Warhead

by Andy Remic

  Mongrel eyed the huge sergeant. ‘We give him chance,’ snapped the East European squaddie. ‘He might have intel save all our hides from thrashing. You not behave like bad jail petuh taken roughly from behind! This is no Fat Chick Night ... and, by God, you not never look gift horse in mouth!’

  ‘Yeah, and you don’t buy a gift-horse bullshit when it has a bomb shoved up its arse!’ growled Simmo. ‘God, Mongrel, you is so simple at times! How can you not see ...’

  ‘And how you not understand the opportunity!’

  The Priest held up his hand as the Nex said, voice soft and asexual, ‘I did not have to appear to you as a Nex soldier. I could have quite easily disguised myself as human, attempted to infiltrate your group that way. It has been attempted before—sometimes successfully.’

  ‘Until we smell your fucking insect stink,’ grated Simmo.

  ‘Simmo!’ hissed The Priest, turning towards the sergeant with his dark eyes flashing. ‘Will you shut up! For the sake of the Lord! Let me handle this, or I’ll have you busted down to cleaning the engine pits in Colly and you won’t get another opportunity to smoke a cigar, never mind handle a gun or kill any of the enemy!’

  The sergeant’s eyes went wide. His Adam’s apple bobbed, tracing patterns through tattoos on the skin of his throat. Then he caught Mongrel’s eye, and managed to calm himself; his massive temper—the emergent tip of the iceberg—subsided beneath the icy waters of self-control.

  ‘You have information on Durell?’

  The Nex nodded. ‘Considerable data. But—I have come to warn you.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘The SpiralGRID. You are about to be compromised.’

  ‘I would be surprised if Durell has information on the SpiralGRID. It is, shall we say, a very well protected secret. Our levelling factor. The one piece of tech that keeps us alive—keeps us beyond Durell’s grasp.’

  ‘I know this.’ The Nex’s eyes glittered. ‘I used to work on a team—our aim was to crack your GRID. Your technology is superior in this field—and original. Durell knew nothing of its development, or he would have stolen the plans in the same way that he stole every other type of Spiral technology. But let me put this to you, Priest. If there was any possibility that the GRID would be overrun, contaminated or—even worse—usurped, then that would mean the end of Spiral, would it not?’

  The Priest nodded.

  ‘Do you know the name Jahlsen?’

  The Priest seemed to pale visibly. ‘I do,’ he whispered. Simmo and Mongrel exchanged a worried glance.

  ‘If I was then to suggest a phrase, a technique—hard-tattooed, for example—would that mean anything to you? I am sure it would. And then if I was to inform you that Durell had sent an assassin to kill Jahlsen, an ex-Spiral man named Carter and that the QIV had been primed to pluck the SpiralGRID map when it was sent spinning back to the Spiral sub-system mainframes—would you begin to believe that it was a plausible plan? An option? A possibility?’

  ‘Come on, let’s get moving,’ snapped The Priest. ‘We need to get him to a secure house. Blindfold him—in fact, use one of those rubber Head-Blocks. He won’t be able to hear, see, smell or taste anything.’

  ‘You believe him?’ asked Roxi softly.

  ‘If what he says is true,’ muttered The Priest, ‘then we could definitely soon be in a whole world of shit. And if it isn’t true? Then he definitely knows the right code words—the right strings to pull to operate this marionette. And I’ll be honest with you, Roxi—Jahlsen has been missing for forty-eight hours. He has vanished off the GRID.’

  ‘Where do you want to take the Nex?’

  ‘The Grey Church,’ said The Priest softly. ‘And ECube Rekalavich, get him to meet us there.’

  ‘That crazy Russian?’ spat Mo contemptuously.

  ‘Yes, that crazy Russian who helped design the SpiralGRID in the first damned place. Let us see if what Mr Nex here says is plausible.’

  They moved swiftly across the warehouse floor and towards the dull late-autumn light. Mongrel and Simmo trailed behind, once again exchanging glances.

  ‘He mentioned Carter,’ said Mongrel.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Carter not do that. Carter not assassinate one of Spiral’s own.’

  ‘Carter is no longer one of us,’ said Simmo gently.

  ‘Yes, he is. In his head. In his heart.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Simmo, and followed The Priest out into the light.

