going to control you now." There was a pause, and when Namir spoke again, he was firm and commanding. "You and this little group of
troublemakers are responsible for disrupting my line of attack against the target, but the plan is adaptable. You're going to help me put it
back on track."
"Not bloody likely." Saxon halted at a window, peering out. A police car raced past and he ducked back into cover.
"I'm not giving you the choice" Namir grated. "When William Taggart walks out onto the steps of the Palais des Nations at midday, he's
going to be shot dead by an augmented killer. Can you see where I'm going with this, Ben?"
A sense of grim inevitability settled on him. "Taggart's life for the woman."
"I knew you'd understand. Be at the grounds of the Palais one hour before. If you try anything foolish, I'll make sure Barrett transmits every
last second of what he does to Kelso, so that the only way to silence it will be to dig that comm implant out of your skull. Are we clear?"
"As crystal..."
A click echoed in his head as the line went dead. Saxon sat in the dark and the quiet, the promises he had made turning over and over in his
thoughts. Sam and Kano, Anna ...
Damn Namir, but the bastard was right. He knew Saxon couldn't walk away, not now, not after everything that had happened—because for
every second he was still alive, there was still a chance he could get Kelso out of there, still a chance he could find Jaron Namir and end him.
He had broken a vow to Sam Duarte, a promise to get him home again. He wouldn't let Anna down the same way.
Saxon found a door and forced it open, slipping out to the road. A tram terminal, empty this early in the morning, glittered in the dark. He
climbed to the platform, finding a shaded corner to wait for the next train into the city.
When he was sure he was alone, Saxon reached for the cracked and scratched vu-phone in his pocket, and dialed a number.
The call was answered instantly by a voice made of echoes and phantoms. "Hello, Ben. Are you all right? I feared the worst." "I need help,
Janus." "What can I do?"
Saxon thought about the communications display he'd seen on board the Tyrants jet, and the Icarus ghost-node. "I need you to help me find
something."
Route de Ferny—Geneva—Switzerland
He found a restroom at the terminal where he could clean himself up and take stock of his options. When Saxon was ready, he picked the pocket
of an unwary night-shift worker and used her pass to ride the tram to the Nations station.
When he got there, he found a confusion of crowds strung out along the line of the open plaza, leading to the southern gate of the Palais. They
clustered around the base of the Broken Chair, a twelve-meter-tall sculpture of a wooden seat with one shattered leg—a symbol for the victims
of land mines and cluster bombs. There were two groups, each as loud as the other, each sporting banners and placards in English and French.
The first were pro-augmentation, transhumanist activists, rallying around the sculpture as if they could use it as an image to underline their
desire for freedom to control the human body; the other, larger group were against them, calling for the regulation of cybernetic enhancements.
Their banners read Stop Playing God, Protect Mankind and other familiar slogans. He saw the symbols of Taggart's movement, the Humanity
Front, at every turn.
The tension in the air was palpable, and between the two opposing sides news crews from SNN, Picus, and the BBC moved back and forth while
the Swiss police did their best to remain a discreet but obvious presence.
Confrontations over the controversial science of human augmentation technology were happening more and more. Saxon had seen the reports
of angry demonstrations in Washington, D.C., Tokyo, and Mombasa, incidents where the vociferous clashes had turned ugly in the blink of an
eye. He pulled his jacket closer to conceal his own cyberarm, unwilling to have either group figure him for one of their camp, and studied the
lines of opposition. He wondered how much of this and all the other global protests had been stimulated by the Illuminati, surrogate fights
staged to manipulate media coverage and public opinion. So much bloodshed over something so abstract... At first the thought of it sickened
him; but then Saxon found himself wondering about the truth. How many other flashpoints in human history had begun like this? How many
had the Illuminati turned to their design?
Hovering low over the plaza, a drone blimp drifted across the morning sky. The underside was festooned with cameras, while two thinscreens
showed the Picus Nightly World News feed. Saxon glanced up and saw the elegant aspect of Eliza Cassan. The Picus anchor was one of the best
known celebrities on the planet, a face trusted by millions to be the voice of truth. The mere idea of that now seemed childish and na'ive to the
soldier.
