by John Carrick
Two men walked along the sidewalk, distracting her from the old man. Ashley watched them closely. They weren't mercenaries or government agents, just executives taking lunch. Ashley watched them, and the young woman walking opposite.
Ashley watched all the people moving through the park. Ross watched too. Geoffrey sat between them, leaning back, his eyes closed.
An hour or so later, Geoff took several deep breaths, then spoke in a whisper, “You have to keep it. Keep it safe. There is another. It wants to destroy it. The other, it’s pure evil. It wants to kill us and destroy the Micronix.”
“What are you talking about?” Ashley asked, quietly.
“Dad had it. He had both of them. But he doesn’t have it now. It’s out here and it’s looking for us. It is The Metachron.”
Ashley shook her brother by the shoulder. “Geoff, Geoff. Wake up.”
Geoff blinked awake. “What? What happened?”
“Yeah, what happened? What were you just saying?” she asked.
“I wasn’t saying anything.”
Ross glanced at Ash.
“I’m hungry,” Geoff said.
After a long and fruitless morning, the three of them headed across the street for lunch at a local restaurant called Four ‘n Twenty. The logo featured a blackbird breaking free from a pie; Ash found it morbidly disturbing.
They talked about where Geoff was looking, and how to look more effectively, but by the time lunch arrived, Geoff had begun complaining of a headache.
Geoff remained distant during the meal, distracted. Ashley suspected he was still in the network somewhere. Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head, and he crashed into the table.
His nose bled, but it was unclear whether that was due to his collision with his lunch, or if something more ominous was responsible.
Ross paid in cash and got them out of the restaurant as quickly as possible. After an extra hour of cruising the freeways behind tinted glass, they returned to Saint Vincent’s.
Von Kalt’s phone rang, he answered it and was taken aback. It was Director Stanwood, but it was his location that caused his shock.
“What’s the situation, Deputy?” Stanwood asked, rather formally.
After visiting Bergstrom, Stanwood had pulled forty agents from the bureau and twenty each from DHS, ATF and ICE. He left Von Kalt to manage the search operation by traditional methods, until Bergstrom’s Wolf Pack was ready.
At the restaurant where Ross and the Fox children had eaten, Von Kalt and the ‘bullet catchers’ as Bergstrom had referred to them, had locked the surrounding area down. The agents were thick around Von Kalt; they interrogated witnesses in teams, examined everything and bagged the plates and silverware from their target trio’s table.
“The boy’s game stream account came online. He was here, but it looks like someone else was looking for him too, he tussled with a reflected security daemon and got himself reset,” Von Kalt explained.
“I trust that’s a mistake you won’t be making yourself,” Stanwood said, though it was unclear as to whether he actually understood his deputy.
“Director Stanwood, Sir?” Von Kalt asked, ignoring Stanwood’s barb.
“Yes?” Stanwood replied.
“Why are you in the capitol?” Von Kalt asked, recognizing the office.
“This isn’t the only challenge facing the Republic, Deputy.”
“Of course not, sir,” Von Kalt replied.
“It looks like you’re on top of things there. Did they leave anything?”
“No. Someone noticed that they took a napkin, but that’s not the same as leaving a hotel pen or a book of matches, is it?”
Stanwood gave a short, uninterested laugh.
“We were within a couple of minutes. They were here. I can feel them.”
“About that…” Stanwood paused for a moment.
Von Kalt snapped out of his self-indulgent sixth–sense and returned his attention to his superior.
“Bergstrom certainly sensed the presence of your amplifier. He’s creating a device that can track it. He says it has something to do with hearing smells and smelling sounds, if that makes any sense.”
“Perfect sense, sir.”
“How’s that?”
“The amplifier saturates an area with particles. Those particles are inhaled and absorbed through the skin. Then messages are reflected across the particles, like a chain of mirrors. At the same time, the crystals, it’s not a metal, it’s a crystal, the crystals all in contact with each other and they also reflect high-frequency oscillation, controlling the direction of the reflected light. It uses opposing forces to stay balanced, the way a helicopter does.”
