“To me, Lottie!” Hooker hollered. He aimed and fired, killing one of the shot-gunners. He fired again, downing the warrior struggling with Paolo. The girl rolled free, using a spearman’s corpse as a shield. She threw him into her pursuers and bounded away. A general drew a revolver from his belt and stuffed the barrel in Paolo’s face.
Hooker saw Paolo close his eyes.
There was a muffled shot, and the Crimson Brigadier died. The leaguers stomped his body and roared. They hacked Paolo’s head from his shoulders and kicked it off the roof. Then they turned towards Lottie and Hooker.
Hooker fired again, the general who’d shot Paolo spinning as a bullet pierced his skull. The leaguers raised their weapons to the sky, axes and spears and maces. They charged, a battle cry on their lips. No Surrender!
“I’m sorry,” said Hooker, ripping the mezuzah from his neck. He felt the metal, skin-warm in his fist, and thought of Beatriz...
His fob, clipped to his collar, crackled.
“NatSec ADVENT Alpha Zero? You getting’ this?” said a voice, an easy Texan drawl. “NatSec ADVENT Alpha Zero, this is VENDETTA Four-Seven Actual, stand-down your aerial assets.”
“Huh?” said Lottie. “Vendetta what?”
“My fob. Someone’s patched me into the local tac-net.” Hooker broke cover and fired, sending another general tumbling. The leaguers circled their wounded comrade, shields raised. From the fob bled a reply to the American’s challenge.
This is NatSec ADVENT Alpha Zero, please identify yourself, VENDETTA Four-Seven Actual. This is an unknown callsign on this tac-net… Hooker knew ADVENT Alpha Zero was an airspace control call-sign, responsible for aviation over the combat zone.
Hear this – I am Lieutenant-Colonel Vail, of the 1st Raider Battalion, United States Marine Corps. We ARE deployed under the Bilateral Assistance Treaty, and we ARE extracting an American national from your AOE.
This is ADVENT Alpha Zero, we have NO permissions for any VENDETTA call-sign, please standby…
The American sounded like he was enjoying himself. You ain’t listenin’ to me, are you son? This is a Warhawk strike boat, we’re comin’ in hot and if we even sniff your drones on our six we’ll open fire. We are fully authorised by YOUR government to do so. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, NatSec Alpha Zero?
The controller’s voice wavered. Your presence is unauthorised, VENDETTA Four-Seven Actual. This airspace falls under UK law enforcement jurisdiction. Please change course.
Bullshit – consult your chain of command. We’re locked and loaded. VENDETTA Four-Seven Actual OUT.
It was as if the night itself roared and wailed, something blocking out the moonlight. The leaguers stared in disbelief at the ugly war-machine hovering overhead. “Aztecs,” said Lottie.
“Huh?”
“This is what it must have been like, the first time they saw a Conquistador galleon.”
The sky was filled by the Warhawk’s mottled grey fuselage, VTOL thrusters belching blue flame. Hooker made out the stars and stripes on the tail array, stubby cannon tracking targets across the roof. A voice boomed from loudspeakers. Rufus Hooker? This is the United States Marine Corps. Is our national with you?
“You American?” asked Hooker.
“No.”
“Then pretend,” Hooker replied, staggering from cover, arms raised. He pointed at Lottie and nodded. With a metallic whisper, smart munitions raked the roof. The leaguer shield wall ceased to exist, replaced by a scorched expanse of butchery.
Lottie Rhys fell to her knees, mouth bubbling with bloody spittle. Armoured figures descended on fast-ropes, weapons ready. Snapping Lottie into a harness, they swooped back to the strike boat’s belly like trapeze artists. Another squad descended and found the roof hatch, where a marine readied a long-snouted flamethrower. With a hiss, liquid fire streamed into the void below. The marine was like a pest controller, calm and indifferent.
Gauntleted hands seized Hooker’s arms. “You’re gonna be fine,” said a marine, voice robotic through helmet comms. “We got a corpsman on board. He’ll patch you up good, okay?”
“Lottie’s American?” Hooker replied. He scanned the marine’s mud-coloured armour, spotting the stars-and-stripes on his breastplate.