A speaker grille broadcast her voice across the square. "A spokesperson for the Swiss cantonal police has informed Nightly World News that
the crash of a light aircraft at Geneva International Airport was a tragic accident and in no way connected to today's sensitive meeting of
the United Nations science advisory board ." Behind Cassan, images of fire tenders working on the runway unfolded. "The meeting, which has
been called to determine if UN involvement in human augmentation technology is warranted, will be attended by controversial figures such
as pro-humanity advocate William Taggart—"
Mention of Taggart's name brought a brief surge of cheers and catcalls from both sides, and Cassan's voice was lost in the sound of the crowds.
Saxon watched the drone blimp continue on its way. The report made no mention of what happened to Gunther and the vehicle bomb; he
reflected on what Namir had said before. By dawn, all this mess you've made will be glossed over and done with.
He frowned, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. Head down, he threaded his way through the jeering protesters, who were now taunting
one another across the closed-off length of the Avenue de la Paix. Beyond lay Ariana Park, the wide commons once open to the public but now heavily patrolled and cordoned by Swiss law enforcement agencies and the private security contractors in the employ of the delegates. Saxon
spotted a cluster of Belltower grunts in lightweight ballistic tunics and bascinet helmets with polarized gold visors. They were armed with
flechette-firing assault rifles and urban-duty tactical shotguns, more than enough to cut him down if he tried to break the security line.
In the middle of the park was his target, the Palais des Nations. The meeting Taggart was attending would take place there, in the Assembly
Hall. Saxon began to think like the assassin Namir wanted him to be, evaluating points of entry and approaches. Once Taggart was inside the
Palais, he would be insulated from any attack. The man would have to be killed on the steps of the building, or not at all.
Saxon's eyes narrowed as he turned the thought over in his mind. In the SAS, this was a mission he had performed on more than one occasion;
but then it had been in defense of King and Country, to stop conflicts rather than to start them. Here and now, he truly was no more than a
blunt instrument, wielded by men in the shadows for a cause beyond his understanding.
From out of nowhere, a gruff voice cut through his thoughts. "Keep walking. Past the tram halt. Fourth streetlight."
He crossed the plaza to the road that paralleled it, and as he approached the lamp pole, a black SUV pulled in and halted. Saxon stepped closer
as the driver's-side window dropped. "Hands where I can see them," said the voice. Hardesty's glowering face appeared, eyes na
rrowed behind
dark glasses. "Well," he muttered, "it's true, then. You really are too fucking stupid to die."
Saxon obeyed and dropped his arms to his sides. He wasted no time with preamble. "This is a no-go. I can't get in there, let alone get close to
Taggart." He stood stock-still, taking in the man, the vehicle, anything that might give him a clue about where Namir might be. A tag on the
dashboard caught his eye; it looked like a security tab, similar to the arfid discs used by the Belltower grunts.
Hardesty shifted in the seat and Saxon's attention was drawn away. The other man had a Diamondback revolver resting across his folded arms.
The muzzle was aimed right at Saxon's chest. "You have no idea how much I want to pull this trigger," said Hardesty, ignoring his comments.
"Put a round into you, blow your lungs across the goddamn plaza..." He grinned coldly. "You almost cost us this op. I had an instinct about you
from day one, limey. I should have fragged you in Queensland along with the rest of your squad."
A calm kind of anger settled on Saxon. "Then do it, if you got the balls. Either that or be Namir's errand boy, like he told you to. I don't have all
day."
For a long second, Saxon thought Hardesty might actually shoot, as his expression tightened into a rictus; but then he sniffed and let the gun
drop. "You're right. You don't. So listen up, 'cos I'm not going to repeat myself." He reached for a small bag and threw it at Saxon. "There's an
armor jacket in there for you. Follow the avenue around toward the next gate. A public-works crew are laying some new blacktop in the near
lane. You got cover there to hop the wall, get inside. The Swiss cops got two-man teams on patrol, so don't get caught before you get to the
target."
"You expect me to walk right up to Taggart and break his neck?"
Hardesty sniggered and opened the revolver's chamber, shaking the gun so all six bullets fell out. Then he handed the empty weapon to Saxon,
who quickly stuffed it into the bag before anyone spotted him. "Here," he said, holding up a single round between his thumb and forefinger.
"You're supposed to be good. So this should be more than enough."
He tossed the bullet and Saxon caught it out of the air. "What about Kelso? I don't even know if she's still alive."
