he would never have started touching the stuff. The dealing was just a way to pay the bill for the next batch. True, he never used the harder stuff, though only a fool would. Rob didn't discriminate between users however. If they wanted hard, they got the hardest they desired. In his own philosophy, PCNBA was the only way to fly, except Rob was a strict non-flyer.
The bong gurgled again. The tack pellets, ground into the gauze, glowed hard and strong in the subdued light of the room. Blue-grey smoked climbed hard to the yellowed discoloured ceiling. Rob's meagre flat was a testament to the heavy smoker.
An obligatory ethnic oriental rug covered what had once been a carpet, but whose original colour had long been lost in the mists of time. Piles of ash and débris hid whatever pattern might be left amongst the thousand strands of shredded tobacco and torn up Rizla paper.
Somewhere in the corner, water dripped and splashed over the mound of dirty plates in fetid water. A fly buzzed lazily trapped between the closed curtains and the glass. It was probably too stoned to care, given Rob had been exhaling smoke into this room non-stop for best part of six hours.
The gurgling of the bong stopped, as his lungs could take no more. Stone faced and full of mellow calm, he held the breath for as long as he could, patiently shifting the wooden tube from side to side between his kneeled legs as he listened to the steady click of a clock hidden amongst the clutter.
A clear thirty seconds passed before the smoke plumed high again. Then a lighter flared, and he was ready for another toke - there was still life left in this run for at least one more. Water gurgled some more.
* * * *
From the road outside, the apartment block looked derelict, already abandoned in the great push to travel off-world and leave this kind of squalor behind. Connolly knew different. Here he would find the one who would tell them what they needed to know, to answer the questions of the informant, the man that was leaking the secrets of the organisation to the world. He would be made to pay for his double-cross, but first he had to be found.
Stepping his way carefully around the broken down wooden boarding that may have once sealed the entrance lobby permanently from the outside world, he made his way slowly to the inside of Rob's world. Rob, the man with the gift, or so Connolly had been told. A man who could talk with anyone like they were a deep friend; a way that was guaranteed to let a person get to hear more than they could otherwise have had over a quiet smoke.
That was the gift he was here to tap. A gift that had at some point in time snared without them knowing it the man who had leaked all from the Syndicate.
The staircase was thick with dirt and damp mould laden grime, but there was still an easily identifiable path to follow, worn clear by the countless numbers who had made the divine pilgrimage to this flat, to stock up on mind bending body rending hippy-trippy bullshit.
Reaching the third landing he made his way down the badly lit corridor. Finding the flat wasn't hard; he just followed the path where a thousand stoned footsteps had tread before. At least here several bulbs still glowed in bent and tarnished lamp brackets; a godsend in the darkened gloom.
Rob's flat was the third one in, though Connolly noted that the previous two flats had heavily barred and locked doors on them. If the rumours were true, Rob was attributed to growing the best and most mind expanding weed for at least three hundred miles around. The punters didn't care about the other rumours; those about what he used to fertilise his growing crop.
Reaching up to rap on the dirty wood, he thought better of it last minute, remembering he had been told only the uninitiated like the Police bothered to knock, giving Rob more than enough time he needed to go defensive. Serious custom just walked itself straight on inside for business.
* * * *
Rob looked up as the door swung open on the meagre room. Giving the black clothed stranger no more than a cursory glance up and down, he never bothered to break his steady inhalation through the bong. Newcomers were always welcome as long as they followed the rules. Rule one was never expect a serious smoker to interrupt his prime consideration.
Unfazed, Connolly stepped inside, and sat himself down on the one and only chair in the room, in front of a small desk. The flat door slid soundlessly shut behind him.
"I've come for some gear," he began, looking the skinny longhaired hippy up and down.
The bong continued to gurgle. He felt obliged to add an explanation in the time he figured he had.
"One of your regulars recommended your name. I've been having trouble with a few casual suppliers. He said I should come to you. Apparently you're the best there is."
He noted the smile flicker on the hippie's face as the bong was put down, and the breath was held in. It was a smile of pride - the reputation had spread some more.
He waited patiently, taking in the limited sights of the room whilst the hippie took in the rush. At last smoke plumed, and Rob gasped.
"You've come to the right place then my friend, I assure you. Whatever way you choose to fly, I can supply the wings to the finest standards."
Before the last embers had flickered out, Rob was tipping them from the gauze into a convenient brimming ashtray.
"So what can I do you for."
"Ounce of green," he replied flatly, "And perhaps a little of your time for a smoke and a chat."
"All part of the service," giggled the hippy, "Pass the block of gear across will you? It's there on the table beside you."
He looked round, and spied a generous block of dark brown resin wrapped in shrink-wrap. Where the plastic had been peeled back, a hunk had already been removed, revealing the glassy green inside of the block.
"That's the bunny," Rob was saying, "pass the whole lot across on the board."
The 'board' was actually an old vinyl LP. Some trippy folky shit that had long since lost all vogue with anyone other than the tripped out beatniks. It felt like the disk inside was still intact as he passed it over to the eagerly receiving hands, but he doubted Rob knew what to do with it. Even he only had the vaguest of vague memories of what the playback equipment looked like, such was its obsolescence, though it was true to say some still got pressed somewhere for a hardcore who found them the be all and end all of wacky rolling boards.
