by Brandt Legg
Wen considered the irony that so much of the future was riding on completing a link to the Ghost Dragon, a satellite built to facilitate a secret global war, from a tiny island called Port Hardy, on the western coast of Canada, one of the most peaceful nations on earth. She checked the area again as the link clock ticked ever closer to the nine twenty-nine minute dead stop. Only seven more seconds until the earth-space lag fifteen second cushion collapsed. She knew the NSA and MSS could already be on their way; no one was invisible to their everywhere-digital-eyes.
Six seconds. How soon could they get a team here if the upload overshoots the cushion? she thought while scanning for escape routes.
Five seconds. Did they reverse track me from Singapore? Both intelligence agencies had ways of reverse reviewing satellite images, as well as the millions of public cameras, to effectively follow someone’s constant movements. Even with all Wen’s precautions, disguises, doubles, and other subterfuge, she knew they were a million times bigger, smarter, and more equipped than she could ever be. They. Would. Find. Her.
Two seconds. The risks were greater if she didn’t get her information uploaded than if she blew the cushion.
As the final second rolled over, she gave one last thought to the decision, took a deep breath, and then said silently in Mandarin, I’m sorry, Chase, I have no choice.
Negative three seconds. It should be done by now! What if they already caught my transmission and are looping a delay to pinpoint my exact location? Wen fought the urge to panic, to pull the plug.
Negative six seconds. She palmed an extra magazine to her a QSZ-92 semi-automatic pistol and pulled the Glock 19 out of her bag. There was a deer path that went into the woods. The car will be covered first. My best chance is in the woods and hope they only send a couple of agents.
Negative twelve seconds. Pull it, pull it! It can’t be taking this long . . .
Negative fifteen—the cushion was blown. Wen was now fully traceable. She pictured the satellite zooming in on her at that very instant.
Negative seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—it didn’t matter now, she might as well let the upload continue. Even if they had her, if the transmission completed, there’d still be a remote chance that she could save Chase.
Negative twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six—green bars. It was done! She yanked the quad chips, cut the line, and started to dash back toward the car.
That’s when she heard the twig snap.
Sliske’s assistant rubbed the “s” shaped scar, recalling the childhood accident when a careless younger brother pushed the blade from a rusty pair of hedge clippers into his cheek. The other blade just missed his eye. If he’d been blinded that day, he might not have had to process his boss’s order for one thousand more CHIPs. He knew Sliske could not have told the Chairman of their parent company, GlobeTec, that he was going to put hundreds of barely tested CHIPs into the field over the next ten days. No one sane would have approved it.
The assistant thought of going over Sliske’s head and contacting the Chairman directly, but he knew what had happened to Joey Porter. If he’d had kids like Porter, he might have cared enough about what the CHIPs would do, what they would mean for the future. But at the end of the day, as long as he could still get a four dollar bottle of wine at the big box store, movies still streamed to his couch, and fast food into his stomach, he could put up with most anything. An annual vacation with pretty people in bathing suits, on a beach somewhere, also helped.
He made the arrangements for the CHIPs. If he didn’t do it, they’d get someone else to do it anyway. Powerful people like Sliske could always find people to do what they needed. He’d found more than a thousand people to take the CHIPs, hadn’t he? What on earth could he have promised them in exchange? Money? It was almost always money . . . but in this case, the CHIPs were promised something more.
The assistant knew all about the promises, because he had been one of the first to accept a CHIP. That’s how he knew the danger, and the irresistible, intoxicating power that they brought. He understood how no one could refuse, especially with the rigorous screening process TruNeural used. But, sooner or later, the CHIPs would cross a line when it would be clear that machines were now more important than people.
The assistant glanced at his reflection in the dark part of the computer’s monitor as he keyed in the order and thought about that singularity moment when humans were surpassed by their creation, and he realized he didn’t care. But what would happen when the public found out about the CHIPs and what they were, what they did, and how they did it? He knew Sliske was rushing the deployment because if he had enough CHIPs out there when the public discovered the truth, it would be too late to stop. Much, much too late.
Twenty-Seven
Chase, still adjusting to the “normal” world of the hotel lobby, looked around nervously, trying not to appear as if anything was wrong, while the concierge made the call to arrange for the car.
“It will just be a minute, Mr. Malone,” the concierge said, recognizing him. “Would you care to freshen up?” He pointed to the restroom.
Chase realized he looked quite disheveled and was dripping in sweat. “No, uh, thank you,” he said, managing a smile.
The concierge returned the smile. “Of course.”
Chase’s eyes continued darting between the main entrance and the door to the stairs, expecting Rong Lo and Death to explode out with a hail of bullets and a firestorm barrage of blood and bodies. To his surprise, Twag unexpectedly exited, looking calm. He quickly scanned the lobby, spotted Chase, and, with a tilt of his head, motioned him toward the front entrance. Chase picked up the meaning and followed, catching up with Twag on the sidewalk seventy feet from the revolving doors at the entrance.
Chase jogged next to Twag, who was walking briskly in spite of his injuries. “How bad are you hurt?”