“’Guess she is now.”
“Vasquez, this guy needs a doctor,” said a second marine, pulling a trauma pack from her fighting rig. She pressed in gently to Hooker’s chest. “There you go.”
Hooker mumbled his thanks, painkiller pumping into his body. Then he was aloft, strapped to a marine and hauled inside the strike boat. Two medics worked on Lottie, a third setting up an intravenous drip. “What the fuck is this kid on?” said one of the corpsmen.
“Combat respirocite,” Hooker replied. “She took it maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
“What type of juice?”
“All I know is our Apex teams use it.”
The medic nodded. “Brits? Kolyndrinol 4-70,” he replied. “We got downers for that kinda shit.”
“Is she going to be OK?” Hooker croaked. “She’s pregnant.”
The medic rolled his eyes, “ain’t ever heard of Kolyndrinol proscribed to moms-to-be.” Painkillers wrapped Hooker in silk. He was only dimly aware of the corpsman, plucking shrapnel from his flesh and inserting an IV line. Medical equipment chirruped urgently, voices demanding updates across radio nets.
Engines screaming, the strike boat circled the Crosland Estate. Fires flickered at the Commune International’s windows, figures desperately swarming down scaffolding. Leaguers capered on the plaza below, jostling prisoners towards trucks and lorries. Beyond the estate, in the shadows, columns of NatSec carriers waited. “That shit down there? Man, that reminds me of Detroit in ’42,” said a door-gunner, hawking over the side of the deck.
The marine next to him shook his head. “This shit just reminds me of the world.”
Thirty
“Mister Hooker? You got visitors,” said the nurse, a young African-American in baby-blue scrubs. He checked a monitor, nodded approvingly and tapped something into a pad. He wore some kind of advanced body-tech Hooker had never seen before, arms covered in tiny screens. Machines whirred and hummed gently overhead.
“Visitors?” Hooker replied. Monitors beeped, tubes snaking from his arms and chest. A CCTV camera watched from the ceiling, the squelch of a personal radio audible in the corridor outside. Hooker’s body tingled, bisected by post-surgery scars – thin red marks criss-crossed his tattoos, demons slashed asunder by scalpels. His arm ached, but he could flex it.
“Don’t ask me, I just work here,” the nurse shrugged, straightening a blanket and dabbing away an invisible spot of dust. “An’ stop movin’ that arm, you’ve broken it. It won’t heal right if you keep messin’ with your traction sleeve.”
“Is the girl okay?”
“Sir, I don’t know anythin’ ‘bout no girl.” He tut-tutted and left, data rolling across the screens embedded in his forearm.
The first visitor was the UK Minister for Resilience and Reconstruction, Damon Rhys MP. Hooker recognised him instantly – deep tan, silvery-gold hair just-so. He wore a black Nehru jacket, a silver party badge pinned to his breast. “I hope you’re well, Mister Hooker. Thanks so much for agreeing to meet me.”
“I didn’t agree to meet you.”
“Quite,” the second visitor replied. American, voice a smoker’s growl. Like Rhys, she wore black. Little blue eyes glittered in a waxy face, hair worn in a tight bun. “I’m Elisabeth Munro. US State Department.”
“You mean CIA?” Hooker sniffed. “I ain’t totally stupid. Where am I?”
Munro looked slowly around the room. “RAF Topford May, the US Airforce medical facility.” Topford May was tucked in a safe corner of Wessex. The aircraft that bombed North Africa and Italy flew from its windswept runways, as did the strike boats that carried commandos to Belarus and Red Kyiv.
“How long have I been here?”
“A week,” the American replied.
&nbs
p; “NatSec were holding Leah Martinez,” Hooker replied. “Vassa Hyatt promised she’d get her released.”
Damon Rhys held up a hand, his smile warm. An honest broker gesture Hooker recognised from TV interviews. “Vassa was good as her word. Miss Martinez was released, just before you were rescued. She’s making an excellent recovery.”
“Where is she now?”