Rob accepted the offering with great glee, immediately beginning the now well rehearsed process of refilling the gauze. His lighter flared as he heated the material to soften it.
Connolly watched with a sudden interest. If truth were known, he hadn't actually ever seen this done before.
"It's good shit this time," Rob was saying, "The finest Marrakech pure resin. I got it in only this morning, and can well recommend it. Better than my usual home grown, even if I say so myself."
Connolly's mind cast back to the locked doors he had seen outside in the corridor. There had been an odd narcotics smell, but he had at the time put it down to the emissions from this room. Now he realised that the smell had been too pure, too sweet and uncontaminated to be anything other than fresh growing plants.
"I'll stick with the ounce of green anyway, thanks."
It might be too easy to become side-tracked, he thought.
Rob reached under the bed with a free hand, and produced a loose bag from the clutter.
"Suit yourself, each to their own vices!"
From his hangdog looks, it certainly looked as though he had more than a few of them. Rob spooned a couple of handfuls of green plant débris onto a set of small brass scales, and shuffled fragments and weights back and forth. Happy at last, he tipped the green up into a clear plastic bag, sealing it airtight along the top, and handed it across.
"I take it your friend told you the damage?”
Connolly smiled, pocketing the bag, and taking out credit.
"The best gear at the best prices."
"Kind of a motto for me! No credit for anyone," giggled Rob, taking the card before turning his full attention back to the bong,
"Help yourself to baccy, man. There's plenty somewhere on the table."
His lighter flared and the bong started to gurgle. It was the obligatory social time that Rob reserved for all his clientele. From the look of it, Connolly knew he had a clear thirty seconds to start steering the conversation his way. It was also as well to get to work on a spliff - it wasn't good form to keep the entire bag to himself, and anyway he wouldn't mind letting Rob smoke some of it back – he was already despising the sickly smell of the stuff.
Brushing aside empty Rizla packets and brimming ashtrays he found a bag that looked as though it contained at least some tobacco. He held it up in question; the beatnik waved him on. Picking the LP from the floor, he set to work, retrieving the bag from his pocket.
"Roll it like a normal roll-up," his mentor on the subject of narcotics at the Syndicate had said, "Doing it any other way would make you look like a prat."
With un-faked concentration he laid out a paper from amongst the rubbish, and started work, slow and deliberate. Roll it too fast, and he might actually find himself having to smoke it.
On the floor, Rob exhaled with a contented sigh. The bong was offered across, but waved away.
"Suit yourself."
It gurgled again for another thirty second go.
* * * *
Two men, dressed in dark Jeans and shirts that let them meld seamlessly into their surroundings picked their way over the broken down boarding at the doorway.
Rain had already begun to sluice down from the heavens, light at first but steadily faster. In the short time it had taken to get from the corner of the sector gates to the run down block their clothes had turned even darker with moisture.
In the shelter of the darkened lobby they stopped for a moment to take stock of their surroundings, welcoming the chance to be out of the weather. From somewhere higher up, water could be heard, dripping in a stair well from one of the many glassless windows.
Noting the clear path winding up one staircase, the pair first checked other rubbish filled corridors for evidence of passage before taking the steps to the next floor.
There was no rush for them yet.
* * * *
"I wonder if you knew what actually went on with the Matthius Syndicate? I hear some of their top men were regular clients of yours."
Rob exhaled, "I hear they got took over."
Connolly sensed it would be an uphill task. He would have to phrase his words carefully. A calculated smile crossed his lips.
"I heard the same. I also heard they got screwed in the deal."
"Maybe."
"My friend tells me you know all your customers pretty well. I just wondered what you might have heard from them, that's all."
"In this city, it's wise to keep what your clients say to yourself. Talking your mouth off could get you killed."
The beatnik was getting wind of trouble. The friendly socialising air was rapidly retreating under a harder more cautious edge. Even with the huge amounts of drugs he had consumed, Rob was wiser than to divulge secrets that easily.
Connolly took his gaze off the bum as he concentrated a moment to roll his joint.
"My friend told me how he thinks they got word they were being screwed. I don't know whether you know, put it seems the ministry somehow got word to them. Seems odd in my mind how the ministry would know?"
"Maybe."
Rob kept his attention on refilling the bong.
"They say you supplied Matthius with his stash."
"I supplied lots of people, I don't remember all the names."
"But you supplied Matthius, right?"
"Maybe, who knows?"
"My friend tells me you did."
Finishing the roll-up, Connolly glued the edges down and banged it a couple of times end down on the LP cover to settle the tobacco.
"Sounds like your friend talks too much for his own good," said Rob curtly.
He passed a lighter across out of instinctive reaction, "Guessing like that, and blabbing it around can get you killed in this town."
Connolly accepted the lighter.
"Wise words."
The lighter flared. Connolly tried not to choke.
"I'm prepared to talk to all who come here, and it may be the case that they say much about many things. But there exists in the relationship of buyer and seller the trust that all said goes no further."
Connolly felt his eyes starting to water as he replied. This was not going according to plan.
"The word is you might have sold information to somebody. You're the link in the chain that can be traced. Stands to reason you might know more than you're telling."
Rob eyed him suspiciously.
"You never did tell me who your friend was."
Connolly smiled. From outside in the corridor, he heard the scrunch of footsteps in the dirt. The reinforcements had arrived on time. He pulled an ashtray to the edge of the table, and stubbed the newly lit joint out.