  The SpiralGRID journey was a blur of silver, a buzzing of high energy, a shift into another realm. And then it was done. With felt-filled heads, sour tongues and feelings of nausea they stepped warily and with cocked guns from the stone archway and into the rich wood surroundings of The Grey Church.

  Behind them the SpiralGRID fizzled with crackles of voltage and then suddenly extinguished, leaving everybody feeling slightly chilled. As if they were playing games with a mechanism they did not—and could never—truly understand.

  The Grey Church was old; worn grooves ran across the intricately sculpted wooden bricks which made up the floor, signifying the passing of feet for hundreds of years. The walls were cold sandstone, now blackened with age, testament to a long and turbulent history. Worn wooden pews still stood at either side of the nave leading up to an intricate hardwood and black iron pulpit. The windows—all of which were smashed—had once been fine examples of stained glass. Now only shattered coloured shards remained.

  The Priest loved this place. It had been he who had insisted on The Grey Church being added to the ever-growing list of SpiralGRID locators, back when the GRID had been in its infancy—an inspiration, a technological marvel. Little had the Spiral engineers, technicians and scientists realised that the GRID would become the one thing keeping Spiral from its rendezvous with extinction.

  The GRID.

  The Priest glanced back to where the portal.exit had squatted, a high-energy snout sneezing forth its precious cargo. He had once been asked how the SpiralGRID worked and had thought long and hard about the technological complexities. He had told the questioner to imagine a spider’s-web labyrinth with designated coordinate points, set up at first on a country-wide basis but then growing, with longer strands reaching across oceans and continents. The pathways, or strands, of the GRID were not set in stone or concrete—they were not roads that could be travelled in a car or on foot—they were formed by the passage of high-energy under the ground. The SpiralGRID pathway was not a constant. That way, a direct path could never be plotted: only start and end destinations could be described—initiated—and then the GRID’s sentient brain would work out pseudo-random routes between the two points. No midway intersection could ever be set up because there were billions of possibilities for the route during travel ...

  A person wanting to travel the GRID stepped into a SpiderCAR, selected start and end locators, and the GRID’s brain did the rest. The SpiderCAR allowed the human body a sideways shift into the energy spectrum; then travel was incredibly fast and painless, but ultimately led to feelings of nausea. The human body was not designed for such high-speed and high-energy disjointed travel.

  There was one problem, however.

  Nature was, by definition, random. Computer-generated data was not; pseudo-random generators allowed the appearance of a random construct, but in reality it was based on variables, on millions of possible factors, and on equations. But it was still traceable. Which was where the GRID map came into effect; it was a sequence of equations used by the GRID’s brain to plot a course, and it carried the data which allowed the GRID to operate. Without the map it was just another example of useless high-tech gleaming technology: all engine and no balls. And if one of these controlling maps was to fall into the wrong hands?

  Well, with enough computing power it would be possible to decode the equations, the data, the pathways that the SpiralGRID used—and for the full energy contours of this device to be revealed. Its polymorphic spine would be laid bare. Its HighJ-powered injectors. Its energy-
fusion sink motors. Its injector-fed portal.entrance and portal.exit chambers which allowed absorption of the human shell into the high-energy fission of the sideways shift.

  The SpiralGRID was an impossibility made real. An energy pathway that could be sideways travelled at will. A labyrinth, a gridwork, a web of ever-changing strands that could be used to bypass not just the boundaries of an unleashed biological abomination named HATE but also the dictatorial constraints of a world crushed into submission.

  ‘We here yet?’ hissed Mongrel, opening his eyes a little.

  ‘Yeah, pussy,’ growled Simmo, scratching at his freshly shaved scalp.

  They trod creaking wooden steps and The Priest moved towards the door which led down to the vaults and to the chamber where Rekalavich waited.

  Melentei ‘Rek’ Rekalavich stood in the shadows of the vault of The Grey Church, a foul-smelling Bogatiri papirosi cigarette in one hand, his Techrim 11mm pistol in the other. He wore a long black coat that came down nearly to his ankles, and simple dark clothing underneath.

  Rekalavich, unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed, had aged a million years since the nuclear strike on Moscow five years earlier which had taken his wife Tanya, and his baby girl. His hair, thick, black and lank, now laced with streaks of grey, hung over his collar.