“That’s fantastic, Deputy. As I said, I’ve spoken to Bergstrom. He’s going to contact you when the wolves are ready.”
“Will you be returning then?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“They were here, Sir. I’ll catch them. You have my word.”
“Oh, now that you mention it, Bergstrom has a condition for his assistance. You need to be aware of this. When you finally make good on your promise, Bergstrom gets the girl. He wants, as he said, significant amounts of DNA from both, but I agreed that he can have the daughter.”
Von Kalt was surprised to find this didn’t bother him as much as it might have in the past.
”Also, the parameters on this case have been expanded to include the Black Willow operative group; namely Major Kelton Ross. However, anyone suspected to be giving them material aid, must be considered an accomplice. All suspects are considered extremely dangerous and cleared for Dead or Alive protocol.”
“Understood, sir.” Von Kalt nodded.
“That is all, Deputy.” Stanwood disconnected the call.
Von Kalt smiled and squeezed the Metachron in his hand.
Geoff was glued to the TV, watching footage of the park. After a while, Ashley realized there was no newscaster. She asked him what channel he was watching. Geoff explained he’d hacked into the police band. Ash sat with her brother and watched the footage of the local citizens being interrogated.
Von Kalt had flooded the restaurant and park with agents. Everyone for three blocks had been identified and questioned.
The hair on Ashley’s arms stood up as she remembered the man doing Tai Chi. She’d seen him in the library too, staring at her, just before the agents jumped them. He was nowhere to be seen in the police footage, but Ashley was sure it had been the same man. Something about the coincidence disturbed her immensely.
Despite all her extra stretching and practice, Ashley felt agitated. A storm had come in a couple of hours earlier, but it was more than that.
Geoff's reaction to the Micronix had been troubling. Her initial reactions felt justified. The prototype was not a toy; it was not something to be casual with.
She had no desire to use the mysterious hunk of metal, either as a weapon or a mental computer connection. Yet somehow, having it with her relaxed her. It had been her father's, and for better or worse, it was all that existed of his legacy.
After dinner, Ross seemed weird, nervous. "Well, I think Geoff may have tripped some alarms somewhere."
Ashley's brow furrowed over her bright blue eyes. He had no idea Geoff continued to peruse the intelligence files over the Micronix device.
Geoff took a deep breath.
"From what I understand, we dodged them by about two stop lights. The whole park was crawling with cops, mercs and feds. They had two fistfights and three arrests, just among each other. Dragged everyone out of the restaurant and took them downtown. Then went and found everyone else who had lunch there and brought them in too. Always pay in cash."
"This is bad, huh?" Ashley asked.
"I don't know," Ross answered. He looked at Geoff. "How bad is it?"
"Well. It's taken me a little to put it together, but I think it's maybe, pretty bad. They've got bounties out on us, eight actually. They're calling you a kidnapper, and they're o
ffering five hundred thousand for you, dead or alive, with an additional bonus of four hundred for each of us, if they bring us in alive."
"That's over a million dollars," Ashley said.
"We need to know who is offering that kind of scratch," Ross said.
"The Angel City Police Department, Los Angeles County Sheriff, State of California Police, FBI, ICE, NSA, DOD and the ATF, all reporting to the office of the National Intelligence Director," Geoff replied.
"We can't go after everyone,” Ross said.
“What about just the last guy?” Ashley asked. “The National Intelligence Director?”
“Who gave you the nose bleed?" Ross asked Geoff.
"All he said was, This is Eel, and then, bam and I was down."
"The Electric Eel, damn. I’ve heard of that guy. I know the FBI has full-time operators hardwired into their defense grid, so he just thought he was shutting down your system. How could he know he was shorting-out our head?
"Anyhow, the documents are coming in today. So I want you guys to be ready to go as soon as I get back with them."
"What about the storm?" Ashley asked.
