Kronos Rising_Kraken vol.1

by Max Hawthorne

  Grabbing hold of the device with his teeth, Sam twisted his head to upend it against a nearby wall before deftly working it over his crown. He felt the itchy tingle permeate his scalp as enough of the poorly-aligned neural connections fired to give him control. A moment later, he willed the LJ-3000 to life.

  The fully-charged chair hummed as it powered up, its banks of blue LEDs lighting in series as it swiveled in Sam’s direction. Its thick pneumatic wheels turned as it approached his prostrate form. Concentrating hard, he directed the device’s bionic arms to extend, picking him up and placing him gingerly in the driver’s seat. Sam was glad he’d gone for all the bells and whistles, including the most powerful actuators available. If the need arose, he could pick up a refrigerator with the damn thing. Hoisting his torso was nothing.

  Once he was properly situated, Sam used the 3000’s dexterous robotic fingers to adjust his headband and the harness that held him in place. It was tempting, but he resisted the urge to reach over and give Mariela an affectionate pat on the rump before heading into the bathroom. Grayson’s big military demo was less than an hour away and he wasn’t about to miss it.

  As Sam increased his chair’s height to mannish levels and used his pseudo-limbs to brush his teeth, he studied his reflection in the mirror. He grimaced as he took in the scarred stumps where his arms had been. It was a decade since his world went to shit. He’d never regretted saving Garm’s ass. Not once. But he could feel the searing pain of the flesh being stripped from his bones as if it was yesterday. Being reduced to half a man was a trigger that never stopped firing. No amount of time or therapy could dull the psychological ache. Nothing could: not booze or broads or any drug he could think of. And he’d tried them all. Even going out on his boat every day for a year and slaughtering Bulldog fish by the hundreds didn’t make a dent.

  Revenge wasn’t the key. He wanted his body back. And with it, his life.

  Ironically, in exchange for something as paltry as putting a lien on his used-up soul, Eric Grayson was willing to give him both.

  Sam willed his chair to bend at the waist and spat a nasty wad of toothpaste into the sink. He shook his head. For years he’d agonized over getting cybernetic limb implants. Although bulky, they were a proven technology, sturdy and reliable. And irony of ironies, Garm’s mom’s company made the best in the world. But he had no desire to be a cyborg. He’d feel like a robotic Pinocchio. He wanted real arms and legs. And if he had to sup with the devil to get them, then so be it.

  Actually, Eric Grayson was far from demonic. Despite his media-driven reputation as a ruthless corporate raider, Sam found the elderly CEO both amiable and likable. When they’d spoken online, Grayson empathized with him. And when he found out about Sam’s lengthy friendship with Garm the offer came easily.

  Actually, Sam felt their arrangement was more than fair. All he had to was operate their prototype AWES Talos system for just one season and they were square. Grayson would have the geneticists at GDT bypass the anti-cloning laws via the test-subject loophole and craft him new limbs from his own DNA. They’d do the transplants, provide the requisite rehab, and even pick up the tab for post-op PT as part of an all-inclusive package.

  Sam had no idea how much the out-of-pocket cost for all that would’ve been, but he knew he couldn’t afford it. Not even if he cashed out the trust fund his parents left him.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask Garm and Derek to fund the transplant?’ Grayson initially suggested. ‘I’ll happily okay it and I’m sure they’ll jump at the chance to help an old friend.’

  Sam wore a disgusted look as he rinsed and reached for the floss. That was never happening. He’d followed the corporate takeover of Amara Braddock’s robotics firm in the news, as well as the subsequent public offering that turned her two sons into billionaires overnight. He was happy for them, but friendship or no, he wasn’t about to go hat-in-hand to Garm and ask for anything. No fucking way. He had no limbs but he had his balls. He was still a man and he was damn sure going to act like one. He’d earn his own way back to being what he once was.

  Maybe then, after he was back on his own two feet, he and that big galoot could focus on spending money on good times.

  Sam smiled at the thought, then rinsed his face and grabbed a towel. As the whirring sound of his actuators faded, a stirring from the bedroom told him Mariela had finally roused herself. He checked the time and grinned. Still forty-five minutes before the demonstration. His grin upgraded to a mischievous smile as he wheeled his chair out of the bathroom.

