2045: The Year of Defeat
The Eternal Child - Book One
By Andy Phillips
Published by Action Girl Books at Smashwords
Copyright © Andy Phillips 2014
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Action Girl Books (using GIMP)
Using Images Licensed from Shutterstock:
Background - 2077084 Copyright © Richard Waite
Metal Woman - 108561314 Copyright © Ociacia
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.
Table of Contents
Chapter One: The New Empire
Chapter Two: The Woman in Black
Chapter Three: Powerless
Also Available
Chapter One: The New Empire
The war is over. There will be no more fighting. That's what the Dynasty want us to believe, but I know better.
I've lived through more conflicts than anyone. Countless battles have been waged under the pretext of protecting our freedom, democracy, and way of life. We've surrendered all three, but I'm sure people will dream up new excuses to kill one another. It's human nature. These 'world peace' celebrations don't mean a thing.
London is ready to welcome the Empress. The magnetic monorail system is brand new, a network of elevated steel tracks that appear bronze brown under the sunset. There's barely a mark on the soulless corporate skyscrapers they weave between. And why would there be? There were no skirmishes in the financial sector. When the Dynasty Hermes squadrons - the vanguard of the invasion force - flew into the city, the banker types gave up with a whimper. If I could place their level of resistance on a noise scale, it would be somewhere between silent and the hum of the railcar I'm travelling in. So much for British spirit.
“Cheer up, sweetie,” says a man to my left. “It could be worse.”
I check his reflection in the window. Hunched forward, crooked left leg. Snow white hair, wrinkly face. Long scarf and dirt-repellent overcoat that went out of fashion years ago. Doesn't look like a Dynasty agent, but I'm ready in case.
“Could it?” My assessment took a fraction of a second. The reply should seem natural.
"We got off lightly." The old man gazes at the cityscape, losing himself in memories. “I was in a real bloodbath. San Francisco. Thirty nine. You wouldn't remember.”
He's wrong. I remember everything. The Pacific Defence Fleet wiped out in a single, co-ordinated attack. One pulse bomb and the computers were fried. Aircraft, navigation, targeting software. Intel reports said it was a saboteur, but I only saw the wider picture from across the city. The explosion, the electrical discharge, Dynasty mermaids - robotic killer fish in their thousands - screeching as they swarmed the crippled ships. Historians call it the Baystorm, the opening act of World War III.
“Ten minutes,” the old man reflects. “That's all it took. Ten minutes to bring a superpower to its knees. We kept up the fight for years, but it was always a losing battle. Everything was on their side. Numbers, technology, the element of surprise.”
“And a ruthless leader,” I add quietly.
The man's hearing is sharper than I expected. He gives me a curious glance. “You're an odd little girl. Very astute for your age.”
“I'm older than I look.”
A true statement, and it seems to satisfy him. But enough chitchat. We're coming into Palace Station, and I've got a job to do.
“We won you know.” The man watches the other passengers with undisguised contempt. “That's why we're all celebra--”
The car doors open before he finishes, and the rest of his comment is drowned out by cheering commuters. I exit the train quickly to beat the stampede.
I open my eyes wide, gazing round the arrival terminal as if in awe. I count ten troopers in powered armour. Equipped with automatic rifles and riot suppression gear, faces masked by opaque helmet visors. Two by each of the main exits, six on raised platforms. The city is on high alert. Any trouble, and response squads are less than a minute away.
I head along the concourse, keeping to the outside edge so I have a better view. The Dynasty emblem is everywhere: banners draped from columns, coloured glass roof, oriental lantern shades, news bulletin captions. There's no avoiding the gold-on-crimson patterns: a six-pointed throwing star, a windowed tower, a chandelier, an upside down F, and a jewelled necklace. Simple designs constructed from plain, hollow squares. A meaningless sequence to most people, but I know their origin only too well. They're the five symbols that gave the Empress her power.
"I was named after a goddess," she said that day. "Now you can watch me become one."
A century later, her empire spans the entire globe. Bars and restaurants are crowded with the conquered: families, young children, revellers eager to hail the United World. That's what the Dynasty are calling it. Sure it's united. Under a dictator.
So much misplaced optimism. It's like some warped version of Victory in Europe Day. A defining moment in history, one I'm able to recall without accessing my memory banks. It was May 1945. Londoners were out in the streets, celebrating the surrender of Nazi Germany. Whitehall was packed, with little room to breathe. I remember standing on tiptoes, eager to see the Prime Minister. He was on the Ministry of Health balcony, below flags of the Soviet Union, Great Britain and the United States. Cigar in mouth, Winston Churchill held up two fingers spread apart. V for victory.
A hundred years on, there's another street party. Only this time crowds have turned out to mark defeat. If Winston could see this lot he'd give them a V-sign all right. The inverted type.
“Flag, Miss?” a salesman asks in fluent Mandarin. In a single glance I evaluate the key details. Light skinned, greasy blond hair with matching beard, mid forties, worn casual clothing. Almost certainly an Englishman with a translation implant.
