by Dayton Ward
“Hang on,” said Reu, his attention on the pulse generator’s controls. “I’ve got something.” He pointed to the barn. “Something’s up in there.”
Peering once more through his rifle’s thermal sight, Markham studied the barn, but saw no signs of habitation or even the warmth that might be cast off from powered equipment in operation. He was about to shift the rifle to look at another part of the structure when something orange and red flitted across his sight’s reticule. Then he saw two more.
Son of a bitch.
“They’re in the barn.” Into his comm unit, Markham said, “All teams, move on the barn. Go.”
17
Isle of Arran
November 20, 2032
Emerging from the tunnel beneath the barn’s rearmost stall, Kirsten Heffron took Natalie Koroma’s proffered hand and allowed the agent to pull her the rest of the way up the ladder. Heffron could not help noting that the younger woman was able to lift her with a single hand and little effort.
“You work out?” she asked.
Koroma replied, “Exercise, a healthy diet, and generations of genetic engineering to produce a superior breed of human. That’s what’s in the brochure, anyway.”
“Probably too late for me, then.”
Despite the tense nature of their current circumstances, the younger woman seemed to appreciate the inappropriate humor and released a small grunt of amusement. “Probably, but give it a thousand years or so.”
Mestral pushed himself out of the tunnel opening and regained his feet. The scanner he had produced back in the farmhouse was once more active, and the Vulcan was pondering whatever information it was relaying to him. “Twelve life readings, converging on this location from multiple avenues of approach, and each heavily armed.”
“That’s our cue,” said Koroma, moving toward the rear of the otherwise unoccupied barn and the stone wall at the structure’s rear. “Computer on. Activate evacuation protocol.”
In response to her command, part of the wall slid aside to reveal a smaller version of the Beta 7 interface, which Heffron remembered from her arrival here two weeks earlier. This was the first time she had been in the barn since that initial exposure to the advanced machine in full operation. Lights and bands of streaking color played across the console’s main display screen, and the computer emitted a string of almost musical electronic tones as it processed whatever commands Koroma had put into motion. Next to the console was the heavy metal vault door she had glimpsed her first night here. The wheel on the door spun counterclockwise and the door opened as though of its own volition, revealing an empty chamber inside.
“Is the programming ready?” asked Koroma.
The Beta 7 replied, “Programming complete. Pre-selected destination confirmed.”
Something exploded behind them, near the front of the barn, and Heffron flinched at the abrupt sound and flash of light. Turning toward the sound, she saw that a large hole had been blown through one of the barn’s massive double doors, and thin beams of green were now shining through the resulting smoke.
“Get back,” whispered Koroma, just before Heffron felt herself pushed against the wall behind her. Then she saw the agent raise her right hand up and away from her, the servo she held aiming toward a heavy cross beam supporting the barn’s loft. Without another word, Koroma fired the slim weapon. There was no beam or loud report, but instead just a sharp metallic snap, followed immediately by a large chunk of the wooden beam disintegrating. That was enough to split the support and it collapsed, bringing with it a large portion of the loft’s decking and the hay stacked atop it.
The green beams disappeared, and Heffron heard muffled shouts of warning and other distinct commands being issued by at least two different people. Was it her imagination, or did one of the voices belong to Gerald Markham?
I wouldn’t doubt it. He likely caught six kinds of hell for letting me get away.
“Computer,” said Koroma, “stand by to execute failsafe emergency protocols as soon as we’re gone.”
The Beta 7 replied, “Acknowledged. Initiating protocols.”
“What does that mean?” asked Heffron.
“Sanitation,” replied the agent, her attention still focused on the front of the barn as she searched for new threats. “No traces left behind. Once we leave here, there’s no coming back.”
Her eyes widening in surprise, Heffron swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. “Well, that ought to slow them down.”
“They did track us to this location,” said Mestral. “Until we learn how they accomplished that, we are still at risk of being found again.”
“One problem at a time,” snapped Koroma. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Flickering light from outside the barn caught Heffron’s attention and she saw what had to be a flashlight beam piercing the gloom from the breached doorway. It seemed their attackers were no longer concerned with stealth. When a shadow appeared in the hole marring the barn door, Heffron reacted without thinking. The weapon in her hand raised and aimed for the opening and she fired. A burst of green-yellow energy spat from the odd pistol, lancing across the barn and through the hole. She heard someone outside gasp in shock or pain before the shadow fell away from the door.
The reaction was immediate, with a storm of metallic snaps erupting from beyond the doorway as dozens of holes were punched through the structure’s wooden walls. A hand in her back sent Heffron tumbling to the barn’s dirt and hay floor as bullets pierced the air above her. To her right, Mestral had dropped to the ground, flattening himself while at the same time aiming his own stun pistol toward the front of the building that had become a shooting gallery. A noise from her left side made Heffron look to see Koroma diving behind several bales of stacked hay, with bullets chewing into the uncertain barrier as the agent rolled out of sight.
“If they damage the computer,” warned Mestral, between two quick bursts from his weapon, “we will not be able to utilize the transport system.”
