by Rob J. Hayes
“Michelle,” the woman says. Her accent is French, her voice quiet.
“Good.” I smile at her. “We need to go. We’ll protect you. You see that big man up there? He’s about the toughest security guard you’ll ever meet.”
“He doesn’t look well.”
I glance up at Langdon. Michelle isn’t wrong. He’s pale and unfocused, unsteady on his feet.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
Michelle shakes her head, but she gets to her feet. I hold out my hands and give her a boost and Langdon pulls her up to the twenty-second floor. I follow her up, ignoring the pain in my chest.
I roll onto my back on the corridor floor, happy to be out of the elevator, but dreading what is to come. Michelle isn’t crying anymore, but she’s huddled against a wall, trying to make herself look small. Langdon is against the opposite wall, pale and looking tired. I wonder how it is that I’m in the best condition of the three of us, despite having recently been shot.
“Michelle.” I struggle to my feet. Every part of me is aching and I dread the climb. “You work here?”
She looks terrified, as though the question is some sort of trap, but she gives her head a minute nod.
“Do you know where the stairwell is?”
Again Michelle nods.
“Can you take us there? We need to head up. Find Dr Brant and the others.”
Michelle shakes her head vigorously. “Dr Brant won’t be up, he’ll be down.” Her accent is strong, I like it. Words seem almost musical in her voice. “His laboratory is in the basement, four floors below the ground floor. With the elevators shut down the stairs are the only way in.”
“Then we head down.” I decide.
“What?” Langdon asks. “I thought we were heading up?” His voice is thick. Almost sounds like he’s drunk.
“Dr Brant and the others are down. We’re going down to meet them.”
“But aren’t the terrorists down there?” Michelle asks. I can see the panic taking hold of her again.
“Yes.” I catch her eyes and smile. “But our best chance of surviving this is to meet up with Dr Brant and the others.” I wonder if it’s a lie, if I’m just trying to convince them to justify my need to find Brant and ask him to harvest my emotions. I try to push the thought away. Don’t want to consider it.
“OK,” Michelle says with a nod. Her tears have left dark tracks down her cheeks where her make-up has run, but there’s some steel in her eyes now. Sometimes people find their fire when they least expect it.
“Langdon?” I ask.
“Lead the way,” he says in his thick voice. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his own pistol. Then he hands me his spare magazine. “You’ll need this more than me.”
I can see his hands shaking. He looks so tired. Doubt I’ll be getting much backup from him. I can only hope the terrorists have fled the building. It’s a vain hope.
We start down the stairs slowly, they zigzag back on themselves every half level and every time I peer around at the stairs below, pistol drawn and ready, hoping I don’t see any people. Michelle follows close behind me, after just one flight of stairs she takes off her heeled shoes and continues on barefoot. I can’t blame her. She’s quieter now and that’s better for all of us. Langdon follows at the rear. Silent. That scares me more than anything. I’ve known Langdon for twenty years, I’ve never known him to be so quiet.
My old training comes back to me quickly. The emotional attachment to them may be gone, but the memories are still there. I trained for this for years. We move quickly, staircase after staircase, checking around corners. I don’t hear anything over the sound of our own footsteps. I hope that’s a good sign. Surely if there were any of the terrorists in the stairwell, we would hear them.
I glance over the side of the railing, staring all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell. It’s a bad idea. A wave of vertigo hits me and I stumble back, feeling fear pumping through my veins. Langdon flattens against the far wall and drags Michelle with him.
“What did you see?” he asks in a whisper.
I shake my head at him and try to bury the fear. I’m on solid ground. It’s a long way down, but there’s no chance of falling. I take a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.
“It’s a long way down,” I whisper.
Langdon lets out a groan. “Really hoped you were over the fear of heights, Garrick.”
“That’s not how it works.” I continue down the stairs, faster than before. I should never have looked over the edge.