"Visibility is for shit, radio comms are all fouled up, you couldn't ask for better weather; the Gods are smiling on us," Ross answered.
Chapter 56 – The Black Willow Gun Trees
Sunset, Wednesday, July 29, 2308
The invisible surveillance trailer drifted in a bending loop, locked into a track that delivered line-of-sight with the western side of District Thirteen and Bergstrom’s attached hangar.
Inside, First Sergeant King monitored the transmission steams from the tiny micro-transmitters he’d sprayed through Dr. Bergstrom’s section of the orphanage. Stanwood had called three times, and Bergstrom repeatedly claimed to be on track to deliver his first ‘Micronix Scanner’ by nightfall.
Stanwood had in turn, called Von Kalt and the deputy dutifully returned the call to Dr. Bergstrom.
Now, as the sun continued to sink toward the Pacific Ocean, Bergstrom approached final preparations in his hangar. Assistants ran through checklists on the armored war machines, making sure they were fueled up and the ammunition magazines were loaded and made ready.
King’s trailer and attached Black Willow Battle Suit both had their own phase-cam and were operating under a hundred meter avoidance protocol; meaning the auto pilot, on it’s anchored loop, would maintain a hundred meter cushion from any passing vehicles or drifting vendors.
The Angel City skyscape, with three hundred days of summer, had always been one of the more crowded utopias of the modern world. To ask for much more than a hundred meters would be difficult.
Given their invisibility and the autopilot protocols, a knock at the trailer door surprised King. He opened it without getting up.
Croswell activated the magnetic anchor on his battle suit, linking it to the trailer, and climbed out. He fearlessly launched himself into the open sky, leaping across the significant gap between his suit and the trailer.
The Secretary of Defense crashed into the trailer, needing every bit of the two steps he had to stop, before smashing into a bank of surveillance equipment.
“That was a bit excessive, don’t you think?” King asked from his place at the surveillance terminal.
Croswell laughed. “Gotta push yourself a little harder every day.”
“That’s what she said.” King smiled.
Croswell laughed. “No Snow, No Ross?” he asked.
“ETA five mikes,” King answered.
“Goddamn Stanwood. He gave me his word he’d drop it, that little bastard. We’re going to visit him next.”
“His calls were being relayed through a D.C. substation.”
“I don’t give a shit where he is. I’ll find him,” Croswell said.
“Well, here’s his little buddy, right on cue.” King pointed out an approaching vehicle.
“All right. Let’s get in our gear.” Croswell asked.
“Just let me finish routing these streams into our suits,” King said.
“I’ll be waiting for you.” Croswell took two steps and grunted as he leapt from the trailer.
King laughed and sighed, rising from the terminal. The First Sergeant called his suit over and lightly stepped from the trailer into the modular cockpit. The suit was more of an armored vehicle, a man-shaped tank, stocked with a variety of cannons and missile banks.
Inside, the surveillance streams were arrayed in a strip across the top of the windshield. King settled into the suit, his arms were its arms, his legs were its legs, regardless of the fact that his hands and feet, at their most extended, never reached outside the suit’s main cabin, in the chest.
There was no head, per say, just a cluster of scanners and cameras. Twin long barreled sniper rifles protruded from the sides of what would have been its jaw-line. Above them, antennae reached out at twenty-degree angles. Centered between them, like a mow-hawk, three missiles were stacked, one atop the other, in a narrow magazine.
The armored limbs served both offensive and defensive roles, boasting heavy armor plates and gun barrels in a variety of caliber. Flanks of missiles were mounted to each hip and six-barreled Gatling guns on both the shoulders and on the outside of the massive feet. Anti-gravity drives on the soles of the feet, the floor of the cabin and the underside of the forearms managed elevation, pitch, roll and acceleration velocity.
King’s feet were strapped into the flight controls, while his hands managed the three-dozen weapons systems, displayed on the windshield and dashboard. The video and audio from Bergstrom’s lab was piped in as well. King listened and occasionally glanced up as the suit ran through its preflight spooling operations.