Rolling onto her side, Heffron gestured toward the barn’s front entrance. “Tell them that.”
From where she had sought protection behind the hay bales, Koroma poked her head into view. “Mestral, get her out of here. I’ll watch our backs.”
The agent punctuated her order by aiming her servo and firing again, this time toward the opening in the barn’s front door. Heffron could not see who or what she might be engaging, but she heard shouts of warning in response to the strike. With her other hand, Koroma reached behind her back and produced from her waistband a stun pistol similar to the ones Heffron and Mestral carried. Pointing the weapons in different directions as though attempting to cover possible avenues of approach and attack, Koroma rose from her crouch. She left her place of concealment, moving with controlled haste farther into the barn and toward the Beta 7 and the transport vault.
A noise from somewhere above them caught Heffron’s attention, and she looked up to see shadows flitting in the slats of the barn’s walls, near its slanted metal roof. Then she heard the sound again, and realization took hold.
Holy shit.
“They’re coming in through the—”
The rest of her warning was drowned out by an explosion that accompanied a hole being punched through the barn’s roof. Heffron flinched at the echo of the detonation as it bounced off the structure’s interior. She looked up to see a figure in dark clothing descending a rope through the jagged opening. A second person followed on another line.
Even as the two assailants dropped toward the barn’s floor, Koroma was reacting. Her servo and the stun pistol in her other hand took aim and fired, each catching one of the figures just as their feet touched the ground. Their bodies went limp, sagging against the D-ring connectors linking them to the ropes they had used for their descent.
“Move!” she shouted, without turning away from the source of the new danger.
Ahead of her, Heffron saw more shadows at the edge of the hole in the roof, as well as at the
door. Early morning sunlight glinted off metal, and the stun pistol in her hand raised in automatic response.
Weapons fire erupted once more within the barn, and this time Heffron felt something drilling through her left shoulder, spinning her off her feet, and sending her falling against a thick wooden support column. Pain erupted in her upper chest, and when she tried to grab on to the column for support she found her left arm would only hang limp at her side. White heat radiated from what she now saw was a red stain darkening her sweatshirt, and she sank to her knees.
“Damn it!”
The shout came from Koroma, scampering from where she had taken up position behind another of the columns as she moved toward Heffron.
“Director,” said Mestral, before Heffron felt hands under her arms and the Vulcan helping her to her feet.
Stuffing the stun pistol into her waistband, Heffron used her good hand to hold on to Mestral. Behind him, she saw that the vault door was open, and a cloud of bright blue mist roiled inside the small chamber. She picked up the low-pitched hum of the futuristic machine as it prepared to carry out its task and transport them to safety. Feeling another hand on her arm, she turned to see Koroma. The agent still wielded her servo in her other hand, her attention focused toward the breaches in the barn door and ceiling.
“Time to go,” said the agent. “You two first.”
Even if she had wanted to argue, Heffron did not have the strength to resist. Instead, she allowed Mestral to guide her toward the transport vault as Koroma took up one final defensive position, covering her companions’ escape. As she crossed the threshold into the vault, Heffron turned and looked down the length of the barn just as another dark figure connected to a rope dropped down from the hole in the roof. His weapon, some sort of short-barreled assault rifle, barked as it fired, sending bullets flying in multiple directions.
Several of the rounds found Koroma, her body shuddering with each impact. She staggered backward before tripping over her own feet and crumpling to the dirt floor. When she came to rest on her right side, her limbs were splayed in an awkward fashion, and she did not move.
“No!”
Even as the first tendrils of the transport vault’s unexplained energies began to embrace her, Heffron saw from the blank expression on the other woman’s face and her open yet unseeing eyes that Natalie Koroma was dead.
Then everything vanished in a blue whirlwind.
• • •
“Cease fire! Cease fire, you idiots!”
Storming into the barn behind two of his soldiers who at his order had broken through the structure’s compromised front door, Gerald Markham saw that his order had come too late, and the damage was done. Not Kirsten Heffron, but instead a younger woman lay unmoving on the barn’s dirt floor.
Damn it.
At the far end of the dilapidated barn, Markham saw the heavy metal vault door that was just closing. Behind it, visible for only a fleeting second, was a hint of blue fog, an almost electrical phenomenon that was already fading even before the door finished hiding it from view.
That has to be it, thought Markham, his attention riveted not only on the door but also the adjacent computer console. The teleportation equipment that he knew these people had at their command. It was here for the taking. Both it and the console were set into a wall of irregular stones and mortar, which seemed out of place for a structure such as this. Markham knew from his reconnoiter of the area that the barn backed up to an earthen embankment, which served to help hide not only the advanced machinery but also its power source. None of that, he recalled, had shown up on any of the satellite thermal imagery he had ordered for this entire area.
That no longer mattered, of course. Now he had the actual equipment in hand, ready for study and exploitation. Ever since first hearing about these mysterious “agents” from Kirsten Heffron, Markham was convinced that these people had to possess some form of advanced technology. Was it alien in origin? From what he saw before him, he could not make that determination, but he would soon have qualified scientists and engineers to answer that question, along with all of the others he had been harboring for so long.