On the tenth floor I see the first of the terrorists. A man and a woman are coming up the staircase below as we’re moving down. They’re wearing casual clothes and carrying old rifles, certainly not the height of technology, but serviceable, reliable. They don’t see me and I duck back, holding a hand up to silence Michelle and Langdon. She looks scared. He looks on the verge of collapse, held together by willpower alone.
I poke my head around the corner again and see both the terrorists at the door to the tenth floor, staring through the glass window. Now is my best chance. I decide to take it.
I step around the corner, aim and squeeze the trigger. Once, twice. Two gunshots ring out loud and I feel the kick travel along my arms. Blood splatters against the tenth floor doorway and both terrorists slump to the floor. I let out a ragged breath.
Guilt. It’s not the first time I’ve killed. It never gets any easier though. One moment they’re people, the next they’re not. I did that. I stopped them being people. Maybe turned children into orphans, partners into widows. I console myself with the knowledge it was them or me. They would have killed me. Killed us.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. Langdon gives it a squeeze and nods at me. I take another deep breath and continue on. Edging down the stairs in case there are more terrorists ahead.
“Try not to look at them,” I hear Langdon whisper. It’s not to me. He’s talking to Michelle. I take his advice anyway.
We’re nearing the fifth floor when we hear a noise above us, maybe two flights up. It sounds like a door opening. Langdon waves us on, raising his shaking pistol to cover us from behind. It might be more terrorists, it might be employees of Arkotech. There’s no sense in risking it.
On the first floor we find Iago. She’s laid with her back to the outside wall, an empty pistol in her hand and a lot of bullet holes in her chest. A good bullet-proof vest will stop a lot, but it looks like someone unloaded a rifle at close range. Michelle lets out a whimper and clasps a hand over her mouth. Langdon let’s out a sorry sigh.
Iago’s eyes aren’t hard anymore. They’re empty, lifeless. She made it out of the lobby at least, but not much further than that. I glance down the next flight of stairs and see two dead terrorists down there. Langdon sees them too.
“She went out fighting,” is all he says and nods towards Iago’s body.
“Sorry, Langdon,” I say. It’s not much. Nothing at all really. But I can’t think of anything else to say.
Langdon shakes his head. He still looks tired, but it looks like there’s a bit more clarity in his eyes now. “Shut up and keep moving, Garrick. We’re not out of this yet.”
I stop by the door on the ground floor and peek through the window. I can see the lobby. The dust has settled, but it still looks like chaos in there. Rubble and bodies strewn all about the place. I see some people moving around though. They’re dressed in casual clothes. They don’t move like trained security. They don’t act like they’re freeing the building from terrorists.
One man walks into view. He has a shaved head and only one arm. That arm is raised and he’s talking at it, talking to someone over a PD. He looks quite animated. I see others setting up cover and a mounted machine gun. They aren’t looking to pull out any time soon. They’re setting up, fortifying the place and digging in. These aren’t the actions of terrorists looking to make a statement, they’re after something specific.
I see hostages too. Men and women kneeling down, watched over by tho
se with guns. There’s too many for us to deal with even if we didn’t have Michelle to look after.
I duck down, under the window and continue on in silence. I wave for the other two to follow and continue down the stairs.
The stairs end at the third floor down. One more door leads out into an empty corridor. The sign above the door reads C. I turn to Michelle.
“You said Brant would be on the fourth floor down?”
Michelle nods. “I’ve never been down here, but his post is delivered to D.”
Langdon shrugs. “Second staircase somewhere on this floor leading down to the labs?”
I push through the door and creep along pristine, carpeted floors. There’s doors leading to offices on either side of the corridor and motivational posters on the walls, each one describing an emotion and how it can be used to help productiveness at work.
I can hear a rhythmic banging coming from somewhere nearby. It’s not the sort of noise gunfire makes, but more like something hard hitting something just as hard. I follow it.
