“I’ve got something,” Ross said.
Emily watched the display above Ross’s chair. The cyborg’s titanium-clad arms came into view, and the hands closed on a crude bundle of electronics. She squinted as she examined the device. “That must be the trigger. The attackers should be nearby.”
The cyborg’s massive head lifted to scan the surrounding forest. The twin cameras flashed between ultraviolet, visible, and infrared spectrums while highly-sensitive audio sensors cataloged noises.
With a thought, Ross turned the automaton’s head to the left. He zoomed the cameras in, and two heat signatures appeared in the distance. A wide grin spread across his face. “Gotcha.”
Ford hooked an arm around Eugene’s back and practically carried his teammate. “Faster,” he grunted. “We have to move faster.”
“Give me some of your magic Wheaties,” Eugene panted. “And I will.”
Ford cast a quick glance over his shoulder and swore. He pushed Eugene onward and shouted, “Keep going, I’ll try to hold him off!”
Eugene skidded to a halt a few yards away, spun, and drew his MP7A1 compact submachine gun. He clicked the foregrip into place and held the weapon in both hands.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ford snapped as he raised his own weapon. “Go!”
“Not a chance.” Eugene set his feet and leaned forward, taking careful aim.
The crashing noise in the distance grew steadily louder, and a massive figure appeared. The cyborg knocked aside hanging tree limbs and trampled thorny shrubs without slowing.
The pair of operatives opened fire, pummeling the giant with 4.6mm rounds. The automaton didn’t juke to the left or right, or even flinch. It simply charged like an enraged bull.
Ford dumped his empty magazine and slid a fresh one into place. He leveled the weapon, took careful aim, and placed a round through the cyborg’s left eye. The seven-foot-tall monstrosity stumbled, then crashed into the foliage.
“Nice!” Eugene called out.
Ford ignored the compliment. He stripped a grenade from a pouch on his belt and shouted, “Frag out!”
Eugene dove for cover and landed behind a massive hickory tree. The grenade exploded moments later, shredding leaves and tearing bark from the surrounding vegetation.
“Frag out!” Ford repeated.
Eugene stayed low, covering his neck and head with his arms. Four more grenades detonated in quick succession—Ford had thrown everything he had.
Jumping to his feet, Eugene said, “I’m pretty sure you got him, chief.”
Ford didn’t answer. He was on his feet, aiming his pistol at the place where the cyborg had fallen.
Eugene jogged forward, his weapon level. He stopped a few paces to Ford’s right, and his eyes widened. “No,” he gasped under his breath.
The machine-man got to one knee, then lunged forward. Its armor was coated in dust and riddled with pock-marks. One mechanical eye had been destroyed by Ford’s miracle shot, but the cyborg was otherwise unharmed.
Eugene was halfway through his magazine when the cyborg reached Ford. It knocked him aside like he was housefly, then pivoted and charged Eugene. He ducked beneath the machine’s outstretched arms, but the massive automaton was too fast. It slipped past him with startling agility and wrapped its arms around his chest.
Eugene responded by thrusting both elbows into the cyborg’s chest and stomping on its massive foot. The four-hundred-pound amalgamation of metal and human flesh gave no indication that it even felt the blows. It threw Eugene over its shoulder and strode through the forest like a disappointed parent carrying a petulant toddler.
A dozen yards away, Ford gripped his chest as he got to his feet. Though he and Eugene had worn next-generation polymer armor, the cyborg had cracked at least four of his ribs. Ignoring the pain, he trudged after Eugene, then broke into a run.
The automaton didn’t react to his approach; its operator wrongly assumed Ford was a “mere human.” Ford planted his feet and aimed a powerful kick at the cyborg’s lower back.
Eugene felt his stomach drop as he went airborne. The cyborg, taken by surprise, had lost its grip on him and toppled forward.
“Get out of here!” Ford bellowed as he raised a gloved fist. He punched the back of the cyborg’s head, which gave off a metallic clang.