"No, I didn't."
Rob looked his visitor up and down in a new light, sensing the danger, only too late. A hand stole back to under the bed, grasping for the firearm that he kept strapped to the underside of the slats.
A pistol appeared in Connolly's hands.
"Not so fast, wise guy. It's time you and I got down to some serious talking. And this time, I'm going to be wanting to hear all the answers."
The flat door shuddered open and two new arrivals stepping in. Connolly didn't bother to look round, gauging the effectiveness of the entry by the look in Rob's eyes.
"These two are with me. They're here to help you remember things, and certainly not to buy weed."
The door clicked shut, closing the only possible escape route, as the two Assassins stepped forward across the room, and hauled Rob upright. A well-aimed kick sent the bong skimming away into the shadows.
From under the bed, Connolly retrieved an antique sawn-off shotgun. Flicking it open, he saw it was loaded with two buckshot cartridges of indeterminate age.
"Nice antique, Rob. Ever wondered if it really works?"
The barrel levelled slowly at his groin. He squirmed uncomfortably, struggling against the iron grip of the Assassins.
"Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions, all you have to do is nod if you know the answers you think we might be interested to hear, then we can proceed in a quick and mutually beneficial way for us all."
"Mutually beneficial?" whispered Rob hoarsely.
"Yes. We get what we want, and you get to live. Now, for your starter question, did you supply Matthius with his fix?"
A nod.
"Good. Because we know you tried to make a delivery there after his untimely demise. However, you didn't realise he was dead at the time, but suspected something was wrong, yes?"
Another nod. Connolly began to pace up and down the room, the shotgun cradled in his arms as he continued.
"Did you tell anyone what you experienced?"
No response. Connolly stopped pacing, moving behind the restrained junky.
Rob felt the cold steel of the shotgun barrel pressing against his ear.
"Perhaps you didn't hear me properly. Now, I'm only going to ask the question once more. Just once. If I don't get a response, I'll assume you can't hear me very well, and may use your antique here to clean any earwax you may have inhibiting your aural pleasures. Don't tempt me Rob, I will do it.
Who did you tell? A nod will no longer suffice."
"A man. His name was Smith. He worked for Matthius," he gabbled, trying without success to pull his head away from the barrel.
"Good. Now we're getting somewhere."
* * * *
Even before he had begun to climb the damp stairs, Koyaté heard the voices that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Years on the road with one eye on his back all the time had taught him what those sounds meant. They were the sounds of trouble.
Shaking the water from his umbrella, he gently leant it to one side, and took out the gun he always carried from the shoulder holster under his coat.
* * * *
Flames flickered from under the bed. The hot embers of the upturned bong had smouldered on in the débris, and finally caught.
"Looks like your stash is burning, Rob," hissed Connolly, casting the rising smoke no more than a cursory glance, "Living in a place like this can be a real fire risk, if you know what I mean. The stuff you sell, can be quite flammable."
He gestured to one of the two Assassins, who immediately drew away to the side of the room.
"Take the rest of your stash next door, for example. Wouldn't it be a calamity if somehow it caught fire? I bet you use some really nasty chemicals to help them grow too."
The Assassin drew aside a wall hanging that adorned the time-stained wall. Behind was revealed a crudely chiselled hole through the plaster boarding into the adjacent room. Pale blue tinged light filtered through, revealing a tiny forest of green plants bathing in fluorescent light in regimental rows of growbags. Several black metal drums lined the closest wall.
Rob's ordinary accommodation might be a pigsty, but he knew how to look after his source of income.
"You promised you wouldn't!" gasped Rob, as the Assassin reached in and ripped the lid off a drum, tipping its contents across the floor.
"No. The deal was we'd let you live if we got everything we wanted. If you want anything else to survive, you'd better keep talking."
The Assassin's grip tightened further, restricting blood flow slowly.
"What else do you need to know?" he gasped, clawing desperately against the grip of the hand at his neck.
"Just stuff, Rob, you know how it is," retorted Connolly casually. He started to pace again.
Liquid in the second room gurgled as the Assassin overturned another drum.
* * * *
At the top of the stairs Koyaté could smell the burning, and the fear. Rob was in trouble. More to the point, Rob probably knew too much for safety. If it weren’t for the fact that he had heard so much in idle chatter over the last year or more, Koyaté would have left the building now without ever looking back.
But it was more than a beatnik's life on the line now. The patter of voices, one desperate, one oozing with smug control, was louder.
As he passed the locked rooms at the side of the corridor, he noted the volatile smelling liquid seeping from under one. Checking the safety was off on his gun, he reached the next door and eased it open.
* * * *
Connolly's interrogation stopped mid sentence as he noted the two Cyborg Assassins drawing their guns, ready. He was standing with his back to the door, and immediately felt a tingle run the length of his spine.
"He's busy right now. Come back later, pal."
"I never judged myself to be your 'pal' Mr. Connolly."
Turning slowly he saw the figure of a man in the gloom, gun drawn and levelled. This wasn't the bum he'd expected it to be.
"Koyaté? What the hell are you doing here."
The man glanced at the growing flames in the corner of the room.
"Like the good citizen I am, I saw smoke and came to help extinguish the flames."
"Bullshit."