“I’ll be okay. We must keep moving.”
“Where to?” Chase asked, noticing the blood soaking through Twag’s light jacket.
“My car. I get you to safe place. Wait for Wen.”
They turned down a side street. “Why are you doing this?”
“It needs to be done,” Twag said, breathing heavily, wincing in pain.
“What? Saving me? Why?” Chase asked again, confused why this stranger would risk his life to protect him.
“Wen asked. You important to her. You need to live.”
“So do you,” Chase said as they entered a small parking garage.
“This my job. I do this because people running China not good. They must be stopped from doing what they are trying. You can do that. Not me. You must live.”
Chase had more questions, but they arrived at the car—a rented silver Hyundai. “You drive,” Twag said, tossing him the keys. “I’m not sure how long I last.”
“Then I’m driving you straight to the emergency room!”
“No. Rong Lo find us there. Kill us both.”
“How did you lose him in the stairs?”
“Smoke,” Twag replied. “Now, let’s go! Turn right.”
“What do you mean smoke?” Chase asked, pulling onto the street. Before Twag could respond, two firetrucks blared past and Chase nodded his understanding. “How long will that hold him?”
“Not long. He’s probably on the street looking for us. They can find us with satellites and cameras. He find us soon.”
Chase understood the technology arrayed against them, and he could not deny Rong Lo was trying to kill him, he just didn’t know why. But, as he navigated the busy streets of Vancouver, following Twag’s directions, he began to realize it couldn’t just be about Wen. There had to be something more, something about the SEER simulations, about RAIN, but the connections seemed too coincidental.
I’m one of the smartest guys on the planet, Chase thought. How come I can’t figure this out? He cut himself a little slack because he’d been under some pressure—seeing how humanity was going to end, and he’d been running for his lif
e—but still . . .
“Pull in there.” Twag pointed to a gas station, his voice more strained.
Chase checked the gauge. “We don’t need gas.”
“I’m not going to make it,” Twag said, blood oozing out from beneath his hands.
“We’re going to the hospital right now!” Chase pulled back into traffic.
“Too late for hospital. You take car to this address.” Twag held out a card with a handwritten address. “It’s safe there for you. Leave me in the car. Someone find my body later.”
“No! This is crazy. I’m not gonna let you die and leave your body in a car. And I’m not going to hide out. This is crazy.” Chase told the car navigation system to find the closest hospital. He looked at Twag. An overwhelming anger seized him and he hit the steering wheel. “No!” he yelled again. “No, no.”
“You call your family, tell them—”
“Wait, why my family?” Chase fought tears. Impulsively, he raked sweaty hands through his hair.
“Your family not safe now.” Twag’s voice came out as a gravelly whisper. “MSS always goes after family. Listen to me Chase, they will get your family.”
“My family?” Chase yelled. “Are you talking about my parents, my brother? What kind of . . . what are you talking about?”
Twag did not answer.
“Twag? Hold on, man, we’re going to get you to the hospital. Twag?”
No response. Chase realized Twag was sitting in a pool of blood, steadily dripping onto the floormat. The navigator said twelve minutes to the hospital. The traffic signal turned red. Chase put the car in park and leaned over to check for a pulse. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right, having only seen it done in movies, but there was nothing . . . nothing but too much blood. Chase checked the card that had slipped into Twag’s lap. He put the address into the car’s system—twenty-one minutes away. No way. Chase took a left at the next cross street and headed back to the airport.
Twag’s dead. A stranger gave his life to save mine. Three people died for me today. Even more died trying to kill me . . . Rong Lo is still out there, still hunting me. I looked into that killer’s eyes . . . for the first time in my life, I know what pure evil looks like.
Twenty-Eight
In the forest outside Port Hardy, Wen spun with both guns aimed. A man, dressed in black, made it behind a large tree before she got off a shot.
“Silly girl,” he shouted in Mandarin. He fired at her from the protected spot.
Wen had already dropped and rolled to cover. But he’d anticipated her move and the bullet hit crazy close to her head as she crouched behind a small rock and some brambles. She knew more agents would be there in minutes. If they had someone this close, then the MSS had been reverse-tracking her every move. She’d never make it to the vehicle, and he could just wait her out.
“I do not want to die!” she yelled to the man.
“Good decision,” he said. “Throw out both your guns and then march into the open with your hands held high.”
Wen did not want to give up her guns, but she was about to be surrounded. She’d gotten the transmission off. It would do its damage; even if they figured out it wasn’t just a download Wen had been doing, they would never be able to find the files she’d sent. Time and options were too short now. Surrender was the last play she had left.
At least Twag is protecting Chase. He’s the best—invincible, she thought.
Confident that the man would not execute her here because Rong Lo would insist on questioning her personally, she tossed the guns and stepped into the clearing.
“Good girl,” the man said. “Good, good. Move away from those weapons. Walk this way.” As she got closer to the man’s tree, he left his hiding place and stood in front of her with a QSZ-92 semi-automatic pistol pointed at her chest. “Now, turn around and kneel!”
