Once the two of them boarded the lift and the doors closed, the speakers played Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, and the elevator descended. It took over a minute for the elevator to reach its destination. The deceptively small building hid a huge installation underneath it.
The Raptor’s pulse quickened. He ordered the nanites in his bloodstream to tweak his serotonin levels slightly—enough to keep calm, but not so much that he would be unable to generate a quick adrenaline boost if he needed to fight.
On the inside, the Antey Biorobotics building looked like a military installation. It was cavernous, compartmentalized, and brimming with well-hidden security equipment. The Raptor’s cybernetic implants identified every camera, tracked every motion sensor, mapped every potential weak spot. The Raptor was ushered into an ordinary office where a blonde woman in her forties was seated behind the desk.
“Olga Tretyakova, director of operations,” she introduced herself by way of greeting. She pointed at the chair across from her.
“Nice to meet you.” The Raptor sat down.
Tretyakova gave him an appraising look. “You’re older than I expected.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Let’s dispense with the pretenses, shall we?” She leaned back in her high-backed leather chair. “Your passport may say Chris Bauer, but it’s just one of a dozen aliases you use, that we know of. You’re the Raptor, one of the world’s most effective assassins.”
So they knew. Given Antey’s security apparatus and reach, the corporation probably knew more about him than most governments, and there was no sense in denying the truth. “Is this going to be a problem?”
She smiled. “Not at all. My superiors are eager to cultivate a working relationship with you. I trust you’re amenable to—how do you Americans say it—working something out in trade?”
“I prefer to pay cash,” said the Raptor.
“Not an option,” said Tretyakova. “You’re only here because we have need of your services. You could try our competitors in Taipei or Curitiba, but they’re each at least a couple of years behind us.” She shrugged. “High-end nano-enhancements are a seller’s market.”
The Raptor had already explored those other options, and he wanted the best. “All right,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, you’ll need to prove yourself. A free sample, so to speak.”
The Raptor frowned.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of your work,” she said. “But there are some on our board of directors who might look at your graying temples and your wrinkled face, and doubt your effectiveness.”
“What hoop do you want me to jump through?”
“We got word that the Renegade Chemist is in town. Have you heard of him?”
The Raptor’s computer implant performed a quick net search. Pictures and text projected onto the inner cornea of his left eye. “He’s an up-and-comer in the drug trade,” he said, as though he knew about the man all along. “Western Europe, mostly.” He focused back on Tretyakova. “He has good security.”
“Our intel suggests he’s in town for a quick meeting, with only a handful of bodyguards, nothing you can’t handle. We want you to take them all out, a message to any syndicate that contemplates setting up shop in our backyard.”
“Fine,” said the Raptor. “That’s the free sample. What’s the real job?”
“One thing at a time, Raptor,” said Tretyakova. “One thing at a time.”
The car pulled to a stop at the edge of town, where affluent Russians had their summer homes.
“The Renegade Chemist and his men are in the yellow dacha up the road,” said the driver.
“I don’t have a gun,” said the Raptor.
The driver looked at him impassively and didn’t reply. The Raptor shrugged and got out of the car.
His body went into fight mode as he approached the dacha. The nanites in his bloodstream activated chemical reactions which released perfectly measured amounts of adrenaline and dopamine. He felt sharp, and focused, and in control.
The Raptor circled around and approached the dacha from the back. He jumped, the cybernetic implants in his leg joints allowing him to clear the eight-foot fence. The Raptor landed on his feet and ran toward the house.
Utilizing both the mechanical and chemical enhancements to his body, he moved with incredible speed. In contrast, the first pair of bodyguards he discovered seemed like they were treading water. The Raptor snapped one’s neck before the man’s gun was out of the holster. He jump-kicked at the second man, who fell backward. By the time the second opponent got back on his feet, the Raptor already held the first man’s gun. He shot the bodyguard once between the eyes and moved on, hunting for others.
Several minutes later the Raptor approached the inner sanctum of the dacha, reloaded gun in hand, the nanites still pumping adrenaline into his bloodstream. All seven of the Renegade Chemist’s bodyguards were professionals. They fought and died well. Would the Chemist fight until his last, or would the Raptor find him rolled up in a fetal position, begging for his life? The Raptor had seen plenty of both in his career. Men who were about to die always revealed their true selves to him; there was no time for pretenses in their final moments.
He slipped into the room to find the Renegade Chemist making tea.
The drug lord was in his sixties, dressed in a thick bathrobe worn over a plain white undershirt and linen pants, his gray hair and beard neatly trimmed. The Chemist filled a porcelain cup with steaming liquid from a vintage samovar and gently set it onto the matching saucer. Only then did he look up at the Raptor.
“Are my men dead?” The Chemist spoke with a faint German accent. His voice was even and his face serene.
The Raptor nodded, his eyes darting around the room. It was sparsely furnished, and he detected no traps.
“Pity,” said the Chemist. “They were competent and loyal, a rare combination these days.” He picked up another cup and filled it from the samovar. “Would you have some tea with me before you kill me?” When the Raptor hesitated, the Chemist smiled and took a small sip from the cup he offered to his assassin. “See? Perfectly safe.”