  He had just enough time to show his favorite nurse what his bionic “other half” was capable of.

  * * *

  Dirk vacillated, a few feet outside the entrance to the amphitheater tunnel. The gateway towered over him, an intimidating twenty-foot maw, gouged through craggy gray granite. He peered inside, studying the rows of eight-foot-thick pilings that jutted from the floor like giant molars, reinforcing the passageway’s rough-hewn sides and buttressing its roof.

  He exhaled slowly. The fortified stone hallway that served as the facilitator’s entrance to Tartarus’s stadium was considered to be the ultimate in durability – rated to withstand a nuclear blast, or so they claimed. But to the young scientist, traversing its dimly-lit length to face what lay on the other side was like a one way trip into the belly of the beast.

  120 feet away, Dirk could see the corridor’s arch-shaped end. It was brightly-lit and inviting, but the non-stop flow of tepid air that swept through the tunnel, laden with the smell of seawater and the rank stench of something else, did little to relieve his fears.

  “It’s not going to bite you,” Dr. Grayson’s disembodied voice pointed out.

  Dirk jumped, then glanced back over his shoulder and faked a smile. He hadn’t realized the CEO was still there, standing next to his chauffeured ATV, those omniscient eyes of his boring into his youthful protégé.

  “Are you all right?” Grayson asked.

  “Yeah . . .” Dirk cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. I guess I was just--”

  “I understand, son.” Grayson’s visage mirrored Dirk’s concern. “Trust me. But sometimes we need to let sleeping dogs or, perhaps, in this case, sleeping ghosts, lie.”

  “Yes, sir. You’re right, as usual.”

  Grayson nodded. He placed one hand on the MarshCat’s rugged frame and raised a hand to signal his driver, but then stopped. “Are we good to go, Derek? Seriously. I’m supposed to be with Admiral Callahan and his cronies, but if you need me beside you for emotional support--”

  “No, no.” Dirk shook his head vigorously. “I’m good. I’ve got this.”

  “And Dr. Daniels?”

  “Already on her perch and waiting, sir.”

  “Very well.” Grayson gripped one of the ATV’s padded roll bars and struggled to clamber inside. He grimaced as he put too much weight on one leg and nodded to salt-and-pepper haired Sergeant Bryan Wurmer, who rushed over to help him. Once he was situated, the old man took a moment to adjust his seatbelt before glancing back at Dirk. “If today goes well, it will make our budget for the next five years. So, knock ‘em dead!”

  God willing, not a prophetic choice of words, Dirk thought. He nodded and gave his employer a thumbs-up sign as Grayson’s vehicle pulled smoothly away and vanished around a nearby corner.

  With a heavy sigh, he turned and entered the corridor. The dankness embraced him and his footfalls echoed off stone and steel, his pupils contracting with the approaching brightness. Moments later, he reached the towering archway.

  Stepping into the light, Dirk glanced up, blinking at the stadium’s powerful solar arrays, several hundred feet above. Unlike the rest of Tartarus, with its comparatively weak LED overheads, the theater and its surrounding pools basked beneath the glow of an artificial sun. Saying it was bright was an understatement. You needed sunglasses for any prolonged visit, and sunscreen, too; in addition to emitting equatorial levels of heat and light, the powerful solar simulators could dish out one hell
of a burn.

  Of course, when in Tartarus, succumbing to malignant melanoma was the last thing on one’s mind.

  Dirk swallowed hard and put on a confident face before crossing the sixty-foot stone and steel dock leading to the nearby stage. Around him, the illuminated waters of the amphitheater pool splayed out like a vast, saltwater lake; a semicircular body of water over one thousand feet across.

  Like the dockside Kronosaurus tanks, the stadium pool’s transparent Celazole walls extended 100 feet above sea level. But unlike the rectangular paddocks, its curved sides dropped another 150 feet straight down into Tartarus’s stony core. The sturdiness of its construction was also far removed. Its exposed thermoplastic partitions were far stronger than those used for the pliosaur enclosures. At the top, they were a full ten feet thick, at the bottom, more than twice that. In addition, there was a network of riveted, titanium-steel struts, each up to twenty feet thick and strong enough to support a tank battalion. They arced up from the stone floor like curved talons, reinforcing the arc-shaped polycarbonate barrier every one hundred feet.