"Okay, I came to acquire some of the recreational drugs you so despise, Mr. Connolly," he sighed, "So now you know, may I ask what you are doing with my supplier?"
Connolly looked at the gun, still levelled at him.
"Perhaps you'd like to put your toys away first."
The gun lowered without a word spoken. He continued with a nod of acknowledgement.
"Rob here has kindly agreed to help us with inquiries into the Syndicate's problem with a leaking of information. Before you interrupted us, he was just on the verge of giving us a name."
The shotgun levelled to Rob's chin.
"Now, you were saying Rob."
Rob’s eyes darted back and forth between Connolly and Koyaté. The gun pressed closer. Sweat started to bead and trickle down his forehead.
"I… I can't tell you, no really I can't! Christ don't shoot me!"
"And why not, Rob?"
Koyaté realised the situation. He had walked in before Rob had given him away, but only just. Perhaps it was still too late. Perhaps. He had to move fast. Rob would crack any moment, then they would both be dead.
"Perhaps I can answer that one, Mr. Connolly."
Irritated, Connolly looked round.
"Why don't you stay out of this and piss off, Koyaté."
Seeing the gun he instinctively pulled Rob out of the Assassin's grip and pulled him round to act as a shield.
Four gunshots rang out. Both Assassins reeled in shock, blood pumping from their faces. The first fell to the floor, body twitching madly in the convulsions of death. The second fell through the bed, causing the weak flames to flash up through the shattered wood and bedclothes, engulfing the body.
Connolly tried to return fire with the shotgun, but the cartridge spluttered in the barrel - a dud all this time. A well aimed fling of the useless weapon took out the light, sending the room into flickering chaos. Another shot rang out in the glow of the now rapidly growing flames.
Somewhere in the mêlée people were moving, though unclear whom. Fearing he might hit Rob, Koyaté held back, unsure of anything in the flickering glow. Feeling an arm grasp his, he fumbled for the person's neck and brought them crashing to the floor, gun pinned to their forehead.
"Hey, chill man."
The unmistakable scared voice of Rob. Looking round desperately, he caught only a glimpse of a second shadowy figure disappearing round the door jamb into the corridor he aimed the gun, too late.
"Hey, Koyaté!" came the taunting voice from the corridor, "Tell this one to your friends on the other side."
"Mr. Connolly, you have no idea how deep this goes."
"Like hell. You shopped us all to Smith, and to the ministry. Don't expect to get out of here alive."
"There's only one of you, Mr. Connolly. I already annihilated two of your Cyborgs. What makes you think you still have an edge?"
Outside in the corridor, Connolly retreated past the growing slick of oily chemicals. Pulling out his Zippo he lit it with a flick of his thumb before calling out to the still hidden occupants of the burning flat.
"It's getting chilly Koyaté. Maybe you and your friend would like a little extra warmth!"
Without waiting for an answer, he dropped the Zippo and ran. Flames curled after him.
* * * *
In the room Koyaté sensed what was going to and threw himself to the floor, pushing Rob down too. In a roar of gases so strong it smashed the window glass in one, a jet of flame lanced through the hole into the room, before momentarily receding, leaving only the searing heat blistering paint on the ceiling.
"If you wish to live, follow me and do as I do," he hissed in Rob's ear.
Coughing in the acrid smoke, the pair stumbled to the window, swinging out in adrenaline fuelled fury onto the fire escape outside. There was little time to spare before any of those other drums cooked off in the heat.
The cool air of the outside rain soaked world invited them with open arms as they gulped down grateful lung-fulls. There was no time to rest however, as flames already poured from a nearby window, sending exploring tentacles of heat racing off the brickwork.
"Shit!" exclaimed Rob, gasping for breath, "The bastard destroyed everything I had. Four month's crop of Weed gone."
An explosion rocked the building. Flames leapt high into the rain streaked night sky.
"Unless you want him to have succeeded in destroying you too, I suggest we get away from here now."
They descended the ladders to the street below, putting as much ground between themselves and the building that was well alight. A plume of sparks and smoke drifted steadily with the wind.
Soon there would be the wail of fire engine sirens, but by then it would be too late to save the decrepit block.
From a safe distance the pair watched the spreading blaze.
"What about my stuff?" demanded Rob, still in shock.
"It is all gone. This place is not safe - they will return in numbers to make sure of the damage. I will ensure your safety - I know people who will help in hiding you from their Cyborgs."
"What about you?"
"I must track down an old friend off-world, to warn him of the danger he faces, and help him escape a fate that moves towards him from today."
"Well, pal, you got more than you bargained for from today. Until such time as I get enough doe to rebuild my business, I'm coming along with you."
Koyaté looked alarmed. "No, that will not be possible."
"Like hell," he snapped back, angry now the fear had subsided,
"No way am I staying in this dump now after this. You owe me one - if I'd never met you, I wouldn't be in this shit. I wouldn't have had the three psychos pay me a visit wanting to scooping out my brains and using them as pâté. Where you go, I go."
"No," came the firm reply.
"Come on," he pleaded, "They weren't messing around tonight. Next time they'll be even more ready. We need to team up - you need help just as much as I do. And besides, I bet I'm wiser to off-world culture than you are. You need me, and you know it."
The roof of the burning block collapsed inwards with a moan of escaping air that fanned fire high into the night sky. Both gave a thankful glance in its direction. Thankful they weren't still inside.