The Raptor scanned the table area. There were no hidden weapons. He approached and accepted the cup. “You’re taking this remarkably well,” he said.
“There’s a fable about an Emperor who knew that one of his generals was about to assassinate him,” said the Chemist. “The Emperor invited the General over to a meeting in a garden, alone. The other man was so impressed by this show of trust that he didn’t strike, and ultimately became one of the Emperor’s most loyal supporters.” The Renegade Chemist drank from his cup. “Some people think the moral of this story is to throw yourself at the mercy of your enemies. I think what really happened is that they had the time to negotiate, and the general got himself a better deal. Perhaps we can negotiate, too.”
The Raptor took a sip. The tea was aromatic and rich. “I doubt it,” he said.
“Why not? You have no personal grudge, do you? You’re here doing a job?”
The Raptor nodded again.
“Then it’s only a matter of price.” The Chemist smiled.
“I have enough money,” said the Raptor. “You can’t give me what I want.”
“Try me,” said the Chemist. “Information? Resources? I have both in abundance.”
“What do you know about the Antey Corporation?” asked the Raptor.
“Ah! It does make sense. I am in Kursk to meet with my contact from Antey. Most of my other enemies wouldn’t even know I was here. They are one of my suppliers. They manufacture synthetic drugs of better quality than most of the crap sold on the streets.” The Chemist swirled the tea in his cup and stared at the liquid. “We made good money together, but they’ve been growing fast. Perhaps they got too big to be making a few extra million on the black market. So they’re sweeping old embarrassments like me under the rug.”
“What do you know about their nano-robotics operation
?”
The Renegade Chemist shrugged. “Antey started out as a defense contractor for the Russian army and grew from there. They’re a huge multi-national conglomerate that makes everything from nanites to baby formula.” The old man glanced at the clock on his desk. His voice remained even, but the Raptor could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“If I wanted an overview, I’d read their Wikipedia entry. You’ve got nothing I can use.” The Raptor set down his cup and aimed the gun at the old man’s head.
“Wait! I can get you dirt on Antey. Let me just make a few phone calls.” The Chemist’s hands were shaking now, sweat rolling down his face.
“You’re stalling for time, but you already know that your tactic has failed,” said the Raptor. “I should have been unconscious on the ground less than a minute after I took a sip of your tea, but my body is at least as adept at neutralizing the toxins as yours.”
“We can still make a deal!” There was fear on the drug dealer’s face, his calm façade completely demolished.
“The difference between you and the Emperor from your story is that he did negotiate in good faith,” said the Raptor. “He didn’t try to poison his rival.”
The Renegade Chemist managed a weak smile. “Would good faith have made any difference at all?”
The Raptor contemplated this for a moment. “No,” he said.
He fired two bullets into the Renegade Chemist’s eye and walked out without looking back.
“The board is suitably impressed,” said Tretyakova.
“That was amateur hour,” said the Raptor. “No preparation, no weapons, and a crime scene that gives the local press plenty to report about. The truly impressive operations are the ones where the general public never finds out.”
“The publicity suits our needs.” Tretyakova didn’t elaborate.
“Why don’t you tell me what you really want from me?” asked the Raptor.
“We have reason to believe this site is going to get hit by Mercury’s team,” said Tretyakova. “We want you to stop her, with extreme prejudice.”
“You want me to go up against the second-best assassin in the world? Your nanites aren’t worth that.”
Tretyakova chuckled. “Aren’t they? Every day, you are getting a little bit slower, your aim just a bit less steady. You are getting older, Raptor, and age is an enemy even you can’t defeat. At this rate, Mercury isn’t going to remain second-best for long.”
Tretyakova rested her palms on the table and leaned toward him. “Antey Corporation has the most advanced nanite technology in the world. Do you want to roll the dice and wait a year or two, hoping that one of our competitors catches up soon, or do you want them now? Millions of tiny robots working tirelessly to keep you at the top of your game?”
The executive and the assassin stared each other down.
The Raptor thought back to the decades of surgery he had endured to make him more than human. Implants to improve his body’s various functions well beyond the norm. Servos grafted onto his joints to give him a boost in strength and speed. Generations of nanobots floating in his bloodstream, from the crude early technologies to the latest and most sophisticated miniature machines.
All of that allegedly made outdated by Antey’s latest advances. If their tech was all it was promised to be, he could be even faster, stronger, more lethal than ever. And if not, there was always the emergency protocol.
“I’ll do it,” said the Raptor.
A self-satisfied smirk spread over Tretyakova’s face. “There’s a catch,” she said. “The nanites fuse themselves directly into the host’s nervous system. This procedure is extremely painful.” She gave the Raptor an appraising look. “Then again, I heard you enjoy pain. Certainly explains the countless elective surgeries you’ve had.”
The Raptor didn’t reply. His face betrayed no emotion. He just stared at Tretyakova impassively, until she shrugged and summoned an assistant to schedule the procedure.
The sparse room where the procedure was to take place reminded him of a similar space, half a world away and twenty-seven years ago.