Eugene hesitated. He retrieved a grenade from his belt and searched for a weak spot in the automaton’s armor. There were none. The only vulnerable points were the eyes, and even those didn’t provide direct access to the bio-mechanical brain.
Ford threw another punch, and the cyborg held up a forearm to block it. Ford kicked out with his left leg, but the cyborg dodged it easily. The automaton seemed to toy with him for a few seconds, parrying or dodging his every strike, then it lurched forward, grabbed him, and slammed him into a tree.
“No!” Eugene shouted. He rushed forward, tearing the pin from the grenade as he went. He released the grenade’s spoon and swung the explosive like a weapon. The cyborg caught his wrist in mid-air, plucked the grenade from his grip, and threw it away. When it finally exploded, it was too far to inflict any damage.
Eugene punched the cyborg in the chest with all his might, and pain jolted up his arm. He threw another punch, then knee and elbow strikes. Every blow fractured his own bones, but did no discernible damage to the giant.
“Bastard,” Eugene spat as he landed a final impotent punch. A dark fog crept at the corners of his vision; he felt himself slipping away as the pain dragged him into unconsciousness.
16
Kremnica, Slovakia
Walking along the stone streets of Kremnica, Ashton felt like he had traveled back in time. Born and raised in Tokyo, he found that visiting other countries often made him feel that way. But this was different—every city block seemed to have been pulled in from a different era. It wasn’t a wealthy city, but the architecture was breathtaking. In the four-kilometer walk from the Katharos base to the east of the city, he had seen modern homes with steel roofs, blocky Soviet-era buildings, and medieval castles. By the time he and his fellow agents reached the charming city square, which was bordered by monasteries and museums, he had almost shaken off his sense of dread. Almost.
Ashton knew they weren’t supposed to leave the base—the base commander had been very clear in his instructions. He also knew that something big was happening. In the five years since he had joined Katharos, he had never heard of an outpost being evacuated, much less an entire region of outposts. When he had arrived at the Kremnica base, he found hundreds of other agents from London, Dublin, Paris, Brussels, and Zurich setting up rows of tents. He had stopped to question fellow agents, but no one knew why the evacuation had been ordered. As he wandered the base, he encountered a crew of assassins he had trained with in the United States. They were as confused as anyone else, but they were happy to see him. One of them, a native Slovak that went by the codename Martin, suggested they leave the base to pass the time. Ashton had been hesitant—he was the highest-ranking member in the group, and he didn’t want to be caught outside the base if something went wrong.
In the end, Martin had convinced him to come along. Apparently, someone at the Kremnica base had organized a massive reunion in a secret nightclub. There would be booze, prostitutes, drugs, and anything else a wayward soldier could ask for. Men and women from Katharos outposts all over Europe would have a chance to relax with old friends and indulge their animal impulses.
But Ashton wasn’t a soldier anymore. In the two years since he had seen his fellow assassins, he had been promoted to a Standards and Evaluation position. He wasn’t even supposed to be in Kremnica; his presence in London at the time of the evacuation had been coincidental. If he drank too much and missed a check-in, his superiors might send him back to wet work. Or worse—put him on guard duty.
He shivered despite the warm evening air, and his hand reflexively rubbed at the back of his neck. The scar still itched, and the device gave him sporadic headaches. The doctor
that had implanted it insisted it was only a GPS used to track assets in the field, but Ashton had heard rumors that it was much more dangerous. Perhaps the device could track his position on the globe, but he firmly believed it could be used to listen in on his conversations and even end his life if the Empress desired.
The crew of eight assassins and their Stand-Eval escort entered a narrow, unlit alley. They passed into a courtyard, where other Katharos agents were milling about.
Ashton relaxed a little. He felt safer in the crowd—both from external threats and the ire of his superiors.
“Down here,” Martin said, waving the rest of the group toward the edge of the courtyard. The group ambled along, passing a cluster of Katharos women.
