The Last Hercules

by Ron Bender

  All of our small arms fire brings out the rifle teams from whoever owns this crap-hole.

  “Jimmy?” I say over my com-link. “You still with me?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Is some shit hitting the fan?” He sounds rushed. “Because I’m jamming a huge spike in local com activity.”

  “Just keep communication locked down.” I say as I target some newb who thinks a wooden wall is cover.

  “Someone on the street tapped local law enforcement. The police band is chock full of chatter.” Jimmy sounds impressed. I’m just pissed; more crap to deal with.

  I pull my head back into cover as someone unloads half a clip into the concrete loadbearing wall and doorframe.

  Rock dust billows, wood splinters from the door casing near my head. I crouch and snap fire at the rifleman who drops to his side screaming with a blown-out knee. His buddy leans out to drag him into cover, except he leans too far for his own good. Two headshots later, all the rifle fire is stopped.

  Jimmy pipes in, “Listening to the cops. Sounds like a lot of them are on the take. They’re trying to move in. Since I followed the buildings power account, I decided to get into the Bangui Utilities system. I’m cutting power for a twenty blocks radius….in five seconds.”

  Jimmy’s still talking and I’m already yelling, “Lights out, Lee.”

  The building goes dark. I switch to night vision.

  The last few doorways on this floor burst open with frightened buyers and other clients who’ve been hiding since the shooting started. I can see them shambling for the exit. I let them pass but Lee stands in a doorframe and pulps one head and then another with his fist. Bodies start to pile up. People start to trip. Lee keeps going until no one else tries for the door.

  I get to see the killer I knew was inside that shell.

  Lee steps into the hallway and crushes his way to the staircase.

  “Up or down, Hero?” I ask.

  “Up will be offices. Down is product.” He doesn’t slow. “I’m looking for Maggie.” He heads down the stairs.

  “Control. Picasso. Requesting interior nav. assist.” I hate asking, but I’m not asking for me. If I were here on my own I wouldn’t care.

  “Control here.” Morochevsky’s voice is smooth, he’s subvocalizing. Probably too hard to breathe and talk.

  “Control. At an interior staircase. Lee went down. Possible offices and intel upstairs.” I say. “Requesting direction.”

  “Office. Up.” The Russian replies. I know he’s skimming the same map I have, running a breakdown of the buildings use and operations; trying to develop the scene. “I thought you two were supposed to be rattling cages. Not blowing the cages up.”

  “The front door was locked. It went downhill from there.” I slap another clip into my hip howitzer. “Lee’s slipping. He’s taken civilians. He may not accept Control.” He’s on his own mission, getting his daughter back. I’m after Bransen or anything that’ll tighten the noose.

  “Understood, we have a lock on his location.” Moro doesn’t hound me or rip on me. “Please connect your V-link.”

  That’s how I know it’s bad. Control hardly ever asks me to visual up-link. “Hold.” I say as I gain the corner of the landing between floors. A guy in gunner’s armor jumps on me from the top of the stairs. It’s an ugly little dance. He’s whipping injector knives around, one in either hand. He ends up screaming with a broken arm and one of the injectors buried in his eye socket. His scream gets cut short. The cross-guard forms a seal as high-pressured gas discharges into his brain.

  It’s funny how messy it is; One eye drilled through, the other eyeball hanging out, blood everywhere. His nose, ears, and mouth hanging out with pink-grey matter. It looks like he puked his brains out.

  I can’t help my grin as I get back to the real work.

  “Up-link connecting now.” I hate the fucking V-link but I know Moro’s asking only because Lee and I are in here cold. We have schematics for the top floors but no data about what’s inside and we’re in here not supporting each other’s roles.

  I send the authorization code to my processor even as I shoulder my way through a door at the top of the stairs. Everyone in ops at HQ is along for the ride as my optics begin a streaming live feed.

  “Support teams are moving into place around the exterior.” Moro is calm. “Extraction teams are prepped, waiting for your word.”

  AlphaTek has a rule; don’t entangle assets. Keep the corporation out of it unless oversight says so. Basillio is usually oversight….