Back then he’d had another name, another job, another life. He was a junior CIA agent assigned to the U.S. embassy in Jakarta. He was there when the bomb went off. He remembered no details of that. One minute he was going over paperwork at his desk and the next he woke up in a hospital bed. There were burns and bruises all over his body; his head was bandaged in layers of gauze, leaving only a thin opening for his eyes. And yet, he felt no pain.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” a doctor told him later. “There is a small bit of shrapnel lodged deep in your brain tissue. It’s beyond our ability to surgically remove safely and, by all rights, it should have already killed you.” The doctor leafed through a pile of scans and blood tests. “You seem totally fine; it hasn’t even impaired your motor functions. Are you a religious man? I’m an atheist myself, but this is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a miracle.”
The doctor was wrong—he wasn’t fine at all. He tasted nothing when he ate his food, he couldn’t smell the anesthetics, or anything else, around him. And he still felt no pain.
Alone in his hospital room, he used manicure scissors to cut into the skin on the back of his hand. He watched with fascination as the blood swelled from the gash. When he made the cut, he felt only the dull pressure of metal against skin.
He was scared, which is why he made the mistake of telling the doctor. The man was incredulous. He ran a series of tests, but had no answers. The next day, a CIA official arrived and said they would be transporting him stateside, effective immediately.
He didn’t want to become a guinea pig, a lab rat for the agency doctors to poke and study. So he ran, abandoning his wife and daughter, leaving behind his life and even his name. Chris Bauer was born.
It wasn’t until a few years later that he earned the nickname of the Raptor. Cold-blooded and vicious, they said. He merely wanted to raise enough money to get cured, and his CIA-trained skill set was always in demand on the black market.
The Raptor had discovered no cure for his condition, but he’d never stopped working. The freak accident robbed him of both pain and pleasure—all his feelings dulled to the point where no external stimulation was meaningful. But he could still feel pride, the satisfaction of being very good at what he did.
He performed well and was getting progressively more dangerous jobs, missions that paid handsomely but required more of him than merely the ability to shrug off pain. That’s when the Raptor had discovered cybernetic enhancements, the edge they gave him, and the ease with which his body handled even the most invasive surgery. A string of procedures followed.
The Raptor was in an arms race against other operatives, against the ever-more-sophisticated security systems, and against time itself.
One of his most recent acquisitions was a batch of nanites that fooled his brain into thinking he once again had the sense of smell. It simulated any scent he desired on demand, which for him usually meant tangerines. The Raptor thought this was even better than regaining his natural olfactory functions.
The Raptor wondered at what other things he might gain through technology that would allow him to further surpass his humanity. He nodded to the men and women in surgical masks who towered over him, and allowed the general anesthesia being delivered through the IV drip to put him to sleep.
When the alarms went off announcing the attack, the Raptor was glad the waiting was finally over.
The Antey Corporation had installed him in the ground floor office stuffed with surveillance equipment. Officially, he was recuperating from the procedure. The new nanites were already doing their job. The Raptor felt sharper, stronger, more alert than ever. A bottle of painkillers sat unopened in his desk drawer.
He’d been frustrated by days of pointless waiting, by the passive nature of the mission. He’d roamed the building checking and rechecking the security systems and coming up with plans of attack he’d deploy we
re he in Mercury’s shoes, then figuring out the way to counter them. He’d been reasonably sure that he’d prepared for any stratagem his rival might attempt.
In the end, Mercury failed to surprise him. By the time her team took out the perimeter guards and entered the building, he was in fight mode. He moved impossibly fast, taking out her team one by one.
They were good, far better than the Chemist’s bodyguards. Some were even augmented with a handful of cyber-implants of their own, but their frail human bodies were no match for the Raptor’s nano-enhanced perfection. He killed them quickly and efficiently, until only Mercury was left.
She moved toward him, her reflexes faster than any opponent he’d ever faced. He came at her, knocking the gun from her hand. When she saw him up close, her eyes went wide and she stopped fighting. The Raptor trained the gun at her but didn’t fire, surprised by this move.
She stared at his face. “Dad?”
The Raptor staggered back, shocked. He studied Mercury. She was five foot ten, of slight build, comely but not beautiful. Non-threatening and not memorable. Perfect for covert work. He could see a patchwork of tiny telltale scars on her upper neck—she had an implant chip of her own, a brutally painful upgrade for someone without his unique condition.
Could it be? The facial features, the age … The Raptor thought back to his family, to the little girl he was forced to abandon. It had been so long. Was this a trick? He retreated several steps, kept his expression neutral and his hand steady, the gun aimed at her heart.
“It’s me, Leigh. Don’t you recognize your own daughter?” She took a step forward. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
Whoever this stranger was, she knew his daughter’s name.
It’s a deception, a trick to make you lower your guard, said the voice inside his head.
The Antey nanobots let the Raptor’s new employers talk to him whenever they pleased. It was perhaps the least palatable new feature, and he looked forward to disabling it as soon as this contract was fulfilled. Although the communication was one-way, they also monitored the security feeds.
Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories Page 3