by JM Guillen
Asset 108, initiation code 020798361. Over-ride class two. Designate Authorization 110809. Cold boot in progress.
Without another thought, I was on the move.
Filled with unknown purpose, I walked quickly from my living room, through the kitchen, and into my bedroom.
I didn’t particularly wonder where I was going, or why. My thoughts were heavy, as if covered in syrup.
“Access, Iota-six-three.” The words fell from my lips without conscious thought. I felt distant from my body, like I was watching it from afar.
Granted, 108.
Part of the wall behind my bed slid away, revealing a room beyond. Light flickered within, shining over a room of white tile and stainless steel.
This didn’t seem nearly as strange as it should. In some back corner of my mind, I hoped Wyatt would pick this moment to drop by.
The look on his face would be priceless.
I walked briskly into the sterile room, blinking from the brilliance of the white light and my continuing disorientation.
The room was large—almost as large as my entire apartment.
How bizarre that I hadn’t ever noticed that it was here.
Then I saw the guns.
The left hand wall was practically lined with guns: long-barreled, scoped weapons; bulky, mechanized shotguns; and pistols of every shape and size.
Some distant part of my mind was interested in looking at them closer, but my feet carried me past them to a large cabinet on the far side of the room.
As was everything, it was a shining thing of stainless steel.
I reached for the upper left corner of the cabinet, without realizing what I meant to do, and placed my hand against the smooth metal.
My hand tingled.
Asset 108, confirmed.
The cabinet hissed as hidden hydraulics responded to my touch.
I stepped into the cabinet, realizing it was far larger than it had seemed. It was a wardrobe.
On the left side hung several of my suits, expensive things that looked as if they had just been pressed. There was a mirror in the back of the wardrobe, and a light above it flicked on as I stepped inside.
I turned to the right side of the wardrobe. It was quite different.
Several different versions of tactical wear, thick black vests with metal plates covering the chest, and several variants of armored trouser, most with innumerable pockets hung there. Four different styles of boot, each looking brand new, had been placed on the floor.
Without a second thought, I began to get dressed.
As I pulled my t-shirt off, it seemed as if things made a little more sense. Wyatt wasn’t supposed to come over; I remembered now. I would meet him… somewhere.
As I pulled on the heavily plated trouser, a self-depreciating grin played around the edge of my mouth.
All my nervous energy earlier had been foolish.
I was right in the groove.
Moments later, I was completely dressed, and outside the wardrobe. I knelt before a small refrigerator and was perusing a small collection of hypodermic devices when the voice spoke inside my mind:
Michael, it’s time to proceed.
“Okay.” I looked up at the ceiling, as if I would see a speaker there.
We need to initialize packet calibration.
“Copy that.” I knew right where to go: to the device in the far side of the room.
I stood and walked across the room, a bounce in my step. The grin on my face felt a touch oafish, but I couldn’t help it.
I was just so happy.
At the far end of the room was a large device pushed up against the wall. Upon initial inspection, it looked to be a simple stainless-steel table standing up on one end.
“No.” I reached out to grip the handholds. The table swiveled at my touch. It wasn’t a table. It was…
The Cradle. I had no idea how I knew that was what it was called, but I did. My grin faded, just a bit.
For some reason, I did not care for this device.
Around the Cradle was a circle of white metal and engraved on the surface were several fine grooves. They were used by the metallic swing arm, allowing it to move almost freely. Offsetting the white was a polished chrome plate with dark markings on the surface.
Your packets are preselected, Michael. Please engage the Cradle.
I walked over to it, moving the swing arm around. At the end of the arm was a silver and blue rod, sleek, about the size of a ballpoint pen. It moved easily.
SNICK.
I jumped at the sensation, as if something behind my left ear had clicked unexpectedly into place.
Warily, I leaned against the table holding on to the side grips.
“Oh!” I caught my breath as the table shifted beneath me, leaning backward. The arm moved of its own accord, darting around me with a slight whir.