  It was the biggest, strongest man-made aquarium in the world. And the ultimate display case for the comparatively tiny group currently occupying several hundred of the stadium-style seats arranged on the other side of the pool’s indestructible walls.

  Of course, the colossal saltwater tank was empty now, Dirk contemplated as he moved briskly toward the podium. He looked around. Despite the attendees, it was surprisingly quiet, and his shoes clicked loudly on the hard stone. In the distance and above the pool’s crystalline edge, he spotted Eric Grayson. Accompanied by two of his security personnel, the CEO was hobnobbing with Ward Callahan and the rear admiral’s entourage of at least two dozen naval officers and accountants. They were gathered center-stage and situated high enough in the tiered seats to have an unparalleled view of the pending festivities. In addition to the military personnel, there were hundreds of Tartarus employees, also waiting. Dirk could see a dozen guards, an assortment of technicians, CDF officers and enlisted men and women, and what looked to be the full complement of both Gryphon and Antrodemus. Everyone who wasn’t on duty was there for the show.

  Actually, make that almost everyone. As he studied his pending audience, Dirk noticed his brother Garm was conspicuously absent.

  His twin had informed him last night he wasn’t attending. ‘I’m sorry, little brother. I wouldn’t be able to help if something goes wrong and, besides, you don’t want me there anyway. If you put me that close I might do something stupid.’

  Dirk understood. Frankly, he didn’t want to be there, either, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. Besides, it was actually good Garm wasn’t present. After that last, harrowing patrol, his brother needed to take his mind off things. And, as Dirk looked around and noted that Natalya Dragunova was also coincidentally MIA, he figured the big submariner was busy doing just that – most likely by burying his disgustingly handsome face in his fellow submarine commander’s considerable charms.

  He was glad for him. Jealous as all hell, but glad, nonetheless.

  As he reached the reinforced concrete podium, Dirk turned to his right. His dark eyes scaled the shorn rock wall that formed the rear bulwark of the amphitheater, its pool included. He pinpointed Stacy, adorned in one of her form-hugging blue bodysuits and situated fifty feet up on a narrow platform overlooking the water. He couldn’t see her face well enough from this distance to gauge her mindset, but she seemed okay. At least so far.

  Dirk smirked at the sudden irony. Stacy may well have been right about him having the hots for Dragunova. Then again, what man, or woman for that matter, wouldn’t? But as intuitive as his on-again-off-again playmate was, she didn’t have a clue that the Amazonian object of his affection and his overprotective brother had been playing “hide the pliosaur” for the last five or six months.

  Actually, as far as Dirk could tell, nobody, not even super-sleuth Dr. Grayson had figured it out. The two brothers hadn’t discussed the matter, but they didn’t need to. Dirk knew Garm better than he knew himself. It was obvious.

  It wasn’t that, despite their well-known rivalry, the two captains were often seen together. Nor was it their occasional bickering that told the tale. It was the subtle nuances. Like the almost imperceptible air of rigidity Garm gave off when Dragunova was around or his uncharacteristic professionalism when a snide remark might otherwise come out. Then there was his seeming obliviousness to her considerable sex appeal. That was the clincher. You’d have to be a corpse not to find the curvaceous Russian desirable.

  Heck, she could probably give a cadaver an erection! And for someone as oversexed as Garm to not even notice her?

  Dirk shook his head and scratched his nose to conceal a chuckle. Oh, no. Mr. and Mrs. America may have thought they were slick, but he knew better. Those two were fucking like lions in heat: probably right now, matter of fact.

  That lucky bastard.

  Dirk snorted angrily. He hoped their relationship meant more to Garm than his usual hit-and-run routine. Dragunova may have been tall and built and had the tact of a charging Panzer, but he could tell, deep down inside, she had a vulnerable side. She just needed someone to entice her into exposing it.