"All right, you win," sighed Koyaté finally giving in, "But you do as I say from now on. We are up against dangerous people in a dangerous world."
"Superb!"
"Come. We will make our way to my lodgings. I cannot guarantee it as being long before they come there to search, so we must move fast, very fast."
"You the man. Let's go."
They turned their backs on the inferno, threading their way through the damp of the misty night. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, moving closer. The fire fighters were arriving, too late to save anything from the wreckage.
On the Edge
Piles of cardboard and rotting rubbish steamed in the early morning sunshine. It was no improvement on the gloom; at least that had hidden the shit.
John Goode, detective to the world - at the right price - lit up a dog-eared hand rolled cigarette, and breathed in the fetid smoke. End of the month, and still no adequate pay cheque, leaving him to economise. He hated hand rolled tobacco, but it was still one step up from rolling all the cigarette dimps from the ashtray in his office, and he'd done that before now.
Out here in the bustle of the City, there was more than enough business to keep him busy, if he could just solve some of these cases. But that was the hard part. They never made it that easy for him.
Footsteps echoed between the high walls of buildings, and John instinctively pressed himself back into the shadows of a convenient doorway. Smoke drifted in the narrow street momentarily, as the dog-end was flicked into the damp filth, half smoked and already forgotten.
The shadowed had arrived.
He watched from his seclusion as the watched man, unawares of the watcher, made his way purposefully down the street, water and muck squelching underfoot.
As the man came closer and closer, Goode realised with horror that there was a chance that he would continue straight past him. Within just a few further yards, he would be exposed. His heart beat hard in his chest, his throat feeling tighter with every step the man made. Desperately he pushed his body as far back against the doorframe as he could. Still the man advanced.
Deep down, he wished the rain and cloudy shadows that he had seen depart not more than an hour ago, would return, to provide him with a margin of cover, but it was a frantic hope.
Gravel scrunched hard and the footsteps stopped, just a few yards from his hiding place. Goode strained his ears, listening, trying to decipher the sound, not daring to chance a glance round the edge of the doorway in case his prey was looking this way.
A key rattled against the door not once, but five times in rapid succession, sounding as though they were hammering out a code rather than trying to turn a lock. Then quiet again. Water dripped from overflowing guttering on the far side of the street, masking any noise the man made as he waited for a reply.
It came after no more than a minute; gentle knocking from the other side of the next door. It was so faint, that strain as he might he could not make out the precise pattern.
Immediately the man beat out the reply; a succession of long and short pauses between four taps.
A creak and a groan of protesting wood on steel. Goode guessed, correctly, that it was the next door being opened - he hadn't been bargaining for any of this. Muffled tones drifted to him down the street, obscured to no more than noise, the detail tantalisingly indecipherable.
Another crunch of footsteps. Fearing the two were coming this way, he pressed himself hard back against the doorway, but no-one came, and no further sounds floated to him.
A minute passed by, turning to two, then to five. Still nothing. Cautiously he took a quick peek around the edge of the frame. The street was empty again.
With slightly more confidence he edged back along the wall to the next doorway where the man had been. There was no-one there now, but the heavy wooden doorway was ajar, not quite shut far enough for the deadbolt to have caught. Perhaps the sticking frame had been too much of a nuisance, or perhaps the man would be returning soon.
Either way, it was an opportunity too good to be missed. He eased open the door a little further revealing a darkened room beyond. With a final furtive look up the street, he slipped inside.
The Awakening
The hibernation booth was cold, desolate and lonely. Bright lights flickered in an instant, as the day-night cycle passed by with no sense of time to its occupant. The days stretched to weeks and then to months. Physical scars healed and disappeared, but deep down and suppressed from the banks of monitoring computers, and legions of technicians, the emotional wounds simmered, held back and repressed for now, but forever to haunt the sub-conscious of the machine. Secret, and away from the true beliefs of those who perceived themselves to be the masters in the comfortable world they had built for themselves on the shifting sands.
* * * *
First technician Drew looked up from his white computer console as the footsteps echoed closer down the hall. In a half-moment of calm that precedes the storm, he had time to size up the approaching man, and take in the sublime of his detail. In the brilliant white clinical cleanness of the facility, his dark clothes made him stand out all the more. But there was something deep and hidden, beyond the protective emotional screen of those dark glasses he wore that worried the technician. For this was a man approaching who had already said all that needed to be said in the time taken to approach his desk, and in less than any words.
The Stranger came to a halt in front of the laminated wood, reaching up slowly to remove those glasses, and reveal the chilling coldness of the eyes hidden beyond.
Drew shivered, despite the warmth of the corridor. There was something threatening in that stare, though he fought the urge to look away.
"I've come for the girl," said the Stranger flatly, folding the glasses and slipping them into a pocket without shifting his gaze.
Another shudder ran down his spine. Routine forced a response.
"I'll need to see some ID."
A Palmtop appeared instantly on the desk, projected its blue-tinged transparent information for the benefit of the Technician. Drew scanned the lines of shimmering text, then glanced back up at the man.
"And a retina scan," he added.
He gestured to the console set into the wall behind.
"Just put your forehead to the plate, it won't take long."
Drew half expected those eyes to flash like lasers at such a request, but the Stranger fixed him in his gaze barely a second longer, before turning as directed.