The corridor makes a sharp turn to the left. I stop before reaching it and try to calm my thumping heart. Langdon starts moving on, but I stop him with a raised hand. Peering around the corner I see three men. Two of them are standing around watching a third pummel a door with a fire extinguisher. Again I hold a hand up to Langdon, telling him to wait, then slip around the corner.
None of the men are watching their rear. The two behind are watching the one with the extinguisher, telling him to hurry it up, but giving no help. I close to within ten paces of them, sight down my pistol and fire.
The first two men go down with a bullet each. Good shots to the head will do that. The third turns, dropping the extinguisher and reaching for the machine pistol hanging by his side. I squeeze the trigger again and the man stumbles backwards, shouting and in pain, but not dead.
My pistol is empty, I eject the magazine and reach for another, slotting it in as the man raises his own gun and sprays bullets down the corridor. I put three more bullets into him before he drops to the floor, and stops moving.
My breathing is ragged. My pulse is hammering away. Sweat trickles down my face. I don’t feel like I’ve been shot.
“You OK?” I ask loudly over my shoulder, not looking away from the three bodies collapsed on the floor.
“Yes,” Langdon calls back. “You?”
“I’m alive.” I close in on the bodies, checking each one for a pulse as Langdon and Michelle come up from behind. All three men are dead. Three more for my conscience. Three more reasons to get Brant to harvest my emotions.
Langdon moves past me to the door and tries the handle. It’s locked. There’s a keypad with a biometric scanner attached nearby. He looks through the window and nods.
“More stairs, leading down.” He turns to Michelle. “Can you open it?”
“I don’t have clearance. I told you, I’ve never been down here.”
A loud click comes from the door. Langdon looks at me then tries the handle again. This time the door opens. There’s no one on the other side. Nothing but an empty flight of stairs leading down. Langdon still looks pale. I move past him and through the door, taking the lead.
“After you,” he says with a smile.
We move into the stairwell in the same formation as before, protecting Michelle between us. The door swings shut behind us and there’s another loud click. We’re locked in.
Chapter 13
Contempt: Gnawing. Undermining. Consuming. Contempt is the most undesirable form of anger. It locks people down, sets them on a single course. Drives them past sanity. Strangest of all, it sells.
We’re greeted at the next floor down by guns and suspicion. Five security guards, each carrying either a shotgun or a rifle, shout at us to put our weapons down. It doesn’t look like we have much of a choice. I very slowly place my pistol on the nearest step. Hands raised. No sudden movements. Langdon does the same.
“Step down,” a woman with a shotgun pointed at me shouts. I comply without hesitation. I’ve been in a situation like this before. These aren’t the terrorists. We’d be dead already if they were. These are building security, the guards permanently employed by Arkotech. Chances are they’ve never seen battle before. Two of them have their fingers on the trigger of their guns. That scares me more than the terrorists. It doesn’t take much pressure to squeeze a trigger.
“Langdon,” I say as I take each step slowly.
“We’re Orion Security,” Langdon says from behind in a calm, clear voice. “You hired us to protect Dr Brant. We did. Eight of my people are dead upstairs from protecting him. The least you could do is let us into your bunker and please take your fingers off the trigger.”
“Michelle?” asks one of the guards.
“They saved me.” She remains hidden behind me. It seems Langdon and myself aren’t the only ones worried by the guns.
One of the guards slips past us, picks up our pistols. The intercom next to the door to floor D crackles on. I glance down and see more stairs leading further below. I wonder just how deep the building goes.
“Let them in,” orders a voice.
The tension holds for a moment longer, then the woman with the shotgun lowers her weapon and the others follow suit. I breathe out a sigh. Relief. I can hear the thumping of my heart in my ears.
The woman turns and puts her hand to the biometric scanner, taps a number onto the keypad. The door opens and we’re escorted into Dr Brant’s laboratory.
