by Andy Remic
‘She is as good as—or so I was informed.’
‘And your source is reliable?’
‘No source is totally reliable, Carter. But I have many men and women whom I trust, who have worked for me for many years—even from before my Spiral days. And so, yes, this came from a reliable source—as much as it can be.’
‘Do you know where we can find this Angel Constanza?’
Justus rubbed at the scabbed skin of his face, and tenderly touched his recently broken nose. ‘I think so. Or at least, I know where you might create enough interest to bring her to you ...’
‘And where would that be?’
‘Spiral_R. Tibet. The home of the Evolution Class Warhead, the place where the concept was devised, created—the place where they talked about the building of the prototype.’
‘Won’t this Spiral_R be crawling with Nex?’
‘Unlikely. The place was stripped, bombed, smashed by earthquakes during Durell’s rise to power. It has become bandit country, a no-go area even for the Nex—run by an army of men and women with many machine guns. The only other technological artefacts that remain are Spiral’s old automated air defences—surrounding Spiral_R in concentric rings for a hundred kilometres—a highly intelligent masked network of SAM sites run by a single AI chip of advanced design and related to the Quantell processors. An AI chip whose intelligence has unfortunately gone AWOL, and which now shoots down anything that intrudes into its airspace. No aircraft can go there so the Nex had to go in on foot, searching for this army that lives in the mountains surrounding the remains of Spiral_R. An army that unhesitatingly kills all who go near the ruins—for the site has become their shrine. Their holy place. The Nex started to hunt these people down, but the bandits waged a guerrilla war and it became too much trouble, cost too many Nex casualties for absolutely no purpose, no gain. After all, Spiral_R had been bombed, right? So the Nex were pulled out and the savages were left to their own devices. Nobody goes there now. It is a wasteland.’
‘Savages?’ said Mongrel, unwrapping his seventh chocolate bar. ‘You make this so-called army sound primitive. Like cavemen or something, har har har.’ He shoved the chocolate into his mouth.
‘Indeed. There seems to have been some nightmare effect of biological or chemical warfare—it is said to have regressed these men and women, turned them into nothing more than aggressive animals with a single purpose, a single aim.’
‘Which is?’
‘To kill.’
‘Yeah, that’s a definition of the whole fucking human race,’ muttered Carter. Then he sighed a deep and weary sigh. ‘Right, so you believe that if we can infiltrate as far as Spiral_R then this Constanza woman will show herself to us? Take an educated interest because we’re on her front doorstep and heading towards the ECW?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what about savages?’ asked Mongrel, chomping away. ‘Why they not kill her? Make her into big Neolithic sausages? Put her in bubbling dinosaur stew?’
‘Because,’ said Justus slowly, gazing out over the sea and breathing deeply the cold salt air, ‘Angel Constanza is their leader. She controls the army of the insane. She controls Spiral_R. And she is the only woman alive who can take you to the Evolution Class Warhead—if the machine was ever built; if it even exists.’
‘If it even exists,’ repeated Carter. He turned to stare with a cold sense of foreboding into the distance where a brightening sky was rolling towards them in the wake of the storm.
The Comanche came in high over China. Huge swathes of the landscape below were obscured by cloud. The engines howled furiously as Mongrel thrashed them to within an inch of their lives.
Carter, sleeping in the back, came awake from sour dreams and found that he was shivering. He lit a cigarette and gazed down at the thick cloud cover rolling unevenly below. Above, the sun glimmered in the sky, its rays shimmering hazily through the smoked cockpit glass. As Carter lit his cigarette, there came an immediate whine of cockpit air purifiers.
‘You shouldn’t smoke,’ Mongrel admonished him.
‘Get to fuck.’
‘No, really. It may affect our oxygen.’
‘Yeah, by filling it with nicotine fumes. Just fucking great. Just what I need. Mongrel, I might die today, and if I die, at least I want to have had a last blast on my beloved weed. OK?’
‘You’re getting tetchy again.’
‘Hmph.’ Carter rested his head back, closing his eyes. He hated flying, and he was feeling deeply nauseous from the constant thrum of the Comanche’s engines and from the lower air pressure of high-altitude travel.
