He turned back to her, then moved closer and sat next to her. “It’s my job and my duty. You heard the boss. He’s a threat. I need to make the effort.”
She reached over to squeeze his shoulder in a show of support and left the disk behind. “Be safe,” she whispered.
Troy nodded, rose, and moved to engage Fil Trask.
She heard the screams a moment later and smiled. Between his deflating Energy levels and Fil’s surprising levels of strength, he’d never had a chance. She felt no sympathy for the man, not even when his wrist snapped, sending the sound of shattering bone echoing through the staircase. She tapped the side of her head to activate her subvocal microphone embedded there, summoned a flying craft to the northern side of the building, and deactivated the microphone.
“Trevor, Troy is down, as is Sullivan. Suspect has rendered both unconscious. Move to engage immediately. Swann, hold your position.”
That meant Trevor would get hurt as well, attacking a man who’d already leveled two security team members. The only way to prevent major injury…
She found the simple mask in her pack. The mask worked as a simple air filter, providing temporary protection against noxious gases. She pulled it on. Fil would recognize her, wouldn’t he? She couldn’t take that chance, not until they were free of the trap.
She needed to get to Fil and get him down on the ground to distract Trevor before she knocked her security team member out. Fil, attacked for a third time, might lose control. Better to do so with her as the victim than an innocent.
She moved, allowing her training and instincts to take over. She was at the bottom of the steps. Fil finally lost his patience and reached an arm around the corner, and she pounced, throwing him to the stairs, climbing atop him, and pressing her forearm to his neck to force him to focus on escaping her, rather than the second approaching guard.
When Trevor arrived, he was startled to see that she’d already subdued their target. He moved to help her, intending to bind and gag the suspect.
She turned and punched Trevor in the side of the head, watched him crumble to the ground as he lost consciousness. Her hand throbbed in agony, and she watched as the man’s unconscious form slammed into the concrete.
Ouch. Perhaps it would have been best to let Fil take care of him.
“Swann, what are you doing? Why are you wearing that mask? Where’s Trevor?”
She reached her hand out to Fil. “Let’s go. We have to get you out of here.” She pulled him to his feet and urged him up the stairs.
“Swann, what’s wrong with you? This is cause for termination. Swann, stop this instant!”
She flashed quick thoughts to Fil, her only way of proving she was friend rather than foe, and urged him up the stairs. He complied.
“All personnel, head to the northwest stairwell immediately. Reach the top floor of the building as quickly as possible by whatever means necessary. Swann is to be considered in league with the target. Your orders: shoot to kill. Repeat: shoot to kill. Swann, I don’t know what you’re doing, but you won’t escape.”
She ignored the threats, ignored the radio traffic of the swelling numbers headed after them. When they reached the door at the top of the stairwell, she pushed him through before locking the door to give them the time they needed to escape without observation.
“Swann’s gone suicidal. Let her jump.”
She tore the earpiece out, shed the equipment provided by her former employer, and glanced back as the door rattled.
She jumped.
~~~~~
Angel was free of Sarah’s memories once more. The room felt cool, jarring her back to the present, to the look of concern on the face of the woman she now understood better than she’d ever understood someone. The memories were real, powerful, and telling.
Angel wiped her sleeve across her face to remove the tears. “I was wrong about you.”
Sarah handed her a tissue. “I hope they can fix your makeup.”
Angel laughed through the tears. “Easily fixed.” She paused, took a deep breath, and held out her hand. “I’m sorry. I hope I’m forgiven for my terrible attitude. Fil’s lucky beyond measure to have you. There’s nobody—nobody—that could possibly be a better match for him.” When Sarah moved to accept the handshake, Angel pushed her hand aside and pulled the bride-to-be into a tight embrace. “Welcome to the family.”
Sarah pulled back, her face beaming. “Thanks for the welcome.” She paused. “By the way, did I tell you about the toast you need to deliver later?”
Angel grinned. The bond was strong, powerful, and genuine.
And nothing but death itself could sever that bond with her new sister.
VIII
Spy
2065 A.D.
The clear blue waters of the Atlantic rolled silently along thousands of feet below. The sphere, invisible to human senses and non-human detection equipment, sped toward the island in the distance. The clear beaches and docile waves made it a popular tourist spot for those aware of the island’s existence.
The massive black marble building loomed into view. The exterior, polished to a brilliant shine, blinded her. Gena left the craft on autopilot, not trusting herself to complete the landing process with her eyes watering from the glare. The craft flashed noiselessly past the monolithic structure, past the giant entertainment complex housing the casino where Will Stark—her twin brother—had engaged the Hunters on their home turf decades earlier, and moved toward the opposite side of the island. There, thick, old growth forests covered the land, undisturbed. It seemed out of character for the Aliomenti to leave natural magnificence undisturbed. Perhaps they’d simply run out of ideas for things to build.
The monorail connecting the primary Aliomenti facilities to the human settlements snaked along the interior of the island, terminating outside a village of small cottages near the untamed wilderness. Many human workers performed menial, day-to-day chores, most often against their will, most unaware of that fact. The mental slavery allowed the Aliomenti to live as monarchs upon their island paradise with complacent subjects at their command. Gena shook her head in disgust before focusing upon her mission. They needed information. She would obtain that information.