Douglas, an assassin with unruly blond hair, elbowed Ashton in the ribs and made a joke about how Katharos women were so cold that their reproductive orifices had frozen shut. At least, that’s how the electronic translator in Ashton’s ear relayed the comment.
Ashton winced and said. “I don’t know how you got passed up for promotion, Douglas.”
A beat, and everyone except Douglas laughed out loud.
The digital translators allowed men and women from different nations and cultures to work together effectively. Someone in authority had decided to make Katharos outposts some of the most diverse workplaces in history. The official reasons for grouping agents from disparate ethnicities together were to “broaden the think tank,” and “enhance international cohesiveness,” but Ashton knew better. Culture, ethnicity, and heritage were downplayed at Katharos bases to devalue humanity and further numb the largely sociopathic agents.
Martin stopped atop a set of stone stairs, his face bearing a perverse grin. “The real party,” he said, pointing toward a torchlit iron gate at the bottom of the stairs, “is down there. Gentlemen, get ready for the best night of your lives.”
Ashton made an effort to look excited, but the ancient stone steps, flickering torches, and ominous gate only heightened his anxiety. He followed his crew toward the gate, lagging a few steps behind. Martin spoke in Slovak to the bouncer, which Ashton’s earpiece translated as, “What is good? Everything that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself.” The big man nodded and held the iron gate open.
The eager party-goers passed beneath the light of the torches, through the gate, then through a heavy wooden door. It took a moment for Ashton’s eyes to adjust to the light, and what he saw made his stomach turn. They were inside a repurposed dungeon. Luxurious sofas and armchairs mingled with thick chains and rusted instruments of torture. A trio of metal cages hanging from the ceiling held naked and unconscious prostitutes—their feet bleeding from the prolonged incarceration. Equally pitiable men and women were chained to the walls, where Katharos agents were whipping or violating them.
Deeper in the dungeon, moans of feigned ecstasy resonated from behind silk curtains. On the southernmost wall, men and women reclined on large couches, sipping beer and brandy as if the scene was utterly commonplace.
“Pick your poison, huh?” an American assassin said.
Martin nodded. “Whatever you want. Just try not to overdose.”
“Well then,” the American said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m gonna see what’s behind curtain number one.”
The assassins dispersed to take advantage of the hedonic entertainment, and Ashton staggered toward the nearest piece of furniture. He eased into the armchair, trying not to think about the bodily fluids that might be encrusting the leather cushion. Moments later, a woman in a black cocktail dress and high heels dropped into his lap.
“Hello, lamb,” she said, tracing a finger along his collarbone. “You look tired. Can I get you something that will wake you up?”
Ashton shook his head. “No, thank you. I think I’d rather keep my head clear.”
She frowned, then put her hands on his shoulders and shifted her hips so she was straddling him. “Is there anything else I can do for you? A dance, maybe, or something else?” She nodded toward the beds with the high curtains.
“I appreciate the offer,” Ashton said, gently pushing her away. “But I just want to rest for a moment.”
The woman pinched his cheek and stood. “If you change your mind, come find me.” She pivoted and watched him over her shoulder as she walked away.
A chill ran up Ashton’s spine, then back down again. He didn’t hate the woman, he hated the Katharos agent that had hired her. The displays of barbarism and meaningless passion sickened him, but not because he held a misguided moral certitude. He was pragmatic to a fault, and he understood that human beings were just sacks of flesh interacting with a random and uncaring universe. The pain experienced by the tortured prostitutes was merely electrical signals traveling back and forth through their nervous systems, as inconsequential as a scintillating light bulb. No, the real shame was the wasteful opulence.
Ashton couldn’t keep from sneering at his fellow agents. As a teenager, he had been diagnosed with Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder and labeled as “asexual.” But he never saw his lack of sexual desire as a malady. To him, it was a blessing. It had allowed him to focus on his studies in college and his career afterward. His “condition” helped him rise to a position of authority within Katharos, simply because he was less distracted than his libido-enslaved friends.