After rescuing Justus, they had loaded up the Comanche with supplies from the SP_Plot beside the Søndre Strømfjord in Greenland. They had dropped Justus at Ammassalik on the east coast where he planned to spend a few days recovering his health—and his sanity—before going back to war. Gone was the big black guy’s easy smile. Torture by the Nex had left him bitter, and ready to seek out a terrible and lengthy revenge.
Carter and Mongrel had then taken shifts piloting the Comanche, refuelling in Sweden and stopping off at yet another SP_Plot on the Russia/Kazakhstan border where they acquired and loaded up two KTM LC8 890cc motorbikes, custom-built Spiral desert racers tastefully sprayed up in suitable camouflage and packing 329bhp and a torque rating of 198 lb-ft inside their rumbling engine casings.
Mongrel now hammered them high above China with a single objective: the location of Angel Constanza and information on where to find the Evolution Class Warhead.
Carter enjoyed his cigarette. Within the next thirty minutes the Comanche banked in a wide sweep to drop down below cloud cover.
A dazzling vista met their eyes.
Tibet, the Roof of the World. The highest country on Earth, where the lowest depths of the valley bottoms were at higher altitudes than most of the summits of the tallest mountains across the rest of the globe, and where the Tibetan Plateau was surrounded by the highest mountain range in the world: the Himalaya. Carter looked down in awe at this spectacular vision as they descended. Always a lover of mountains, for Carter this was an orgiastic visual feast. Greater than any other vision on earth, it quite literally took his breath away, spiking his senses with a heady blend of wonder and adrenalin.
Passing low over the Karakoram Range, Mongrel peered down, frowning thoughtfully.
‘Go on,’ snapped Carter.
‘What?’ Mongrel smiled a gappy smile.
‘Say it. Whatever you’re thinking. Destroy the ambience. Napalm the mood. Nuke the fucking moment.’
‘Ha! Mongrel just thinking that you get good bit of skiing done down there. Look all right, it does.’
‘Skiing? Mongrel, those mountains would smash you to a pulp. They would stomp your head in. You are a fucking insect to them.’
‘What about snowboard, then?’
‘I feel the same would apply.’
‘Toboggan?’
‘Mongrel! Just get us down there in one piece, and I’ll be a happy man.’
The sky was bright and clear, signifying the start of the Tibetan winter. Carter knew that the weather was more than likely to be harsh and could give them serious problems. He knew already that it was going to be a cold journey by bike; a supreme test of stamina.
‘What about there?’
‘You got any readings on this rogue SAM system?’
‘Yar. They start to spring up on scanners like flies in jar of jam.’
‘You have such a way with simile.’
‘Similar what?’
‘No, simile. Comparisons.’
‘Companions?’
‘Mongrel, wash your fucking ears out.’
‘My beers?’ He grinned. ‘Har, only fucking with you Carter. Just liccle of Mongrel playing his liccle ol’ games.
I know what a simile is! I is not ignorant peasant! I is not damned svolok village idiot! Simile is just like a smile, only with an extra i.’
Carter sighed. It was going to be a long, tough missi
on.
The Comanche touched down on its creaking suspension. The rotors hissed and thrummed, scattering small stones and dust, as the cockpit canopy was folded back and locked in place.
Carter jumped down, boots thudding on the rocky ground, H&K MP5K ready in his wary hands. Around him reared a range of jagged mountains. Mongrel jumped down beside him, stretching his huge frame with a crackle of popping sinews. ‘Is cold,’ he observed.
‘Yeah.’ Carter nodded, moving a few feet away from the Comanche and gazing over the nearby cliff edge. A rocky slope tumbled away for hundreds of metres and was scattered with rough boulders, some larger than a house. ‘It’s like the surface of the moon, mate.’
‘I get a brew on.’
‘Good idea. I’ll sort out the bikes.’ As Carter unhooked the motorbikes and wheeled them free of the Comanche, checking their chassis mods and tyres, then their fuel tanks and starters and on-board guns, his mind turned over the new mission ahead of them.