Spies on the Aliomenti island paradise were essential to ensuring continued safety for the Alliance. For men and women accustomed to living centuries in perfect health and relative comfort, engaging in activity with a high capture rate and risk of death, lacked appeal. No one had volunteered to replace Clint as a semi-permanent resident in Aliomenti prison, aided by technology that enabled the random escapes of other prisoners. How many remained in that prison even now? Perhaps she’d have the opportunity to free them one day. That day would not be today.
She turned and gazed upon her reflection in the mirror affixed to the wall of the craft. The face was not her own, but that of the human woman she’d impersonate to infiltrate Aliomenti Headquarters. She’d performed the facial manipulation during her journey, and nodded her approval at the results.
Her transformation was not yet complete. She rummaged through a travel bag and found a canister of specialized nanos. After removing her clothing, she sprayed the mist over every inch of her body. The nanos were coated with scutarium, and would act as a second skin and secondary Shield. Accidental releases of Energy by a supposed human inside the black marble building would prove problematic. After dressing, she found an Energy Eater, a device releasing nanos which “ate” loose Energy in an enclosed space. Adam—she smiled at the thought of him—had used such a device to mask their presence in her apartment decades ago. She needed all Energy in the craft exterminated before she exited. As a newly-minted human, she couldn’t exit the craft via teleportation; her human exit could release Energy floating around inside the craft. It was questionable if it would happen, the amount of Energy in question was minor. She was on Porthos’ home island, though. Any Energy emission could bring the Hunters her way in an instant.
The final preparatory step
involved swallowing a chip that would transmit her location to the craft. In an emergency, the craft would move to her location, shortening teleportation hops or other evacuation actions. The chip would dissolve inside her within twenty-four hours. She expected to be back in the Cavern long before that deadline.
With preparations complete, she picked up the slender disk near the craft’s navigation console. An upward swiping gesture “unlocked” the craft. For a craft built of intelligent nanos, “unlocking” meant that she could pass through the exoskeleton as though walking through water. The craft wouldn’t lose its shape or structural integrity. Once outside, she swiped down, “locking” the craft. No human, Aliomenti, or other creature would penetrate the craft during her absence. A swirling gesture moved the craft fifty feet off the ground, ensuring no terrestrial creatures of moderate sentient ability crashed into the invisible structure while strolling among the trees.
Marjorie’s cottage was just inside past the fringe of the thick forest. Gena used the time spent walking toward the home reflecting upon her targeted impersonation choice. Marjorie was of similar height, build, and (visible) age. Her speaking tone was slightly higher-pitched than Gena’s, but Gena could match the pitch without much difficulty. Marjorie also chewed her nails. Gena glanced at her formerly long nails, now cropped short, and sighed. It would take months to regrow what Adam called her “claws.”
In the faint pre-dawn light, she slipped from the trees, across the small yard, and approached the cottage. The lock was a simple device, one she disabled in seconds, and she slid silently inside the cottage, closing the door behind her.
Marjorie was awake, singing a popular song at a robust volume. A quick search of her supply pouch located a sleeping mist, which she placed at the base of the bathroom door. She listened carefully, waiting as the singing slowed and faded, and moved quickly into the bathroom to catch a sleeping Marjorie before she hit the solid surface of the shower walls and floor. Her slick body was difficult to control, and Gena nearly lost control twice as she moved Marjorie to a seated position. She turned off the water, dried the woman, and carried her back to her bed. She clothed the woman in the pajamas discarded on the floor and covered her up. Marjorie would sleep until early evening, unaware that her doppelganger would handle her daily work tasks. Gena spent several minutes in the bathroom, staring at her reflection, pinching and prodding her skin, pulling her own hair, and speaking her new name in a higher-pitched voice similar to Marjorie’s.
It was a trick that Adam had taught her, a way of internalizing her new image and name as her own. He’d taught her a lot, protected her from certain death for over a decade, and had acted as the perfect gentleman in every way. She just wished he showed interest in moving their relationship in a new direction. But Adam gave no indication he thought of her as anything but a good friend. She sighed. Relationship troubles—or, in her case, non-relationship troubles—had no place in her thoughts at a time like this.
She left the house at Marjorie’s usual time, walking to the nearby monorail station. The sleek vehicle rested upon a single track, hovering just above the surface to eliminate friction. She moved aboard the rear car, found an empty seat, and sat down. In an effort to avoid any suspicious behavior, she pretended to be asleep. The chatter picked up around her as the car filled with humans chatting about the great honor and opportunity they’d earned at the world’s largest private international bank and investment house.
She felt a powerful wave of sympathy. The great honor was a death sentence. The Aliomenti believed any human leaving the island was a threat, one who might break through the mental blocks established during “orientation” and spread tales of the island paradise. The boats from the mainland to the island arrived without incident. Those returning to the mainland suffered mechanical and structural failures, sinking beneath the waves. Alliance submarines tracked the boats and rescued the victims from drowning. The return trips were rare, and most were believed dead by friends and family with the cessation of communication accompanying arrival on the island. Most of those who’d “drowned” became members of the Alliance, happy to apply the remainder of their lives to thwarting the aims of a group that had enslaved and then attempted murder upon them.