“The Green Zone – a private clinic, of course. You should also know the officer responsible for her interrogation, Chief Superintendent Bliss, has been relieved of his duties. I spoke to the Home Secretary personally when I discovered what happened…”
Hooker scowled. The monitor tracking his blood pressure bleeped. “It was an Office of Counter-Subversion operation. They’re part of NatSec. Only the Home Secretary can authorise torture.”
Munro wrinkled her nose at the ‘T’ word.
“I’m afraid NatSec enjoys considerable influence inside London’s political administration.” Rhys replied. His tongue darted to the corner of his mouth, reminding Hooker of a lizard. “I agree with you entirely, but perhaps we should fight one battle at a time.”
“We?” said Hooker.
Munro fixed Hooker with an undertaker’s stare. “In times like these, Mister Hooker, you choose a side. Otherwise a side will choose you.”
“I’m on a side,” said Hooker. “My side.”
Munro sighed. “I’m told you were hired to simply locate the girl, not attempt a rescue. I had to engineer a diplomatic incident to put things right.”
“Lady, fuck off,” Hooker replied. “It wasn’t as if Bliss gave me a choice. I hope Lottie’s okay – she saved my life.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did.”
Rhys’ face hardened. “Enough – the both of you. As for my daughter, she reacted badly to the respirocite you gave her, Mister Hooker. Nonetheless, I’m assured she’s going to recover. She’s in hospital, in Wessex.”
“And her baby?”
Munro and Rhys exchanged glances. “Too early to call,” Munro replied carefully. “Did she say much about the pregnancy?”
“There wasn’t time, one of the kidnappers mentioned it before she died. I think it was how they got to Lottie in the first place.”
“I’m grateful for your interest in Charlotte’s welfare,” said Rhys. “She’s at a difficult age. Suffice to say, any disagreements we had are now resolved. You were hired to do a job, and you did it. Given the circumstances, I cannot ask for more.”
Munro gave a nod, “I’ll concede you were resourceful, Hooker.”
Hooker sat up, wincing at the effort. “And it was a smart move, making Lottie a US citizen.”
Rhys took Munro’s hand and kissed it. “Elisabeth’s idea. Quite brilliant, and of course I’m deeply obliged.”
Munro almost smiled. “Thank you, Damon.”
Hooker took a sip of water. “Okay, what happens now?”
“After you were rescued, Lottie was unable to say much about what happened up there,” said Rhys, pulling up a chair. “The respirocite interfered with her short-term memory, which is probably just as well…”
Hooker rolled the dice. “I suppose you’re here about Paolo Falcone and Operation MADRIGAL.”
Munro’s mouth made a thin, tight line. Finally, she spoke. “The doctors tell me your brain scan shows activity consistent with receiving a neural uplift in the past forty-eight hours. You’ve also got a puncture mark in the nape of your neck.”
“We know you know,” said Rhys. He rested a hand on Hooker’s forearm. “What precisely was Falcone’s mission? The ransom note told us virtually nothing.”
Munro studied a fingernail. “Paolo Falcone’s real name was Howard Glass. Before defecting to the Crimson Brigade, he was CIA-CTAG. Counter-Transhuman Activities Group.”
Hooker laughed. “What a bloody web you people weave. He was one of yours?”
“He defected years ago. Had we found him, we’d have assassinated him. What was on the neural uplift?”
“I get it now,” Hooker replied, smiling at Munro. “He’s good cop, you’re bad cop.”
“This isn’t helpful,” said Munro.
“Paolo believed in what he was doing,” Hooker replied. “He wanted people to know the truth.”
“He was a dangerous fanatic.”
“I’ll grant you that, but you’re wondering if I fobbed anything about MADRIGAL before I was rescued. I s’pose there was too much comms traffic for NatSec to intercept everything. And even if they did, would they share it with you?”
Munro sneered. “Two things, Hooker. First of all, you had your ass hauled out of there by the United States Marine Corps. Secondly, don’t underestimate the NSA’s signals intel capability.”
“I don’t, not for a second. But here you are, asking me anyway.”
“What was on the neural uplift?”
Hooker closed his eyes. Suddenly his head ached. “I told you, details of Operation MADRIGAL.”
“If you want to play tough guy, there are techniques to remove it,” Munro replied.
“You mean a lobotomy?” Hooker shot Rhys a look. “We are on British soil, ain’t we?”