He typed quickly on the quirky old-fashioned seven-key pad on his desk, relieved that he had momentarily escaped the gaze. On the other side of the corridor, the retina scan flashed complete, and the stranger turned back to wait the few seconds the results would take.
Drew scanned the holo display. Several more reams flashed through in hazy succession. The man was clean.
"Okay, you got a clearance code and authorisation. Follow me."
He slipped a keycard from under the desk, and led the stranger a few yards down the corridor where a heavy duty blast-proof door blocked the way. Trying to ignore the stranger's watching eye, he slipped the keycard to the slot, and pressed his left hand to the palm scanner. A light flashed momentarily before pinging to green and the blast door slid soundlessly away from them.
Without a word, he led the Stranger through into the icy cold of the room beyond. Around their feet swirled an almost transparent mist of water vapour, condensing out from the air of the corridor they had left.
Less than a dozen small clinical white booths lined one wall, each no more than phone booth sized, and dangling with arrays of electrodes and monitoring panels. All but one were empty, waiting for the time an occupant might come.
The last was different. Instead of its panels being silent, with no power, this one held a steady Christmas tree of blinking lights and a lone occupant, still and silent, eyes closed in the monotony of hibernation.
"Here's the girl."
He tapped up a set of vital signs on the adjacent read out.
"Everything normal, signs show perfect and within all acceptable parameters. No problems in storage, and the healing is complete and full as far as all tests will show."
"Time will tell."
Drew shuddered, though not because of the cold. He typed again quickly at the panel, the tree of lights blinking to green all the way down. A computer terminal across the room buzzed into life, and he turned to it without pause, tapping information to the touch screen.
"Re-animation will take a few moments to complete. She's been out of it for a while; we got told to put her through a complete shut down when she came in. It wasn't usual but the orders came on down with full authorisation from the top."
The Stranger turned back to look the girl up and down. Considering her thin top and regulation issue trousers, he could not perceive any signs that the cold was affecting her.
"When the orders come down from above, it is wise not to question, but to do," he said flatly. He turned back to Drew who continued keying.
"Did she have any interaction with personnel when she came?"
The technician looked up, uncomfortable.
"No. The technical crew that brought her processed everything. None of the regular technical team were involved."
"Good."
Another icy silence. Drew felt the need to say something, anything, just to ease the tension.
"She's an Assassin, isn't she?"
Instantly he regretted saying what he had said, as the Stranger's words became even colder.
"You are not paid to think, you are paid to do. It is unwise in the line of work you have chosen to do anything further. Assassin or no Assassin, those that ask no questions are told no lies and those that don't heed that advice may find themselves wishing they had kept their thoughts to themselves.
Her story has no concern to you or any other. Do I make myself clear?"
Sweat trickle down the hapless man's back.
"Perfectly clear."
"Excellent. There are ways of dealing with employees who get too inquisitive. Just pray you do not become of that select and unlucky band."
He left the threat hanging in the air, as he turned his attention back to the girl.
Drew continued typing, a new sense of urgency impressed upon his mind.
"Just a few more moments, and the computer will complete the process."
He turned to watch.
"How much longer?" inquired the Stranger.
"She's been in full hibernation for several months. It takes at least half an hour for the full process. I'll need to bring the medical team in for the last stages of revival."
He reached for a Comm link, but the Stranger stopped him.
"That will not be necessary."
"But…?"
The eyes flashed their warning. There was no sense in arguing.
The girl’s hands, limp and by her side until now, began to twitch. A flicker behind her eyelids indicated a return of higher conscious levels.
Drew eyed the readouts critically.
"She needs medical attention," he pleaded, "I can't be held responsible if she dies as a result of your insistence to keep this quiet."
Another icy stare.
"First Technician, I trust you were paying attention to what I have already told you. As you said yourself, she is an Assassin. If you do not do as you are instructed, then I will see to it that you will be reassigned to a job role within the company that will bring you closer than you would ever wish to their kind."
A frantic nod of reply. Sweat trickled on Drew's back.
"Good."
The Stranger returned his attention to the girl. Slowly her eyes flickered open, and her probing newly awoken gaze surveyed the room in front of her and the two men.
A curl of vapour appeared and disappeared from her nostrils, and her chest began rising and falling in rhythm. Reaching up slowly, she brushed aside electrode pads from her arms, and stepped with a moment of uncertainty from the booth.
The Stranger gave her a look up and down.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Lily."
She nodded a curt silent reply, and the Stranger turned back to the Technician.
"Show us the way out."
* * * *
The blast door gently swung shut behind them, closing off the view to the room that had been her unknown home for too long. Passing Drew's desk, the Stranger stopped only to retrieve his Palmtop, before he and the girl continued to the end of the corridor, and were gone.
At last Drew breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into his chair. Trying to banish the thoughts of what he had witnessed, he attempted to get back to the lobotomy that was his work.
One thing still bothered him - no medical attention. The girl had just opened her eyes, took a breath, and stepped out. Assassins weren't quite human, and thoroughly illegal, but that act still defied logic.
The Stranger's harsh warning continued ringing in his mind. He was paid to work, not think. It was one experience that would not, could not be shared.