Angel Constanza. Commander of an insane army. Willing to kill on sight anybody she met... Carter shook his head. It had to be an exaggeration. He knew that people were only too happy to exaggerate and amplify: it was the curse of the human imagination.
He fired up one of the KTM LC8s with its stealth mods in place, and the engine burbled. He felt the violent thrash of vibes through his hands as he revved the bike, and smiled despite the harshness of their surroundings and the apparently suicidal nature of their mission. There was nothing like a powerful bike to get Carter hard.
Mongrel had ignited a tiny J-block and was heating a pan of water. While it was coming to the boil, he grabbed their kit from the Comanche and piled it next to their makeshift campsite. Both men pulled on extra clothing—several thin layers, plus gloves. Carter changed his footwear for thermal-lined bike boots, and then donned a pair of silver Oakley Juliets with polarised fire-iridium Plutonite lenses to filter out the glare of the bright Tibetan sky. The lenses were specially designed for snipers, and gave clear-cut precision to a wearer’s surroundings. Mongrel pulled free his own shades, square dark lenses set in thick sweeping black frames. Carter stared at them as Mongrel proudly placed them against the bridge of his nose.
‘What the fuck are they?’
‘Hey, this coolest of cool. Or so market trader told me.’
‘Mongrel, you look like one of those extremely old 1960s gangsters. Without any style.’
‘These cool shades, these is. They chic. They was $1.99, reduced from $350! Bargain.’
‘Yeah, a bargain.’ Carter grinned, pouring them two large mugs of tea and stirring in plenty of sugar.
Mongrel sipped at his brew. ‘Carter, lad, this not boiling!’
‘Water boils at lower temperatures in higher altitudes.’
‘It does?’
‘Yeah. It’s the elevation—lower air pressure reduces the boiling point of a liquid. Look, just drink it. We’ve got a fucking job to do and time’s starting to run out, so lay off whining about your tea. We’re down to thirty hours—by The Priest’s calculations, at any rate.’
‘And he is mad one.’
‘Fucking amen to that.’
Carter started his bike, wheelspun against loose stones, and shot off across the undulating rocky plateau in a burst of engine fumes. Mongrel fired up his own machine, checked that his tacky plastic shades were still in place, pulled his woolly hat tight over his ears, then followed Carter at a more sedate pace as he adjusted himself to the bike’s idiosyncratic riding position. The cold wind blasted Carter’s face as he led Mongrel down across the plateau, then followed a dried-up stream bed which led down towards the bottom of a steep-sided rocky valley. Mountains reared all around the two Spiral agents.
The two men hit the valley bottom and cruised for a while, swerving to avoid huge boulders and sudden drops in the rocky ground. The valley swept south and the bikes powered along, tyres thudding over rocks, engines growling quietly beneath the two riders as cold air found annoying little places to creep behind clothing and nip at exposed flesh, chilling bare skin to an almost instant blue.
After an hour they halted, breath steaming as they rubbed at their freezing flesh. Mongrel peeled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘By God, Carter, I wish we could have flown in using Comanche.’
‘I agree. Much easier. Bikes are just great in warm sunshine; but out here? You’d have to be insane.’ They sorted through their kit, pulling on yet more clothing, including wind-proofs and neoprene face masks. Carter glanced over at Mongrel, who looked like an alien behind the black mask—only his eyes showing as glittering orbs.
He is destined to die, thought Carter suddenly. The cancer is eating through him, even as we speak. And yet he is still willing to give his life for Spiral, for his friends, still trying to save the world. A great flood of sorrow filled Carter then. A great wash of emotion that brought tears to his eyes. Even if they were successful, even if they halted the machinations of Durell—well, Mongrel was still dead fucking meat. A walking, talking corpse.
‘You want a story?’ Mongrel grinned. ‘It help take your mind off cold! And you know how good Mongrel story is. They legend! Even late Simmo would sit and enjoy cup of Horlicks and listen to tale of Fat Chick Night!’
‘Fat Chick Night?’
‘Yeah, Fat Chick Night, tale of angst and woe, which centre around sexual promise of thirteen fat—’
‘Maybe later.’
‘Yes. Later: guaranteed,’ Mongrel promised. Or threatened.