I hate cold boots. The thought was alien, yet somehow comforting.
I considered it for a moment, thinking how there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with my boots.
The swing arm darted like an insect, positioning the rod around my head, pausing, and then darting around to another location.
Bishop, Michael. Asset 108. With each word, the end of the rod pulsed a brilliant cobalt blue. Packet selection is already confirmed. Designate selection is: SPECTRE, ADEPT.
“Spectre?” That seemed odd. Irritatingly so. Wyatt wouldn’t have to deal with unfamiliar equipment.
Out of nowhere, I had the vague desire for a cigarette.
Michael, we need to bring you up to speed, but do not have time for your Crown to fully initiate and process a dossier. The voice echoed slightly in my mind.
“Understood.” The table leaned forward again and I released the handles. I took a couple of steps forward and then opened a small wall cabinet to my right.
Inside were several small, round devices, each with a glaring, scarlet button on the top. They looked molded to fit my hand.
I placed a few inside the many pouches on my vest. As I grabbed the last, I paused for a moment and stared at the device.
It was like remembering an old dream, one I’d had in another life.
“Dampening grenade.” That was right. That was exactly what this was.
You are to be dispatched to a Facility location that has been classified as a Status II hot zone. Unknown Irrational targets have successfully completed several incursions at multiple coordinates. Several Assets are presumed lost.
“Understood.” The giddy happiness faded and my brow furrowed as I processed the information.
Asset Guthrie’s system was initiated prior to yours, and he has the full dossier within his Crown. You will be dropped into the hot zone via conduit and will clear the area to await his arrival.
“And he’ll advise me from there.” I nodded, understanding dawning in my mind.
Correct. Initiating conduit now. The doorway back to my bedroom closed silently on unseen hinges. Then it clicked loudly and the seam of the door pulsed a brilliant orange.
That glaring orange light was an assault on the mind, nearly impossible to look at. I glanced away, but the light died almost as quickly as it had begun.
The doorway began to hum and I stepped away to the wall of weaponry.
I took two bulky, long-barreled pistols and popped the injectors off the hilts. Moments later, I had injected myself and strapped on the holsters.
Bishop, Michael, Asset 108. Do you wish to initiate weapon synchronization?
“I do.” I spoke distractedly, thinking that I needed something else: weaponry for close quarters. “Please synchronize both for item possession and neural link.”
Synchronization initiated. My Crown whirred in my head. I looked around, as if this was the most natural thing on Earth.
Location achieved, Asset. The crawling, droning hum slowed and quieted. I stepped toward the doorway, casually picking up two katanas from where they hung on the wall.
As always, Michael… The words seemed tinn
y in my mind as I stepped toward the door. As it opened, I grinned and mouthed the words along with the woman in my mind.
We wish you well in the days ahead.
###
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About the Author
JM Guillen was a normal, mild mannered Midwesterner until he achieved his lifelong dream of being a full-time writer in the summer of 2011. When one of his stories, The Herald of Autumn, was nominated for a Nebula Award, it was the final straw for his mundanity.
He immediately went mad with a miniscule, insignificant amount of power.
Soon he was declaring himself to be “exempt from the laws of men, regarding pants,” and conducting mad experiments regarding human tolerance for rum. In between attempts at taking over Strafford, Missouri, he also dabbles in weird fiction. Besides science fiction, fantasy, and horror, he is best known for implementing schemes, plots, and ploys.
Today, the self-described supervillain spends his days scribing “The Paean of Sundered Dreams,” a cycle of series that all blend and interweave. This is his greatest scheme yet, as discovering the myriad connections between these worlds tends to drive his readers mad.
You can visit his website at www.irrationalworlds.com.
This is a work of wonderful fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Except when not.
Regarding Oaths and the Whispering Flame
Copyright of JM Guillen. - © 2015. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is limited.
An Irrational Worlds book
Created in the United States of America