Staring out at the meaningless debauchery, he sincerely hoped a Katharos scientist would develop a chastity vaccine for the men, as someone had done for the women. The organization’s efficiency would practically double overnight.
Someone shouted in Arabic, and the translator chirped in Ashton’s ear. “Ashton, stop being such a vagina. Lighten up and have some fun.”
Ashton fixed a plastic grin on his face and nodded at his friend. The Saudi assassin was being led by one of the prostitutes toward a private chamber.
A broad-shouldered man in a hooded t-shirt watched the assassin duck beneath the curtain with more than a passing interest. Ashton tried to get a look at the man, but the hood obscured the top half of his face.
As if sensing he was being watched, the man turned his head in Ashton’s direction.
Ashton looked down, pretending to examine his fingernails. He counted to thirty, then ventured another glance. The man had moved to the edge of the curtain and was peering inside. As Ashton watched, the prostitute reached out and pulled the hooded man into bed.
Just another horny imbecile, Ashton thought. Still, he couldn’t help but feel unsettled by a stranger jumping into bed with his friend. Perhaps it was the hood, or the man’s iron-sculpted arms. In any case, Ashton was on edge, and he scanned the room for anything else that might be suspicious. He locked eyes with Martin, and the Slovak made a sour face.
Approaching Ashton with a pair of drinks in his hands, Martin said, “What are you doing, sitting there like a toad? Get up, enjoy yourself.” He handed Ashton one of the drinks and said, “Here, this will help.”
“What is it?” Ashton asked, swilling the shot glass.
“Slivovitz,” Martin answered. “It’s brandy, try it.”
Ashton nodded, then tossed his head back and swallowed the clear liquid. It burned all the way down his esophagus and left an aftertaste like paint thinner. Coughing, then gasping, he said, “You call that brandy?”
Martin laughed. “Slivovitz is slivovitz. It will make you into a man, put hair on your chest. But…not everyone enjoys it.”
Ashton scraped his tongue against his incisors for a moment, then remembered his manners. “It wouldn’t be my first choice…but thank you.”
“No problem, my friend,” Martin said, massaging his shoulder. “You seem worried, and I want to help you relax. Maybe you should have another?”
“One is more than enough, thank you.” Ashton glanced at the curtained beds and saw the hooded man step out.
“That man,” Ashton said, nodding, “Do you know him?”
Martin waved a hand dismissively. “Him? That’s Otto.”
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“Otto,” Ashton repeated. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Look at the size of him.”
Ashton gave a reluctant nod and watched as “Otto” slipped beneath the next curtain. The sick, nervous feeling returned, and Ashton found himself searching for the nearest exit.
“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.
“Oh, nothing. Old habits, that’s all. Is there only one exit in this place?”
Martin nodded. “One way in, one way out. Makes for easy security.”
“I see…”
Martin shifted on his feet and folded his arms over his chest. He watched Ashton from beneath furrowed brows. “Don’t keep secrets. What is wrong?”
Ashton sighed. “It’s nothing. The slivovitz isn’t agreeing with me, that’s all. I should have eaten more before leaving the base.”
Martin’s features softened. “You always have been a lightweight.”
Ashton shrugged. “It’s true.” Scanning the room once more, he added, “Do you know where the bathroom is?”
“Past the cages,” Martin said, “near the entrance.”
Ashton thanked him and strode toward a set of four small doors. He opened the nearest one, slipped inside, and blinked as the lights turned on automatically. It was cramped, with tiles on the floor and walls. A single sink and urinal protruded from the wall, and an aluminum divider provided privacy for the toilet. The divider stopped a few inches above the floor, and a pair of hiking shoes were visible beneath.
Ashton frowned, wondering why the automatic lights had turned off if the room was occupied. He shook his head, then leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. After regarding himself in the mirror for a few seconds, he turned to leave. As he held the door open with one hand, he cast a curious glance at the hiking boots. Finally, he homed in on the sense of familiarity and said, “Douglas?”
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