Three, my Lucky Number
The Martian sub-tunnels stretched out at right angles to each other, straight and level as far as the eye could see. Lining their sides, from the stark concrete roadway to the steady gentle curve of the top of the arch, rose the columns of gaudy flashing neon lights, advertising the wares and fayre of the cafés and club-bars. Like snaking serpents of multi-coloured skin, the sidewalks bustled with a billion people of a million cultures rolled into one in the ultimate transgressing urban society.
The newcomers mingled through the crowd, silent to the jovial masses. Lily, the girl, followed in the Stranger's footsteps.
"Connolly, I'm hungry," she said at last, having to lean over to his ear to catch his attention over the thousand sounds of the crowd.
He stopped and looked at her, unsure. Finally his uncertainty vanished, sense working to his mind - of course she had been asleep for many months. Didn't animals on Earth come out of hibernation looking for food too?
He sighed, looking around for a convenient fast-food bar to grab a bite. "Okay, but let's not make it too long."
The girl nodded, and he sensed a look of thankful relief cross her face. Then she turned and was gone into the pulsating crowd, leaving him desperately to push his way after her.
Suddenly the crowd melted away, and he found himself at the bar of a Thai eatery. The smell of hot oil and frying vegetables washed over him as he squeezed onto a bar stool at the counter next to Lily, who was already ordering dishes from the gnarled waiter behind.
"I hope you've got credit to pay with?" she said with a smile.
Connolly pulled out his wallet, flicking through the cards.
"Enough," he smiled, for the first time.
"You wanna food meesta?" inquired the waiter brandishing his oily pad.
He glanced over the dog-eared menu on the bar, figuring it would beat watching the girl eating like some hanger on. He couldn't understand a word of the archaic text and flicked it along the bar top.
"Chicken? You do chicken?"
The Waiter nodded furiously.
"Yesa meesta. Lovely sauce, lotta lovely sauce."
"No, just Chicken. No Sauce."
"Okay meesta, you no a-worry."
Connolly got the impression the gnarled man didn't fully understand English as he watched him disappear into the kitchens behind. Through the swinging door he caught sight of the Chef, cigarette in mouth in the filthiest yellowed grease-soaked clothes imaginable hacking at raw meat with a cleaver.
For a moment the thought struck him that eating here might not have been such a good idea.
"How long have I been frozen?" Lily asked, pouring a glass of water from a jug and sipping.
Frozen was the off-world slang for long-term hibernation.
"Several months," he replied in a tone that hinted further discussion was not wanted.
She ignored the implication and continued, "A lot happened since I went in?"
"Stuff."
"What stuff?"
"Julius still has his aspirations. Off world, the company has been building up its legitimate assets. Refineries, heavy metals. The usual."
"Oh."
She poured water from the jug into a second glass, sliding it in front of him.
"I feel like there's something you're avoiding telling me. Perhaps a little drink will help you loosen up."
He pushed it back, avoiding the look from her eyes.
"It'll take more than water to do that."
She signalled for a waiter.
"We've got time for a Beer. I may be an Assassin, but I'm not as stupid as a regular computer. Whilst I've been out here frozen, there's been some heavy debate over whether or not you should have ever thawed me out of hibernation I'll bet."
Connolly remained silent as the waiter arrived, and Lily broke off to order two Beers. Unwittingly she had hit closer to the truth than could be imagined.
* * * *
As the waiter brought the bottles and their food, conversation resumed, slowly.
"Julius had a change of heart. Nothing Dreyka or I could say would change his mind," he began, picking at the Chicken that predictably had arrived covered in a coconut and ginger sauce,
"You've guessed I don't like your kind, but until Julius can be persuaded otherwise, we've got to work together. But you already know all that from the mainframe. That's something else that is wrong - computers shouldn't band together like that. Sooner or later it will be the end of us real people."
He flicked a spoonful of sauce to the floor.
"Homo Sapiens has been out evolved," she snapped, stirring rice, "Homo Superior is the result, and I represent that stage of the circle."
"Not as long as we can help it. Dreyka will monitor your performance. He has the means to remote shut you down the moment you try anything that isn't in the script."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
"Don't play dumb. That's something else I dislike about you. You know everything in advance. Between you and your remote link up to the mainframe, there isn't anything you don't know about the Syndicate."
"Perhaps," she purred sweetly, "But perhaps not."
He took another slug of Beer.
"Beats me why you bother talking like this. Did they do something to you whilst you were in hibernation? I've never known you to talk this much."
"Just being friendly, that's all."
"You! Friendly! Never heard that one before, "he snorted, reaching for his bottle again.
"Also there's the little matter that this time I don't know quite everything I would like."
A pause. The bottle hung motionless at his lips, a sixth sense bristling - there was something not right, something she knew that he didn't - or was it so?
"Go on."
"It's only worth talking to find out information you don't already know. There's a lock on certain areas of the mainframe that some-one's put in to stop me from remote accessing a whole bunch of files to do with me. Whoever put the codes in was good - I can't break them remotely, so I thought I'd get the information out of you."
She raised a bottle to her lips, smiling.
"Thankyou. It's been most informative in its own little way."
A pang of fear. Knowledge that the machine had had an agenda, and had won.
"You really didn't know?" he ventured, hope fast fading.
"No."
Another moment to worry in as he watched her eat. Questions formed in his mind, unsure of whether to be said.
"So, how much did I tell you that you didn't know?"
Frantically he tried to recall the wording of the conversation.
"Enough."