I dismiss him with a shake of my head. I don't need a flag to blend in. To the average person I'm harmless. A fourteen year old, white British girl with short, dark brown hair. The more observant might note my trendy black jacket, sweat disperser leggings, and ultralight boots. But most won't. Children often go unnoticed, especially in crowds.
The gate guard glances at my ID, an expensive forgery wasted on a slouch like him. He lazily scans my body with his sensor rod, and waves me through the checkpoint. I see Buckingham – I refuse to call it Song – Palace up ahead. The Mall is a sea of red and gold. Some older war veterans have brought handmade British flags, but support is token at best. If they have anything to say, I can't hear them.
“Lin Song, Lin Song,” the boisterous masses chant. Over and over, without pause. And in Mandarin, naturally.
I suppress my anger. Loss of concentration can be fatal in a combat situation, and for me this war isn't over. Not until I kill the woman responsible.
I check my wristwatch. According to the digital readout it's 26.2 degrees Celsius. Such a high temperature was once extreme for November, but autumn droughts have become increasingly common. Standing in stifling heat will have left the sentries tired and less alert. The better trained won't be affected, but any advantage is welcome. It's 15:44. Sixteen minutes until the Empress takes the stage.
Skirting around the crowd, I come to the Imperial Lotus, a five star hotel renamed after the war. The pagoda style balconies are new additions, and entire floor sections have been demolished so levels slope inward to the t
op. With robotic labour the renovation was completed in a week. Similar transformations are now happening citywide. By Christmas the cultural shift will be complete, and London will be a mirror image of Hong Kong, the Dynasty's stronghold in the far east. Destroy what little identity we have left, leave us with nothing to fight for - classic psychological warfare.
The hotel's glass entrance doors slide apart as I approach. I feel my skin heat up under the air conditioner, then I'm inside the richly decorated foyer. The stone benches that encircle the crystal-lit fountains are vacant. Everyone wants to see the Empress, apart from those who have to work. I ignore the plush carpets and oriental panelling, and focus on the lobby's occupants. Three men are on duty: the porter, an overweight security guard, and a receptionist. The latter is Japanese, fifties, grey haired, and wears adjustable-focus spectacles. The details match those I was given, but I need to be sure.
“Jane Wilson,” I introduce myself. The name's as fake as the ID I flash. “Is my room ready? Only just made it. The congestion at Palace Station was horrendous.”
The last bit's a code phrase, old-fashioned spycraft straight from my Cold War days. But precautions are necessary. The Dynasty uses nanophones, tiny listening devices it takes military grade equipment to see. Every word is relayed to intelligence stations, and their computers can identify key phrases in seconds. One slip of the tongue and it's over.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity," the receptionist says. "Not to be missed.” The response is the one I'd hoped for, and I relax a touch. “If you hurry, you might have time for a shower before the ceremony starts.”
It sounds an innocent suggestion, but it has to be a message. I say nothing further, nodding thanks as I take a keycard he's placed on the desk.
“Oh,” the receptionist adds. “A souvenir to mark the occasion. Be careful you don't prick yourself.”
He hands me a Dynasty emblem pin, a fool's gold badge etched with those five symbols in opal red script. I stuff the badge in my jacket pocket, and proceed to the stairwell. Thirty floors is a long climb, but I can't take the chance of a lift breaking down. Once I'm clear of the foyer I start running. I'm at peak fitness and make good time.
After ascending the first set of steps, I roll up my right sleeve. My bracelet phone is a civilian model, the latest craze among young teenagers. I bought it this morning in Camden market. The first thing I did was disable the hidden transmitter. As much as I want to blame the Dynasty for everything, their intrusive surveillance is merely a continuation of pre-war policy. The Sofia Perez Act of 2027 was the deathblow for liberty. And it received overwhelming support from the British public. Nothing like a terrorist outrage to scare the masses into submission.
“Has it started yet?” I yell, lifting my arm to my mouth. “She on stage?”
I stumble, regain my footing, and continue. The fall was deliberate. There's nobody on the other end of the line. This is a performance, an act to convince the watchers I'm an excited child who doesn't want to be late for the big show. Fibre optic cameras and nanophones could be concealed in any number of places: walls, brass railings, lamp fixtures, planters. Most likely all of the above.
I keep up my charade until I reach floor thirty. My suite is at the far end of a fifteen metre-long corridor, past a row of leather couches and pagoda balconies overlooking the Mall. I gaze down on the ever-swelling crowd, pausing to catch my breath. Another show for the cameras.
“Made it,” I tell my imaginary friend. I swipe my keycard through the door-mounted reader, and head on in.
The room I've booked is five floors below the penthouse. It's an excellent vantage point: a clear view to the target, facing the front of the palace, and far enough away I won't be spotted by the crowd. I need to take care of the cameras, but they can wait for now.
I grab a remote control off the freshly made, queen-sized bed, and press activate. A holographic image blurs into focus above a projector in the lounge. I don't need to change the channel. The Empress' speech is being shown on every official station. Multi-sourced, surround sound picks up everything: jostling spectators, excited chattering.