The train slowed to a halt, and Gena let the other passengers stand and move toward the doors before opening her eyes. She followed the crowds, moving over a long pedestrian bridge comprised of a spongy substance toward the Aliomenti Headquarters building. Moments later, she walked through the automatic doors into the lobby.
The lobby was a study in ostentation. White marble floors polished to a brilliant shine. Decorative columns gilded with gold and silver. Priceless works of art hung upon walls made of deep-grained woods, the shining frames of gold reflecting the lights aimed upon the images. High-resolution display screens showed all manner of financial information: interest rates, commodity prices, currency exchange rates.
“Hello, Marjorie. We appreciate your contribution.” She nearly jumped. Those with previous experience at Headquarters had mentioned the welcome screens, but it still startled her. The screens scanned facial features in real time as people walked by, identified each person, and greeted them by name. Those in the swarm she’d joined looked pleased. The voice belonged to Arthur Lowell, and each of the humans thought the great man was greeting them personally.
Inwardly, she shook her head in disgust.
The elevator bank was crowded. She glanced past the crowds at the “executive” elevator reserved for the Aliomenti. It was the only direct route to the research labs belowground for those unable to teleport. She was distracted as the elevator doors surrounding her opened and closed at a steady pace. With grudging admiration, she had to admit that they’d perfected elevator traffic management techniques. Even with hundreds of humans waiting, she was in the lobby no more than thirty seconds before she boarded an elevator to the seventh floor.
The Private Investment Research group looked at investing in human ventures with exceptionally high return potential. Marjorie’s group researched trends projected out ten years into the future, then sought out human business startups with promising products or services. By investing early, they could buy controlling interest in the often-struggling business and reap huge rewards. She knew that it was her brother’s knack of doing the same thing—without an army of enslaved researchers—that prompted the reluctant Aliomenti creation of the department. They hated Will Stark, but they hated missing huge investment returns even more.
She found Marjorie’s desk and sat down, flipped open the first folder, and began to work through the paperwork. Her scouting trips to the island had prepared her well. She’d identified Marjorie and spent time studying her mind as the woman slept, learning what she did, how she did it, who she knew, her interests. She settled into the role as if she’d been performing the work for years. She kept her head down. The less talking she did, the better.
An hour later, she’d prepared analysis for two startups and mumbled hellos at three coworkers. The work was routine; she focused her energy upon listening to the chatter around her. Her coworkers tended to think out loud; that meant she knew what companies the Aliomenti and their research department found interesting. Her concern: the Aliomenti had figured out how to identify disguised members of the Alliance and had included those individuals in research efforts. If they could use an “investment” to destroy an Alliance company, she believed they’d do so.
She tried not to suck in a breath when an Aliomenti cash flow statement fell out of the next folder. She knew the Aliomenti skirted reporting requirements of various world governments. The island was technically an independent country, and thus they made their own rules. That didn’t excuse them from taxes, fees, and reporting regulations in countries where they did business. Their real financial statements never left this floor, however. The Aliomenti liked to know how much money they had; they felt no compulsion to share those numbers with others. And the numbers were… terrifying.
&
nbsp; She felt the Energy move into the room, and she wasn’t the only one. She could hear her coworkers—mostly female—shift in their seats to provide a better view of the man who’d joined them. Porthos, known to the workers as Mr. Sebastian, knew how to make an entrance.
“He’s so handsome!” one of her colleagues whispered.
“And he’s so young to be a senior vice president!” another whispered back.
Gena tried to contain the laugh, but a small snort escaped. She felt the eyes of her nearest colleagues zero in on her, and she looked up. “Excuse me,” she said, put a hand to her mouth, and coughed twice.
Gena “squinted” her hearing to enable her to listen in as Porthos addressed the senior managers overseeing the group. “Our Minnesota branch approved an investment for Trask Energy. Why was that done?”
Gena felt her face turn warm. Porthos knew of Fil’s company?
“Sir, I can find the paperwork if you’d like, but it appears the locals found the company to be highly profitable and poised for explosive growth. We researched it here and arrived at the same conclusion. The amount returned should grow by triple digit percentages yearly, which over time could mean—”
“I’m aware of how compound growth works,” Porthos replied. His tone was icy. “That company was on our blacklist, one that must not be funded. Yet it was. I need to understand who made the decision to override the decree from the Leadership committee and approve the investment.”
Gena felt her face turn hot. She knew who’d done the research and wrote up the release without checking the watch list. Porthos was given Marjorie’s name by the supervisors, and was at her desk seconds later.
“Marjorie, is it?”
Gena forced herself to look at him, avoiding direct eye contact. She was happy her face had turned red; Porthos would likely take that as a sign of physical attraction. “Yes, sir?”
Aliomenti Saga 6: Stark Cataclysm Page 10