  “Lee?” I ask, “You good man? Support moving in outside and Extraction’s waiting.”

  “Keep them on standby.” He sounds un-phased. Like he’s walking down a TopSide street looking for a café. “I’m keeping busy. Messy, but I’m good.”

  “Control, we’re good.” I kick the first office door in. “Keep the teams on standby.”

  First office is empty.

  I switch optics and scan the walls around me. There’s a grey colored outline on the other side of a wall too thick to blast through. A guy crouching behind something and by the spacing of his hands it’s a big ass gun he’s holding. I poke-check the hall and roll a few poppers down it. They rattle doors and their glass inserts the whole way.

  The windows on the outside wall can be swung wide open. Like a door.

  Out I go. The alley I’m above fucking stinks. From up here I can see into an open topped dumpster. Youthful bodies are mixed in with other trash. Birds and insects are a thick moving layer over the top of the box.

  I catwalk to the next window over and peek around the resin cast brickwork. I can see the guy is standing now and heading for the office door. I’m almost too late to get a drop on him.

  One shot.

  No casing, because guns that spit casings are for assholes who like cheap fire power, low fire rates, old cop shows, and prison.

  I follow the round through the glass and after another poke-check of the hallway I pat the corpse down. Nada, nichts, nothing.

  I feel more than hear a series of small explosions from someplace inside the building. If anything had happened to Lee, Moro would be telling me. Lee’s actions are the source of the sound. He’s stepping up; grenades on civvies….

  I kick the dead guys gun under the desk. “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah. Yeah still here.” The sounds of his game in the background are gone. The boss must be watching.

  “I got a system here in the second office. The case is big, clean…. Newer look’n,” I say. “I’m on the right-hand side from the south stairwell, first floor.”

  “Really? I’ve got no signature from that unit,” he replies. “The rig you’re looking at isn’t connected to a network.”

  Moro cuts in. “That may be an off-line back-up system. Alpha-Wolf will want the information from that unit.”

  “Borrowing your eyes for a sec.” Jimmy doesn’t ask. It kind of pisses me off… I end up looking away from the door and stare at the old system. He says, “Basic stuff. Mini projector and a fucking keyboard. Turn it on and get it set up.”

  “Lighting it up as requested.” I power the mini projector. “Projectors on, Systems running but its locked.” Running tech that isn’t involved with me killing, or me recording my killing are someone else’s job.

  Moro cuts in. “Wolf asks you to allow a bunraku.”

  I know how this request is gonna end. But for the sake of my dignity I try. “Now? Now’s not a good time.” The door pops open and I shoot a guy who ducks in head down. Anyone behind him will be way more careful.

  “Yes.” Moro’s voice has a cold tone to it. “Unless you are carrying the standard issue RHCT.”

  “Why the fuck would I be carrying a remote hacking tool?” I snap. “The fucking things weigh five pounds.”

  Wolf comes on line. “Picasso, do the bunraku. Now.”

  Fuck. Fuck. “Yes fucking, sir. Right-a-fucking-way, sir.”

  I stand over the interface. “I’m in position.”

 
“James?” Wolf asks.

  “Ready,” Jimmy says. “I’m ready.”

  “For the record, I hate this and if I didn’t not work for you already, I’d be quitting.” I fire off the authorization code. “I fucking hate this.”

  I drop my gun onto the desk and my arms jerk around like I’m fucking string puppet.

  “Whoa, man. Picasso,” Jimmy says. “You’re amped up like this all the time?”

  “Shut up and do the fucking hack,” I snarl. If I’m going to go dis-associative with my limbs I’d rather do it myself. I feel dirty, used, and that just makes me angry. It makes me want to kill people.

  My hands twitch a couple more times and then flicker along like I’ve been a hacker for as long as James has been alive. He’s fast. Mentally and visually I can’t keep up. I’m glad he can.

  If he were a weapons guy I’d be inclined to kill him to protect my reputation for speed. Good thing he’s a wire head. The idea calms me down a little and then I hear voices yelling in the hallway. “Hurry the fuck up, Jimmy.”