Carter fired up his bike and set off on a surge of power, leaving streaks of melted rubber on the rock. Mongrel followed close, weaving through the grey landscape and uttering a plethora of moans behind his neoprene mask.
Behind them, hidden in the rocks, cold black eyes in a disease-torn face watched them go.
The two men had found a narrow trail leading west of Rutog, with a mountain range hugging their left shoulders and steep water-eroded slopes dropping steeply to their right. The slopes were the results of landslides during the rainy season, and Carter kept a close eye on the trail for any signs of the sort of irregularity lethal to a biker—especially where a three-hundred-metre drop was concerned.
The trail started to climb, and both men had to work their close-ratio KTM machines hard as constant obstacles appeared on the trail: boulders and scatters of loose stones falling away into oblivion; huge humped spines of rock that necessitated careful balance as tyres slipped and then chewed for grip; curious rock pedestals with large dips between each circular head, a formation that had both Carter and Mongrel cursing as their bikes slid and lurched, tyres spinning and engine-cages clanging. The only way to negotiate the formation successfully was to lift the front wheel over the dip, then slam on the front brake and kick the rear of the bike around onto the circular rocky platform. As the formation gave way to a normal trail, both men were dripping sweat which chilled their bodies.
Carter halted, fumes pluming from his bike’s stealth exhausts. Mongrel pulled up beside him with a tiny squeal from his tortured Brembos.
‘What is it?’ His voice was muffled behind his neoprene mask.
‘Take a look for yourself.’
Mongrel squinted behind his cheap sunglasses. His mouth made chewing motions beneath his mask and he flexed his cramping fingers, which were aching from the constant battle with the KTM and the cold,
‘SAM site?’
‘Must be one of Spiral’s rogue systems.’
‘You want to take a look?’
‘Yeah. Something’s bothering me.’
They eased their bikes closer, sub-machine guns resting on handlebars as they came close to the launching block. The alloy was grey, perfectly camouflaged. As they pulled their bikes to a halt Carter could just make out the dark grey lettering when he looked up along the wall of rock to the projection where the huge weapon squatted.
‘It’s Spiral, all right. SAM-7. Standard Mini SAM7.8 Block in a IVa configuration. You can see the vanes for th
e semi-active III-TR radar terminal guidance and inertial mid-course guidance systems.’
‘Is it active?’
‘Give me your ECube.’
Mongrel passed it over. Carter pulled free his glove, then traced a delicate pattern on the tiny alloy device. A sliver slid free of the housing and Carter saw digits flicker briefly across the blue screen as he integrated. There came a sudden whine of gears, and above them the block whirled in a rush of movement. Carter stared at Mongrel, then closed the ECube. ‘Justus was right. They’re primed, no question, and still working autonomously after all this time.’
‘Didn’t you just control it?’
‘For about one second—then it kicked me violently out of the system. It disconnected the ECube.’ Carter gave a death’s-head grin. ‘It shouldn’t be able to do that.’
‘At least we know we justified on bikes, and not wasting time busting our balls on rocky saddles!’
‘But more importantly than that, now we know that some fucked-up AI has taken control of a Spiral SAM network. That should be an impossibility. Justus said the AI was based on the same technology as the developing Quantell processors from the same era—and that just gives me the fucking creeps. Makes me think of Nex intervention. Makes me think that Justus’s story was based on a misunderstanding; maybe it’s not true that the Nex didn’t conquer this army of the insane because they couldn’t — I find that a hard premise to swallow anyway. Maybe the Nex allowed the army its existence for a reason and the SAM sites are their guardian angels—protectors against air attack by a stronger force.’
‘You have a sick mind, Carter, my friend.’
‘I’m just the way society carved me,’ he said.
The Tibetan trails and occasional roads were a nightmare of rock and dust. The cold was constant, seeping, draining. Carter had once heard Tibet referred to as ‘The Cold Desert’ and he found the description extremely fitting. It really did remind him of the desert—vast open expanses of undulating rock: a desert of stone. And all encompassed by the looming mountains. Carter smiled inwardly: the ever-present mountains were enough to give a man paranoia. Surrounded by such colossal peaks, how could one not believe in a god?