“Elisabeth, there’s no need for threats,” Rhys said smoothly. “Mister Hooker, let’s be reasonable. You saved my daughter’s life, and I’m grateful…”
“I’m more interested in my deal with Vassa Hyatt,” Hooker replied. “Wessex. Money. My name off the Sanctioned Persons’ Index.”
“We’ll get to that soon,” Rhys replied. “Before we do, there are decisions to be made around your knowledge of MADRIGAL. How do we move this forward?”
“Move forward my ass,” Munro hissed. “Hooker, did you or did you not disseminate the material you received via neural uplift to any third parties prior to your extraction?”
“How old are you, Miss Munro?” Hooker replied. “Forty-five? You were a student during the Emergencies, right?”
“The past is the future,” Munro sighed.
“Which is why you’re still killing, to cover-up someone else’s mistake?”
“I’ve only killed to stop my country falling to pieces. And occasionally yours, Hooker.”
“The MADRIGAL affair opens old wounds,” said Rhys. “By the time the Americans admitted MADRIGAL to us, it was too late. We couldn’t uninvent RXP. Archangels were, and indeed are, a fact of life. The question is this – how do we best exploit their skills to rebuild what was lost?”
Munro nodded her agreement. “We’ve put trillions of dollars into ATLAS, helping stitch your country back together again. Hell, we made a big mistake. Now we’re paying for it. We learnt that lesson in the Middle East.”
“And the Archangels?” Hooker replied. “Is it true? They’re coming back? You’re fools if you think you can control them.”
Rhys fidgeted with his cuff. “We have a miniscule group of transhumans advising us. They’re the same people who helped defeat the December 13th plotters. Good people, Rufus. The earlier iterations of the technology were dangerous. It played with peoples’ minds…”
“The first version of RXP gave many users a God-complex,” said Munro. “It won’t happen again. Not with the latest version. We’ve developed fail-safes.”
Hooker closed his eyes. Brood-mare, that’s what Paolo called Lottie. A womb of impeccable quality, carrying the next generation of the elite. Archangels who could give birth to superhumans. He slowly opened his eyes. “I made my decision on the flight out of the Goons.”
Damon Rhys gripped the rail on Hooker’s gurney. “What do you mean?”
“If MADRIGAL got out, will the Yanks stop sendin’ Reconstruction money?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied, looking queasy. “Without US support, London would fall. The insurgents would be able to target Wessex. I imagine NatSec would try to mount a coup d’état to extend the fighting south and north. There’d be another Hate War.”
“Our intel analysts broadly agree,” Munro shrugged. “In
fact, they believe Damon’s scenario is optimistic. Our projections see the dispossessed marching on an already frail Western Europe, emboldening the NuSoviets. Eventually, our economic recovery falters. The Latin-Pacific Alliance begin arming the militias in our succession states. That’s another civil war, and America’s just finished her second. We don’t need another.”
“So why not kill me?” said Hooker, “if there’s so much at stake?”
Munro nodded. “That’s a darn good point. I’ve sent men across the Styx for less.”
Damon Rhys steepled his fingers. “Decisions concerning Mister Hooker’s fate are mine to make.” For a moment, the politician looked his age, “I still believe in the values that brought me into politics.”
He’d heard Rhys use similar words at the first Reconciliation Tribunal. Hooker nearly smiled. “I’m keeping my mouth shut, Mister Rhys. I was too injured to fob anything, and the neural uploads would’ve been destroyed in the fire. I saw a marine empty a flamethrower into the place.”
“What do you mean?” said Munro.
“I’m taking what I know to the grave. Whenever that time comes, sooner or later.”
Rhys stood, switching on a megawatt smile. “I’m delighted with your decision, Rufus. You don’t mind if I call you Rufus, do you?”
“And that’s it?” said Munro. “Washington expects a report. Preferably with no ambiguity…”
“There is none. Mister Hooker has chosen a side, and in this affair there are only two. Where’s the ambiguity? Furthermore, I’m appointing him to my staff. He can work with Miss Hyatt – you’ll find that gives him legal protection from any extradition agreements.”
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 23