  Dirk herded his covetous thoughts back into their primordial cave and refocused on business before he mounted the podium steps. The amphitheater’s dais was situated ten feet back from the edge of an eighty-foot wide, oval-shaped platform of steel and reinforced concrete that, seen from above, extended from the end of the dock like the top of a gigantic letter T. Around the structure, seawater fanned out for over four hundred feet in every direction.

  Placing a hand on the podium’s biometric scanner, Dirk extracted an earpiece from his lab coat pocket and waited for the system’s hybridized keyboard and monitor to emerge. As they activated, he leaned forward, his fingers tap dancing across the board’s polycarbonate keys. He began by accessing Tartarus’s powerful neural interface program, systematically bringing its collective servers online, their assorted backups included. Once that was accomplished, he did a scan of the reactor to check for anomalies and checked the status of their emergency generators.

  Dirk was taking no chances. He wanted full and uninterrupted power, topped by every reserve he could think of. There would be no glitches.

  “How are you doing, Stace?” he asked, one hand cupping his earpiece. At this distance, nobody in the stands could hear him, but out of paranoia he kept his voice low and his mouth angled downward.

  “Oh, you know me,” she quipped. “Always ready to dive into danger!”

  Dirk nodded. “How’s the CCUBA? Any issues?” He could tell from the hollowness of her voice that Stacy had already donned one of GDT’s compact, military-issue Thunnus rebreathers, or Closed Circuit Underwater Breathing Apparatus, as was the official designation. The form-fitting headgear, with its motion-sensing integrated lens system, was barely the size of a dirt bike helmet, yet allowed the wearer to see underwater like a swordfish and remain there, sans bulky tanks, for nearly an hour.

  “So far so good,” she radioed. He could hear her sniffing. “Phew. Smells like someone used this one already, but beyond that, no issues. Seal is perfect and oxygen readings are showing 98% with all circuits clear.”

  “Roger that.” Dirk said. At least she wouldn’t drown. He hesitated. “I know better than to ask if you’re okay.”

  “Then why are you?”

  He chuckled. “Okay, let’s get things started.”

  Reaching down, Dirk extracted what appeared to be a high-tech skullcap from the podium’s lone drawer. He donned it, then touched a small side panel on the right temple that caused it to compress silently inward, its padded interior conforming to the shape of his cranium. That accomplished, he tapped a series of buttons on the left temple, causing the unit to power up, and then started running diagnostic checks on his now-synched computer’s interface control system. All the while, the cap’s thousands of neural connectors fired in wav
es. The sensation as the device melded itself to the corresponding nerves in his scalp was practically unbearable – comparable to a column of hungry driver ants foraging through one’s hair – but he dismissed it. He was used to the discomfort.

  Besides, his job was far easier than Stacy’s.

  Dirk eyed his monitor screen, his fingers a veritable blur atop the illuminated keyboard as he checked and rechecked the system. Finally, when he realized he was past the point of redundancy and was stalling, he gave Stacy a quick thumbs-up and keyed his microphone. Half the people in the audience held their ears, with the rest grimacing as a painful barrage of feedback erupted from the stadium speakers. Dirk’s own face contorted as he reached down and adjusted the amplifier.

  With every other task completed, he paused to bring the paired, forty-foot LCD screens hanging directly overhead online. With a hum, their pitch-blackness dissolved, replaced by two different underwater views of the amphitheater pool, courtesy of the dais’s submerged video system. The new cameras had incredibly powerful zooms. Even given the considerable distance from the podium to the tiered seats on the opposite side of the aquarium wall, he could pull in tight underwater on individual people in the audience, even if they did come out assorted shades of blue and green.

  Dirk tapped a finger on his chin before reaching down to hit a key. A moment later, one of the monitor’s feeds switched to a view from one of the stadium’s high-powered roof cameras, giving the audience an overhead shot of the entire pool.

  As he reviewed his mental list one last time, Dirk looked around, rapping his knuckles on the podium’s hard surface. He exhaled heavily. He had forgotten nothing. It was time.

  His eyes swept the calm surface of Tartarus’s artificial lake, and then the expectant throng outside of it. He angled his head to one side, giving Stacy a final glance. As he did, something bright and ephemeral caught his eye. He craned his head back until it hurt, his sharp eyes seeking the source of the unexpected movement.