An unseen presenter is filling airtime until the main event, busy stating the obvious. “We're only minutes away,” he says. “Then we'll get our first public glimpse of the Empress since she signed the peace declaration.”
Viewers around the world will be watching the same hologram: a raised marble dais painted in Dynasty colours, with little flags of the sovereign nations – pretty much every country that's still in existence - evenly spaced around the outer rim. The image appears solid, a perfect replica of the palace stage. The illusion would be perfect if someone hadn't left a coffee table in the projection area. I don't bother to move it. Nothing important is missing, just a tiny segment of the platform and the Korean Union flag.
I discard the remote and walk to the window. The Sun is setting to the right of my view. The dynamic tinted glass - that varies opacity based on light level - suppresses the glare, and I don't have to squint to see the security cordon. Private police courtesy of Utopia Technologies, genderless thugs in body armour. There's not a whisper of trouble, yet more than one trooper has their electric baton drawn. Nobody is within twenty metres of the palace grounds, and I have an unobstructed line of sight. I estimate a distance of just under a kilometre between myself and the target. A difficult shot, but well within my capabilities. All I need now is my weapon.
“I understand the Empress is making her final preparations.” The presenter fights to be heard over cheering in the background. “Just listen to that reception.”
15:59 according to my watch. Less than a minute to go. My contact should be here by now. Has something happened to her? Did the package get intercepted? Without the weapon how can-- I clear my thoughts, and listen to my heartbeat slow to normal. If the plan changed, they would have given me a signal. I need to think, to go back. I shut my eyes.
“Have any of us even seen a spec--”
Time freezes as I access my memory. I rewind to a moment shortly after I entered the hotel foyer, a good point to start the replay. I'm a spectator of history, powerless to change the past. I can only observe, listen for a clue I missed the first time around. I see the empty benches, the hotel staff at work. I identify the receptionist, and give him the code phrase.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Not to be missed.” This is when I relaxed, though I don't feel anything on the repeat viewing. “If you hurry, you might have time for a shower before the ceremony starts.”
I stop the replay. My eyelids open, and I'm back in the hotel room.
“--tacle like this?” the presenter concludes. I haven't missed a beat.
Time for a shower. That's what the receptionist said. Surely a message. Why did they change the plan? It would only happen if someone was compromised. Do the authorities know about me? Are they already on their way?
The crowd stops chanting. The Empress is about to arrive. I'm out of time.
I rush to the bathroom, no longer concerned with what the watchers see. I ignore everything except the shower. It's plain aluminium. Detachable nozzle, keypad to set the temperature, body sensor to avoid wasting water. Entirely ordinary at first glance, but I know I'm missing something.
The announcer's voice is audible through the connecting door. “Over two hundred thousand on the streets of central London. Billions more who couldn't make it have staged celebrations in cities around the world.”
I feel around the shower nozzle. Nothing. Then I notice the water hose connection is partly unscrewed. I shake the pipe. Not as flexible as it should be, and something metallic clanks inside.
“We're about to witness a truly historic moment.” The presenter is really selling it now. ”An entire race united to offer thanks to Lin Song, the woman who made all this possible. People of Earth, rejoice!”
I ignore the blatant propaganda, take out the Dynasty pin – the disguised pulse bomb the receptionist gave me - and pull back the n
eedle. The badge explodes in a brilliant flash of blue. The lights and projector go dark. I hear faint crackling from the tiles. The hidden cameras are offline. Security forces will have detected the electrical surge. I have a minute at most before an alert is issued, but it's better than seconds.
I grab the shower hose. A single, sharp tug is enough to yank it free. I cup my hands, catching four weapon parts that spill out of the pulse-shielded lining. Planting those must have been tricky. My contact in surveillance really came through.
A series of loud bangs. Gunfire? No, the sounds are too far apart. It must be fireworks. Faint cheering comes from the room next door. That can only mean one thing. The Empress is on stage. I head back, hands working as I go. The trigger housing slots neatly into the barrel section. I slide the targeting module on top, and load the explosive tipped needle round into the firing chamber. My custom sniper rifle is assembled before I see her.
From long distance the Empress appears tiny, but at five foot eleven, she dwarfs most men in the audience. Non-reflective black metal - darker than the night sky - covers her entire body from the neck down. Her armour is the finest ever made, affording superior protection with no loss of agility. The Empress is no armchair general. Her athletic, muscular build is that of a woman bred for battle. In the war, she was an unstoppable infantryman who led every major offensive.
The rest of the Empress' outfit is purely ceremonial. An ankle-length, blood-red cape is fastened around her neck with a velvet cord. The raised hood casts a shadow on her mask: a golden skull with jet-black lenses for eyes, and a missing lower jaw that leaves her mouth exposed.
“Long live the Dynasty,” the Empress proclaims in Mandarin, her amplified voice loud enough to be heard through the window. Her Chinese accent is flawless, but she's a fraud, no less British than I am. She may have changed her name, but she's still a traitor to her people.
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