  Rekalavich watched as the Nex was gently nudged into the cold stone chamber. Around the outer perimeter squatted the bulky stone coffins of men and women long dead; religious figures whose names were being gradually eroded by the passage of time.

  And one day? thought Rekalavich. One day even their names will be gone. Bones crumbled past dust, into an infinity of nothing. Reabsorbed into the world ...

  Rekalavich’s brooding eyes surveyed the Nex with utmost suspicion. In the past five years he had sought only to kill... and with each kill he could picture the face of Tanya, vaporised in a nuclear instant. As that copper-eyed gaze met his in the church vault, his finger tightened involuntarily on the Techrim’s trigger through an instinct of pure and simple hatred.

  The Priest stepped forward, explaining everything that the Nex had told them back at the warehouse. Rekalavich—whose working knowledge of the SpiralGRID was greater than that of any other man present—simply listened, smoke curling around his dark grey-streaked hair and unshaved sallow features.

  As The Priest’s rumbling voice faltered and silence descended, all eyes turned to Rekalavich. When the Russian spoke, his voice had not just a Russian accent but the distinctive burr of the Muscovite. ‘The Nex have excellent technology—we know this. But the one area in which we excel is the polymorphing metals and use of sentient chips to control technology such as the GRID.’ He took a long drag on his papirosi, allowing smoke to drift from his nostrils. ‘The map you speak of does exist—a collection of coordinates, data co-ords on the equilibrium of the sideways shift and, ultimately, the equations needed to allow the GRID’s brain to operate across continents. But it also contains Evolution Tek. You heard of that, lad?’

  The Nex, standing with hands by his sides, gave a curt nod. The Priest’s eyes narrowed. ‘Explain it to me,’ said Rekalavich.

  ‘EC—or Evolution Class—is the ability of a metallic object or objects controlled by a sentient brain to have perfect self-sufficiency. When attributed to the chassis involved, whether that be the chassis of a mammoth weblike network like the SpiralGRID, the prototype of an EC VTank, or the chassis of an EC Warhead, it has the ability to accumulate or disseminate its own mass and size dependent on need, using substances in the air, land and sea for the purposes of reconstitution. Is that good enough for you to believe me?’

  Rekalavich turned to Mo and gestured with his cigarette. Mo grasped one of the Nex’s arms and guided it back up the steps, away from the Spiral group.

  They stood in the cold of the tomb, dancing shadows cast by bare bulbs lying across the sculpted stone walls.

  ‘Is he right?’ whispered The Priest.

  ‘He is,’ said the Russian, inhaling deeply on his papirosi.

  ‘How could he possibly know this?’

  Rekalavich shrugged. ‘Durell has an intricate network of knowledge—and he has the QIV processor. He seems to know everything else about Spiral’s business; why not info on the top-secret Evolution Class? I am only glad he has not discovered the location—yet.’

  ‘Location? Of the Evolution Warhead?’

  Rekalavich nodded.

  The Priest frowned. ‘That weapon was never completed.’

  ‘But it was,’ said the Russian softly.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I helped design and program the sentient core,’ he said.

  Mongrel took a step forward, and all eyes swivelled towards him. ‘Shto? What you guys talk about? A warhead? A missile built by Spiral using top-class tech?’

  ‘Yes,’ said The Priest, pulling free his tiny battered Bible and holding it face up in one hand. His stance seemed to relax a little as he gathered strength from his sacred source. ‘I always thought it incomplete. I always thought the whole technology incomplete ... the VTanks, the EC Warhead, the whole gamut. But, I suppose, for there to be a working prototype of the SpiralGRID it must surely follow ...’

  ‘That we completed everything else in the same technology frame,’ said Rekalavich.

  ‘Can we use this weapon? Against mad zasranetch fucker Durell?’ Mongrel’s eyes were suddenly bright—a glint of dawning realisation, a hope that there might be something, no matter how remote, to help dig them from the mammoth pit of despair into which Spiral had fallen.

  ‘The EC Warhead was completed—just months before Spiral’s demise,’ said Rek. ‘I helped finish the design—and I know that this machine could wreak serious catastrophe upon Durell. It is self-contained and intelligent. If given the correct instructions by a skilled programmer ...’