  “Almost.” He sounds distant. Like a kid wack’n off to his dad’s porno stash as his mom comes the front door. “Almost there.”

  “I don’t fucking want almost, Jimmy. Get this done.” I say it out loud. “Moro, I have a contact moving in to secure this position.”

  “Just a sec,” Jimmy says. “I can toggle in a secondary connection. Pretty good firewall. Running some high-end counter insurgency software. Bypassing key code requirements.” My fingers fly of their own volition. “Hahaha.” Jimmy laughs.“Dongle encryption required. Screw you, archaic little bitch.”

  The sound of doors banging open one at a time echoes through the hallway. I can’t even switch optics to see how close they are.

  I’m standing here, suctioned to the desktop like some teary-eyed porn-starlet’s fuck toy when a guy poke-checks the office I’m in.

  “I’m in,” says Jimmy as the guy pulls his head back behind the doorframe into concealment. The guys expression was one of surprise. Imagine finding a guy frozen at a desk, no gun, looking like an idiot; it’s a free kill, no effort.

  “Guns,” I yell.

  Jimmy’s connection is cut as the guy slides back out of cover and opens fire.

  Rounds slam into my chest, the reactive armor clenches tight with every round.

  Bitch slapped by concrete blocks, I drop hard. Automatic systems start flooding my bloodstream with extra oxygen, valves restrict blood, and liquid flow to injures, my heart rate drops as drugs moderate my adrenal function and work to prevent shock, brain function begins a hibernation slowdown. It’s been a long time since I’ve been hit. I remember exactly why I don’t like it.

  My vision of the world blurs from the edges inward all glittery snowflakes over a fading greyscale.

  The guy comes around the desk.

  He stands over me, the barrel of his gun swings over my face.

  I grunt with dying surprise as my wolvers slap out of my arms. Both sets of blades hammer up and across as Jimmy bypasses my medical systems and moves the mechanical systems for me. The guy’s guts flop out onto my chest. The second cut severs a femoral artery. Blood goes everywhere. He drops on top of me without a noise.

  I get to watch. I witness the exact moment his life stops. I go black. But it’s okay. That moment is frozen perfection. That’s what I lived for.

  3.31

  End of the Line

  TI catch myself, fists clenched out of sight under the conference table and tension pulling across my shoulders. The AI Development report continues at a crawl.

  Trying to relax and let it go doesn’t work. As the senior team members discuss their findings my eyes flick from one face to another. How well do I know these people? Some of them were hired on after the discovery of Phillip Townsend and PharmaComp-Living Memory’s connection.

  I study each of them in turn, looking for any reason to extend my trust.

  Greysen clears his throat softly and adjusts himself in his seat. His movement breaks what must have been a long angry glare because as I look away from the presenter there’s a collective sigh.

  I don’t really know any of these people….

  Paranoia.

  Uncrossing my legs, I open my hands intending to smooth the fabric of my pant legs. My right-hand snaps open. The fabric feels like its dancing under its untuned sensors. My left… I end up wiping sweat from my palm across my thigh….

  Greysen narrows his eyes at my expression, or rather the lack of expression I feel hanging on my face. Not wanting to explode out of the chair I stand up with what I hope is a measured speed. “I need a summary and timetable.” I have to trust that the Delta Protocol will catch anyone or anything that shouldn’t be here. “I understand that the program was developed by an AI for the sole purpose of circumventing the normal operational processes of the target AI. In this case; ours. I want to know how it’ll be fixed and when.”

  The AI Development Seniors nod mechanically in unison. They need to get out more or I’d end up with a toxic level of group think. “Give me a red-sheet and timeline.”

  Greysen, I think, understands where I’m at and what’s happening. How long have I known him? Ten years? Would he talk? Or, would he try to use my personal situation to his advantage?

  Vlasta had said there wasn’t a lot she could do for stim overuse. As long as I understand the side-effects and don’t lose sight of the line between reality and the false lens the drugs developed, I’d be fine.

  I’ll be fine….

  I’m fine.