He took another slug of Beer. The thought crossed his mind that maybe she was bluffing. But for what reason he did not know. He hated the machines.
"Nothing else to say?"
"No."
She stopped chewing for a moment, as if thinking perhaps that he deserved at least some explanation, however minor.
"There is nothing left that I wish to find out. Therefore I feel little need to say more. You said yourself you do not like me or any of my kind, and frankly I understand why. If I had been given the choice, I would never have wished to have become one. But that choice was never offered, and it is not possible to regress back to the way I was before. So I must continue. Be assured the feeling you have towards me is reciprocated by me about you."
With that she returned to the remnants of her meal, the conversation at an implied end.
He chose not to pursue matters further, returning to the food, though it had lost all appeal and he found himself merely picking at the food, the power of the organic machine that sat alongside making him feel uneasy.
Edge of Nowhere
The information given by his lead had been right. This was the place they had spoken of, that they suspected existed.
Carefully he slid a digibox from a pocket, careful not to let it catch on any loose material. One glance around the complex of rooms opening off satisfied him that there was nobody to discover his presence. The camera began its work recording it all.
They had asked for all that he could get, and this was enough. The equipment set out before him was the best that Cyborgenics could demand. Whoever the man worked for, they were not shy of investment in the illegal.
As the digibox clicked, he idly wondered what organisation could afford to bankroll such a broad development. Hearing the steady patter of approaching footsteps, he told himself it was not his concern to speculate. If he was caught in here however, he knew everything would be over for good. There would be no stopping people who had the audacity to run such an operation. With enough laws broken already, they would not think twice before breaking more to safeguard their interests.
The back door was still ajar as he came upon it in a hurry. The footsteps were far behind him, but he did not risk stopping to listen. He was certain that they had not heard him, or suspected their lab had just been photographed, but nonetheless decided it would be prudent to leave.
The key to being a good freelance investigator for money was to know when a welcome had been outstayed.
Outside once more in the cover offered by the damp alley, he began to relax a little, the digibox already safely hidden back under his coat. Nothing left to fulfil the client's brief, it was time to make contact and pass over the information gleaned.
* * * *
Deep in the depths of the building, the technicians returned to their work, unaware that their secret domain had been witnessed to an unannounced and deeply unwelcome visitor. When the doorway to the back alleys was eventually discovered ajar, the thoughtful person who had gone for a quick smoke merely did what he believed right and fastened it shut.
It never occurred to him that it needed to be reported as a security breach. He returned to his work, never letting on what he had found.
The Cyborgenics research would continue, without the real masters of the project believing anything other than that their secrets were still between only themselves and a select known few.
Feel Like Poison
The Technician typed quickly on the console screen, acutely aware of the two new arrivals standing watching over his shoulder. Around them, the closeness of his hastily finished cigarette still lingered heavy in the air, stubbed out as the pair had walked in through the training room door. Smoke still drifted lazily from the stubbed out remains in the ashtray.
"I have no record of authorisation for such a request on the mainframe," he answered curtly, looking up at the pair as he leant back into his swivel chair.
Connolly glanced slowly around the room, letting a moment of silence pass before casually removing his shaded glasses to reveal the full fire of his eyes. Silence could be the most powerful of tools in the right hands, and he knew it. Already he could see the Technician squirm uncomfortably.
"Authorisation code Delta 12. This training mission is necessary, and is enabled under my own personal authority as Security Controller of the Syndicate."
Perspiration beaded on the Technician's forehead as Connolly placed his hand on the palm scanner lying on the desk.
"Security code clearance Delta 12. Identified, Connolly, D. Security Controller. Welcome David."
The computer's impassive female voice purred all that needed to be known.
He stood impassive. The Technician took a moment to re-compose himself before standing up.
"I'm sorry Sir, I didn't know."
Connolly replaced his glasses, the fiery eyes hidden once more.
"Apologies are not necessary first Technician. Security procedures are there to be followed. You have done well."
"Thankyou."
"Now back to the more immediate matters."
He gestured at Lily.
"I wish time on the training levels for this Assassin."
The Technician looked her over.
"What capacity? Stand alone on the target range, or do you wish me to dial up a hit squad to evaluate her in?"
"No. I wish for you to dial up a hit squad for her to be pitted against."
The beads of perspiration returned once more.
"Against?"
"That is correct."
He looked the girl over again. She was an Assassin all right, but something was different. Here however was not his place to argue. Shrugging his shoulders he slumped back into the chair, and reached for the Comm link.
"You're the Boss."
The link clicked active.
"Prepare a training hit squad for immediate action on the levels. Authorisation, Delta twelve."
Connolly leaned forward.
"Make it two squads."
The Technician glanced at the girl. She looked the part of an Assassin, except there was something extra, something new he hadn't seen. The way she was looking round, taking in every detail of the room. He couldn't place what the recess of his mind was trying to call out to him.
"Check that, make it two."
The Comm link clicked off.
"You the Boss," he whispered, swiping his keycard to unlock the door to the range. It wasn't his place to question. "Through the door, into the armoury. They'll kit you out with anything you need or want. Some-one'll buzz through when the hit squads are ready."
A nod of acknowledgement, then the pair breezed through the newly opened door and were gone. The girl had never said a word, and yet her mannerisms, her aura had said all that she had needed to.
The voice at the back of the Technician's mind spoke at last. She was second generation; the mythical prototype.