  ‘Like you?’ said Mongrel.

  ’I was a chassis specialist, hence my involvement with the GRID,’ said Rek slowly. ‘There were others who dealt in objective code—target data. But don’t you get your hopes up, my brothers—there are very few alive who even know of the Warhead’s existence, let alone its whereabouts ... Even so, Durell seems to know of this machine’s existence—maybe he has even now discovered the weapon? As we stand here pondering his machinations? Maybe even now he has disabled it... removed any possibility of future discovery?’

  ‘No,’ said Mongrel, ‘if that fucker found it, he parade it like cheap whore’s prime flapping pizda at transvestite party. No, he not got weapon ...’ He turned to The Priest. ‘But we—we could search for it, could we not?’

  The Priest was deep in thought. ‘But where to start?’ rumbled the huge man. His voice was cold, his eyes dull. It was as if he did not like what he was hearing; as if the emergence of false hope was like a cancer in his soul.

  Rek spoke. ‘Recently there was a TV broadcast by HIVE; it spoke of the capture of a Spiral man called Justus. Justus was involved in machine development, in engine codes. He might know the whereabouts of the EC Warhead—or at least be a link in the chain to its discovery. If he still lives.’

  ‘And the Nex have him,’ snorted Simmo in disgust.

  The Priest nodded, as a sudden explosion rumbled through the earth and the vault started to shake. The gathered Spiral agents raced up the steps to burst into the main body of the church.

  Mo stood with Rogowski, both looking grim-faced and with their weapons trained on the door. The rumbling continued, and outside fire screamed into the sky.

  There was an electrified hum which crackled through the air. Suddenly the portal.exit of the SpiralGRID crackled into existence and three Nex leapt through.

  ‘Impossible!’ growled The Priest. Roxi surged forward with Simmo close behind her and their guns blazed, bullets sending all three Nex crashing to the ground in geysers of gushing crimson.

  ‘They used the GRID,’ said the informer Nex.

  ‘They must have the map!’ snarled Rek, hefting his Techrim. ‘The GRID has been c
ompromised!’

  The SpiralGRID crackled again as high energies spun around the grey and silver edges of the portal.exit. Everybody could smell the metallic stench of ozone.

  ‘Out of the doors!’ screamed Simmo, as the Spiral team started to back away from the GRID—once the saviour of the whole of Spiral, now just another redundant piece of technology. Betraying technology.

  ‘The fucking Nex are outside,’ hissed Mo, rubbing sweat from his shaved head and hoisting his sub-machine gun in his huge right fist. ‘They’ve got us trapped.’

  Suddenly, a snarl screamed from the portal.exit as something huge, black-armoured and glistening leapt free, long claws scraping against stone and slashing grooves in the ancient wood floor of The Grey Church.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ breathed Mo.

  ‘That is a Sleeper,’ said The Priest calmly, stowing away his Bible and pulling free his 9mm Glock. ‘And we are in a lot of trouble.’ As he glanced Heavenwards the portal.exit sent forth another two Sleeper Nex—triangular heads weaving as if searching for a scent, armoured spines bristling as if the creatures were some form of huge wild cat. Outside another explosion rocked the world, making the whole church shudder and sway drunkenly on its teetering foundations.

  The Spiral agents aimed their weapons grimly. Mongrel and Simmo, Roxi and Rogowski, Mo and Rekalavich. The Sleeper Nex, claws splintering through the wooden floor, began a wary and calculated advance ...

  The Priest drew a wide-bladed black knife with his free hand. ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born ... and a time to die.’ With his pistol spitting fire, The Priest leapt forward to do bloody and righteous battle.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE TRIAL

  Well,’ hissed Sonia, face etched with fear, eyes wide and pale in the gloom of the BMW’s cabin. ‘We’re going to have to fight.’ She cocked her weapon, and sighted through the rear window at the fast-approaching GMC truck ... But before she could fire, bullets slapped along the BMW’s flank, spitting bright sparks, and she ducked low against the back seat. With a deep breath and a silent prayer she levelled the carbine, aimed past the inverted T-sight at the five weaving, roaring GMC targets—and squeezed the weapon’s trigger.