“All right,” Wen said, beginning to spin her body. She suddenly whipped her leg around in a spring kick, flew into the air, and closed the eight feet between them as if she were pole vaulting. While flying toward the agent, she released two concealed throwing stars. The razor-sharp metal discs hit his face and neck even before her legs connected with his jaw and chest.
In that raging moment, he managed to fire two shots. One hit Wen. They both collapsed onto the damp ground in a tangled mess.
Sliske looked at his phone as if it were a poisonous snake. He’d been waiting for the call from Franco Madden, but never enjoyed them. Franco had gone to Vancouver to end their Chase problem.
“‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’” Franco began.
“Spare me your stupid oddities today, will you?”
“Apparently, someone else is trying to kill Chase Malone,” Franco said, ignoring Sliske’s brazen manner.
“Friends of ours?” Sliske asked.
“Chinese. Perhaps he angered HuumaX as well.”
Sliske’s shoulders tightened and then relaxed only after he consciously told himself to breathe. He squeezed a tennis ball, a game he loathed. “If that’s true, then it’s worse than we thought.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Franco agreed, sipping on a Coke with just a splash of rum. “‘It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness’ . . . I’m going to make some calls.”
“You said ‘trying’, so that means we still have a problem?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, they seem to have failed. Chase left at least six bodies in his wake in Vancouver.”
“They sent six people and they couldn’t get him?” Sliske asked in disbelief.
“Three were his and three where theirs,” Franco replied. “I’m going to bring in some contractors, expand this rapidly. We’ve already lost another day.”
“We can’t afford another day,” Sliske agreed. He was surprised that Franco hadn’t succeeded in his objective. Franco may be a weasel, but he was generally excellent at his job.
Sliske felt a pain in his throat. Since childhood, he’d suffered from sore throats whenever he was angry, extremely frustrated, or emotionally upset by something. Chase Malone was infuriatingly frustrating. Chase had unknowingly enabled the entire RAIN-CHIP project by inventing RAI, but now he threatened to destroy it all.
“I’m not going to tell you how to do your job,” Sliske said.
Franco knew Sliske was going to do just that. “Good, because—”
“But this isn’t the time to be careful,” Sliske continued. “Whatever mess you make, we can clean up later.” He popped a couple of cough drops into his mouth.
“I’m on the same page. ‘It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.’” Franco had already thought of blowing up the BE headquarters building, staging a terrorist attack on the San Francisco airport, car bombs, lethal drugs, any number of ways to eliminate the problem. Unfortunately, most of those methods took time. Instead, he decided to go with quantity rather than quality. By using outside contractors, he could get a lot more numbers on the street. “I’m on my way back to San Francisco. So is Chase. I plan to get him before the Chinese do.”
Sliske, pleased that the Chinese were also trying to eliminate Chase since it would make his life much easier if they succeeded, also had grave concerns about their involvement. The situation gnawed at him. If HuumaX was indeed also after Chase, the pressure to get even more CHIPs onto the street was greater than ever.
Twenty-Nine
Dez listened silently as Chase relayed the story of the Vancouver massacre until the moment when his partner told him about getting on the plane. Chase had left out the part about Twag dying and having to leave his body in the long-term parking area at the Vancouver airport. It occurred to Chase that if he somehow lived through all this, he might very well wind up in prison for a long time. And that wasn’t the only reason he needed to talk to Mars, his old friend in federal lock-up at Lompoc.
Chase expected Dez to insist on contacting the FBI, but instead his friend
asked, “Why the hell are you coming back to San Francisco? If the MSS doesn’t get you, Franco Madden’s death squads will. And, by the way, did you wipe your prints off the steering wheel?”
“I think so . . . I’m not sure. But yes . . . I think.”
“You’re going to jail.”
“I’d prefer that to this!” Chase remembered meeting the GlobeTec head of security at one of the late stage acquisition board meetings. He thought at the time that the guy was a bit of a slimeball and out of place. Now he knew why. “I don’t know where else to go,” Chase said, realizing for the first time that he was kind of a man without a country. “I’ve got to call my parents.”
“Wait, we’ve learned a lot while you were gone. The Garbo-three has been busy. It seems Sliske is building some kind of army, a cross between clones and drones.”
“He’s crazy.”
“I’ve input the new information into SEER and the simulations look bleak. We have to stop RAIN.”
“Get me the security sectors and I can do it,” Chase said. “I’ll call you back when I land. I’ve got to reach my family.”
Chase tried his father first. As a CPA, he was a practical man, and would listen and heed the urgent warnings Chase planned to convey. But the call went to voicemail. His mother, a car mechanic who had owned and operated “Daisy’s,” a service station that mostly handled vintage cars since before Chase was born, was a full blown wild child who would take the threat from MSS as a challenge, something to be fixed, conquered. She had no fear. She picked up on the second ring.
“Convoy!” his mother, Daisy, said, as if the word were a celebration. She often called him that. A nickname he never liked and didn’t really understand how she’d created it just because his initials were CD. “How’s my baby billionaire?”
“Mom, I don’t have much time.”