"That's right, slick, you don't" snarled the other man. "Now, go be a good dog and do as you're told, and maybe the bitch lives." He leaned
forward, lowering his voice, showing teeth. "Personally? I'm hoping you try something. I want you to refuse, Saxon. I want the excuse to put
you out of my misery." Hardesty spat on the ground. "You talk like you're a soldier, but you're nothing, limey. I know your kind, bleeding-heart
warrior, all about the good and the noble, but you got no idea how the real world works. You got no steel in you."
Saxon met his gaze, looking through the dark lenses to the dead eyes beneath. He saw nothing there, nothing but a cold machine soul driven by
anger. "You're right," he admitted. "Because if being strong means turning into a heartless fucker like you, I'll stick to being human."
Hardesty laughed. "Good luck with that," he retorted as the SUV surged away in a growl of acceleration.
Location Unknown
Anna clawed her way back to a waking state as if she were buried in wet sand, digging herself out inch by inch. She felt the chemical drag of
sedatives in her bloodstream; her last conscious memory was of Federova bundling her into the back of the black helo before something sharp
and metallic nipped at the flesh of her neck. After that had come a turbulent dream filled with scattershot images of burning cities, crazed
cyborgs, chaos, and conspiracy, rising up from the recall of the vision Janus had put in her head.
She was in a small room with metal walls, the only decoration a perfunctory cot bolted to the floor, a lamp set in the ceiling, and a steel toilet in
the far corner. Anna rolled to a seated position and the room swayed around her. The floor seemed unsteady, and her stomach turned over.
The fog of drug haze made it difficult to move; her legs were like lead.
She wasn't secured by handcuffs or any kind of tether; clearly the Tyrants didn't consider her enough of a threat, which was insulting in its own
way.
Beyond the door to the cell she heard movement, and held her breath, straining to listen.
"... with Hardesty," said Namir's voice, as he came closer. "Once it is done, we'll need to recover and proceed to the extraction point."
"Got it," said another man, this one gruff and hard-edged. "What about the li'l punk?"
"We've got what we need from him."
"This one, too?" Anna knew they had to be talking about her.
"We will see," said Namir. "If not, the Hyron Project can always use new materials." She heard him come closer. "Open it."
Anna scrambled back into the far corner of the cell as the door opened to admit the mercenary. She caught a glimpse of a thickset bull of a man
hovering behind him, his face scarred by old burns down one side. He gave her a callous wink and walked away.
Namir stepped in and closed the door. "Anna Kelso."
"Jaron Namir," she replied. "Yeah, I know who you are."
That got her a moment of irritation, but it vanished just as quickly. "Ben should learn when to keep his mouth shut. It gets him into trouble."
"Are you here to kill me?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not yet. For the moment, you're required intact. For purposes of leverage."
She snorted. "Against Saxon? I hardly know him. You think he's going to risk his life for a complete stranger?"
Namir nodded. "Of course he will. If you did know him, you'd know he will risk his life for you." He folded his arms over his chest. "It's a
character flaw. Despite everything that has happened to him, every loss and disappointment, under it all Ben Saxon wants to be the good man.
The hero." Namir smiled coldly. "Others would have had that beaten out of them by now. But not him."
"Lucky for me," she offered, with more defiance in her tone than she felt.
"Not really." Namir stood opposite her. "I'm intrigued by you, Anna. Your tenacity. It's quite impressive for someone with such personal failings
to overcome." He cocked his head. "When was the last time you had a dose? It must be difficult going cold all over again."
"Bite me," she snarled.
He smiled thinly. "I know this is difficult for you to understand, but you have to realize that you are fulfilling a purpose here. We all are. For a
greater good."
"A greater good?" She spat the words back at him. "Your Illuminati are a cancer! You kill and threaten and ruin lives all because some faceless
cabal of old men want to play God with the world? What gives you the right?"
"There is no God," Namir told her. "That's why these things need to be done. That's why the group exists." He sighed. "The Illuminati were
created for that very reason. The future of humanity is too delicate to be left to the whims of passing kings and despots. It's too complex to be
decided by the greater mass of mankind. It is the burden of the elite to be fit to rule, to take the reins of the world, and to guide it toward a
stable unity."
"They teach you that little speech?" she replied. "The cowards who ordered the deaths of my friend and countless others?" She shook her head.
Deus Ex - Icarus Effect Page 31