  My friend of the last decade leans his elbows on the table and says, “The invasive code is light. It came in over a number of successive waves. If it had been done by one human to another it would look a lot like subliminal suggestion… millions of tiny biases built up over time to a tipping point. Slowly warping responses and adapting to add further misaligned responses to the stimulus….”

  A knock on the sealed office door has one of the junior team up and running.

  No one speaks while the door is open, a monitoring system and a second sealed office as an airlock make this as tightly private as we can manage. “Sir. Colonel Morochevsky needs you sign off…?”

  I look at Greysen.

  His expression is hard but somewhat sympathetic. He says. “I’ll bring you the actionables and timetable.”

  I hope that the wave of relief I feel doesn’t look like I’m disinterested in their report. I pause in the doorway. “I’m trusting all of you to handle this well, and do it at speed and get it the first time. Keep at it.”

  The guards stand a little more upright as I step into the hallway. I draw what feels like the first real breath I’ve had in the last two hours.

  I com-link with Alex as I make my way to the maglift. I ask, “Alex, what’s the situation?”

  His reply is quick. “Picasso and Lee have diverged from plan. They have multiple contacts and are continuing to engage with in a structure. Lee has opted to add civilian casualties as collateral damage. We are developing a full detail of their location and have pushed the additional teams up to active status. Picasso is moving to secure data from a non-networked system. Takashi is waiting to assist in a remote hack. I suspect there will be push back from our operative.”

  “Tap me into the com.”

  Picassos voice comes in clear. From the timbre of it I know he’s had a few good kills.

  “Borrowing your eyes for a sec.” Jimmy doesn’t make a friend by not asking first. I’ll have to talk to him about coopting access to an operative’s private assets. He says, “Basic stuff. Mini projector and a fucking keyboard. Turn it on and get it set up.”

  “Lighting it up as requested.” Picasso says.

  Picasso knows what might happen here. Alex suspects, which is why he got me on line.

  He says, “Projectors on, Systems running but its locked.”

  I say, “Alex? Get Jimmy in charge. Bunraku.”

  “Wolf asks you to allow a bunraku.” Moroch
evsky informs Picasso.

  I pull open his visual as the maglift finally arrives. I crowd in with some other staffers who look as surprised as I feel. Jen typically routes my cars for me and I travel priority, alone.

  Picasso cuts in. I can tell he’s pissed. “Now? Now’s not a good time.” The door pops open in front of him and drops a contact who was entering the office with him. He’s as fast and as accurate as ever.

  “Yes,” Moro replies to his question, “Unless you are carrying the standard issue RHCT.”

  “Why the fuck would I be carrying a remote hacking tool? The fucking things weigh five pounds.”

  I intervene. “Picasso, do the bunraku. Now.”

  “Yes fucking, sir. Right-a-fucking-way, sir.” The view adjusts as he steps to the desk. “I’m in position.”

  “James?” I ask.

  “Ready,” Jimmy says. “I’m ready.”

  “For the record, I hate this and if I didn’t not work for you already, I’d be quitting. I fucking hate this.”

  The maglift doors open and the lift empties out. I have good people. They understand that I need space to function and leave the lift voluntarily.

  Picasso’s arms and hands jump into the frame. No operative ever likes this part of the job but it’s a possibility at any time. The old military used this tech for field medics to preform techniques they might not know without endangering an asset. But I’ve applied it to a far bigger assortment of tasks….

  “Whoa, man. Picasso,” Jimmy exclaims. “You’re amped up like this all the time?”

  “Shut up and do the fucking hack.” Picasso snaps back.

  I say, “Alex, unlink me. Where’s Lee?”

  “Looking for his daughter in the basement levels.”

  “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Da.” Alex then asks, “Are you expecting trouble?”

  I lean against the sidewall of the maglift and try to pinch off the tension headache building behind the bridge of my nose. “Since those two are this far off script, we need to be vigilant.”

  “Picasso has contact and is injured. He is critical, life support and hibernation systems are triggered. Recovery teams are engaged now. We are clearing the top floor….”