It looks a lot like Pascal’s workshop, I even recognise a few of the machines, though these are much more up-to-date models. It’s a large area, stretching far back with a few rooms off to each side. Mostly tech, I expected there to be more medical equipment. A group of people, all wearing suits or dresses, are milling about the laboratory. Most of them look scared, sending fearful glances our way as though we’re the ones assaulting the building.
The man with the fedora and Dr Brant sit next to a few monitors. I see security feed on them. One screen shows the floor above. Three bodies on the floor, bloody carpet. My doing. Another monitor shows the exterior of the Ark, a wreckage of rubble and glass. The third screen shows the lobby. More rubble, more glass. More bodies.
“That’s Bridges,” Langdon says, rushing past me to the monitors. He dwarfs both Brant and the Fedora as he leans in close to squint at the monitor. “Damn. Bridges is alive, Garrick.” He taps a thick finger at the screen.
“For now,” the Fedora says and pushes back his chair, standing. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Jackson Lane, vice president of Arkotech. I must thank you for protecting Dr Brant.”
“I can thank them myself, Jackson,” Dr Brant says. He struggles to his feet, holding onto the back of his chair. He’s hurt but I don’t see any injuries. Langdon shakes his hand. Dr Brant then extends the same hand to me. I need to try to catch him alone.
“They’ve taken hostages,” Lane continues.
Dr Brant hasn’t let go of my hand yet. I look at him and he stares back at me, stares right into my eyes. After a few moments he releases my hand and nods. No one else seems to notice and Dr Brant levers himself back into the chair.
“How many?” Langdon asks.
“Thirteen of them,” Lane says with a shrug. “They’re just holding them there.”
“How many terrorists?” Langdon asks.
Lane shrugs again. “I haven’t counted.”
I see Langdon bristle, but he covers it well. “Do you mind if I sit? I need to check our situation.”
Langdon sits down next to Lane and stares at the monitors. He presses a button and the outside view changes to an interior. He turns over his arm and types away at his PD, noting numbers and weaponry. Lane looks bemused. Brant is staring at me. I’ve never liked that level of scrutiny, even before I started life as a Drone.
“Who are they?” I ask.
A couple of the security guards, those who greeted us at the door, are loitering nearby. No doubt they’ve already reali
sed Langdon and I have some experience in matters like this and they can see the way the wind is blowing. Langdon is in charge now, not Lane. If only they knew how poorly sieges like this usually ended. For all concerned.
“They call themselves Sanctitists.” Lane takes off his fedora and uses it to fan his face. His impeccable suit has some dark stains around the collar and arms. It will probably cost more to dry clean than some people earn in a year. “Protesters against sciences of the mind.” He waves away the comment as though it angers him just considering it.
I look to Dr Brant. He’s watching me. “They protest what they term invasive violations of the last personal sanctity.”
“The brain,” I say. “Memory and emotion tech?”
“Exactly. They believe that any form of technology capable of manipulating the mind is a form of rape, whether it is willing or not.”
“Whether it is legal or not,” Lane interrupts. “The laws have been passed. They need to accept that and move on, not disrupt business.”
“Is that what you call it?” Langdon asks, still watching the monitors. “Dozens of people dead. Probably even more injured. And you call it a disruption of business? Seven of my people are dead up there. I call that murder.”
“So do I,” Lane shoots right back. “And murder is disruptive to business.”
Langdon doesn’t argue any further. He knows there’s no point. Lane seems to take it to mean he’s won and places his fedora triumphantly back on his head.
“I’ve never heard of Sanctitists before,” I say. Given my most recent profession, I find it strange I’ve never heard of such a radical group.
“Until now they’ve mostly been peaceful. Marches and sit-ins,” Brant continues. “They organised thousands of petitions against the recent law changes. It appears they have grown tired of being ignored.”
“They’re luddites,” Lane says. “Every time technology advances, in every field of research from chemical, to electronic, to psychological. Every time there are those who protest the advance.