Director Bergstrom introduced Von Kalt to his assistants and the other pilots.
“You ready for this?” Croswell asked.
“Are we not waiting for Ana and Kelly?”
“They’ll either be here or they won’t,” Croswell said. “I want to line up on the right side of that hangar door, and when it slides open, wait for me, but once I open up, just let ‘em have it.”
“Sounds good to me,” King replied.
Croswell explained the next step, “I’ll take the outside, and as they begin to react, I’ll slide up and around to a perpendicular position, but aiming at a downward trajectory. That will keep the bulk of the orphanage out of the line of fire.”
“Until they fire back, that is,” King replied, piloting his tank into position.
“Well, that will have to be on them, then,” Croswell answered, taking up a position to King’s left. “I’ll open up first. After the first volley, if I can effectively suppress them and keep them from getting out, I’ll move up out of the way to reload. That’s when I want you to swing inside.”
“The good old Jab-Cross.”
“Exactly. After you blow your load, fall out and I’ll swing in to give them another helping.”
King laughed. “We’re going to cut this place in half.”
On the feed from inside the hangar, Bergstrom was helping the pilots get situated.
“Okay, you see that big device against the outside wall?” King asked, pointing to the outside wall of the hangar, where Bergstrom had spent the bulk of his day.
“Yeah,” Croswell answered.
“That’s their scanner. From what I understand it works like radar, only it’s not very mobile. He said it’s probably good for thirty miles in every direction. He claims he’ll be able to forward them coordinates on any active amplifier in the city,” King said.
“He hasn’t tested it yet?” Croswell asked.
“Apparently not, or they’d be scrambling,” King said.
“That’s some pretty serious arrogance.”
“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t be Bergstrom otherwise, would he?”
“I suppose not.” Croswell laughed.
In the hangar, the first two wolves were airborne.
“Here we go,” Croswell said.
King heard the
Gatling guns on Croswell’s unit engage their motors, humming as they spun up, but not firing yet.
The second two wolves had been activated and lined behind the first two. The wolves were just dumbed-down versions of the Black Willow suit, carrying about a third of the firepower and none of Fox’s secret phase-camouflage.
The phase-cam had been just one of the Black Willow team’s global ace in the hole. No one had been able to mimic it. Bergstrom had boasted about his inevitable ability to understand and recreate a similar version of the technology, but he never had.
As the last two wolves hovered into place, Bergstrom triggered the hanger door.
Croswell waited. King waited. The wolves waited.
King’s angle along the district prevented him from being able to see Dr. Bergstrom, deeper in the lab. He watched him on the surveillance streams from the micro-transmitters.
Bergstrom crossed over to his newly completed Micronix Scanner. “I’ve calibrated it for the most range possible, so let’s give her some juice.” He reached out to it, switching it on.
The piercing electronic scream, caused by the immediate proximity of King and Croswell, shattered the otherwise quiet afternoon.
The wolves stumbled from their few feet of altitude and fell to the floor of the hanger. Bergstrom jumped to the controls, cranking them down in a fraction of a second.
In the same moment, King realized their phase-cam was completely compromised.
Then Croswell opened fire, ripping into the forward wolves; his heavy rounds denting their armor and driving them back as they struggled to recover from Bergstrom’s sonic surprise. Croswell launched his loaded missile banks, nine rocket powered warheads streaked into the hangar.
The wolves were tossed about like leaves before a late autumn wind.
Croswell swung up and around to reload.
King jumped into the fray, landing on the hangar floor, streaming rounds from every barrel he could fire at once. He leapt in the air, switched from guns to missiles, and let go with his nine.
As King rolled toward the far left side of the hangar door, the missiles ripped holes in the far side of the structure. Only three of the wolves were still intact, the forward units had taken the brunt of the attack and come apart. King appeared to hesitate, and the remainder of the squadron opened fire with guns and missiles.