Finally.
“Sir,” said a voice from behind him, and Markham glanced over his shoulder to see Sergeant Reu standing a few paces away, holding his M4 rifle slung low and next to his right hip. “We’ve secured the house. There’s nobody home.”
“Get your people out of there, Sergeant,” replied Markham, returning his gaze to the computer equipment. “I’ve got a team on the way to conduct a complete investigation of the entire site. What about your men who were dropped during the fight?”
Reu said, “Medics say they’re just stunned, sir. Lucky for us, the weapons employed by the targets were obviously nonlethal.”
The observation made Markham frown, realizing that he had all but forgotten about the fallen woman. Turning to where she still lay on the ground, he shook his head. “Yeah. Lucky us. Have your troops establish a perimeter and await further instructions.”
“On it.” Reu stepped away so that he could speak into a tactical radio clipped to his equipment harness.
Markham glanced again to the computer console, anxious to examine it, but instead he moved to stand over the dead woman. Based on her appearance and from the information provided by Heffron, he knew this had to be Natalie Koroma. It was almost certainly an alias, if these “agents” conducted themselves with any sort of training or common sense, and everything Markham learned about them suggested this to be true. A full autopsy conducted by pathologists and other forensic technicians would use all MJ-12 resources at their disposal to confirm the woman’s identity. Perhaps that information would uncover links to other individuals, be they fellow agents or civilians who like Kirsten Heffron had benefited from their knowledge and assistance over the years. Such connections would, Markham hoped, lead to even more examples of the advanced technology that these people employed, and maybe even to those who provided it.
“It’s a damned shame you didn’t live,” he said, his gaze lingering on Koroma’s unmoving form. “I bet we’d have learned a hell of a lot from you.” He was still angry that the agent had been caught in the crossfire. He did not blame Sergeant Reu or the rest of the team for acting to defend themselves when it became obvious that their quarry would not surrender without a fight, and neither was he grief stricken that the troublesome agent would no longer present problems for him or Majestic. Instead, he simply was disappointed at the opportunity lost to acquire more information.
She still has friends. We’ll find them.
Feeble light from one of the bulbs illuminating the barn’s interior flickered off something lying on the ground next to Koroma’s body, and as Markham stepped closer he saw that it was a silver fountain pen. He allowed himself a grim smile as he recognized the agent’s servo. Kneeling next to the fallen woman, he retrieved the device, judging its weight in his hand. Was it his imagination, or was it somewhat heavier than the one confiscated from Heffron a year ago? Majestic engineers had disassembled and studied that device, determining that it harbored a microminiaturized communications transceiver far more powerful than anything created even by the United States military or MJ-12 itself. Markham knew that the servo also had defensive capabilities, as evidenced by the unconscious soldiers being treated outside the barn. What other secrets did it conceal? Along with everything else tucked into this building and the adjacent house, the research department would have a field day playing with this specimen.
Without warning, the servo turned red hot in his hand.
“Son of a bitch!” Dropping the pen, Markham jerked his hand toward him, instinctively pressing it against his side and wincing at the momentary flash of pain coursing across his skin. Examining his palm, he saw that it was reddened, but the initial discomfort was already fading.
“Are you all right, sir?” Reu asked. The sergeant lurched toward him, extending his free hand as if to help.
Markham scowled at the
dropped servo where it had fallen. The device’s outer silver shell was now black, and as he watched, it stretched and swelled before bursting into uncounted pieces. Some of the fragments, glowing with extreme heat, landed on stray pieces of hay littering the barn floor, setting them alight.
“Damned thing had a self-destruct,” he said, shaking his hand to mitigate the lingering effects of the servo’s reaction. “Definitely an attention getter.”
What else did they booby-trap?
“Oh, damn.” Looking away from the servo’s remnants, Markham turned his attention on the computer console, which was still active at least on some level. Several lines of multicolored light coursed across one of its monitors, and another display showed a seemingly random cascade of scrolling text. Staring at the information being presented, Markham noted that it was rendered in either a human or computer language he did not recognize.
A muffled explosion from somewhere outside made Markham and Reu exchange surprised glances. The sound was followed by shouts of alarm before a new voice shouted from the front of the barn.
“Everybody out! The house was rigged to blow!”
Seeing the MJ-12 soldier standing in the doorway, Markham grabbed at Reu’s arm and pushed him in that direction. “Get your people out of here!”
The sergeant ran for the door with Markham on his heels, and both men exited the barn in time to see the farmhouse collapsing in on itself. Wood and stone fell inward, dropping into a hole that had opened up beneath the entire structure. More explosions were emanating from within the falling building, with thick clouds of dark smoke billowing into the early morning sky. Markham was still following Reu away from the barn when another explosion made him flinch. This one came from behind him, and he felt the rush of displaced air washing over him as he stumbled over the uneven ground before dropping to one knee on the dirt. Reu stopped, turning and extending his free hand to Markham before raising his head and looking toward the barn.