Shiva

by Simon Sloane

  Zoë chuckled. Charenton had underestimated how many Tanguy loyalists remained within the secret service. They knew as well as she did that the peasant-faced man from Nevers didn’t have what it took to lead a nuclear power.

  Charenton sat behind the desk opposite Zoë’s. His trademark rustic grin had been wiped off his face. To Zoë, he looked like an ageing elephant—beaten, deflated, resigned to his fate. For Charenton, things just weren’t meant to be.

  Agent Leclerc unplugged the pen drive from her laptop. Then he removed the power cable and took the device with him. Zoë was about to disapprove, but a dark glare from Leclerc made her back down.

  Charenton was uncuffed before he signed his resignation—on medical grounds, as Zoë had suggested to the SSI head when she had negotiated her immunity. The fact that Charenton had already twice postponed his scheduled bypass surgery was casually conceded in the statement.

  “You see why we had to do it?” Leclerc mumbled to his superior. “The Yanks and Brits stopped taking us seriously. They’ve already launched ….”

  Zoë regretted that she didn’t hear more while the three men walked Charenton out of the Salon D’Argent. Their limousine would take him directly to his country estate in Nevers. The man who wanted to be president turned around one final time, casting a wistful glance over the salon, where he had resided for one day.

  Zoë’s life would change as well—in a positive manner, of course.

  For one last time, she sat down behind her empty desk. Soon she would sublet her small apartment in Clichy and move to the Elysée Palace. Her bed would be shared by the most coveted divorcé of Paris. Zoë guessed she would take less than a year until she was officially the First Lady of France.

  It was 4:30pm … a historic moment for France, courtesy of Zoë de Valenciennes.

  She leant back in her chair, kicked off her high heels and put her feet on her desk.

  Chapter 120

  Destruction

  Saturday, 4:30pm CET (8:00pm local time)

  Having returned from the corridor, Hugo felt unable to leave Diana behind. Given what she had done, he couldn’t understand why he should live on if she wouldn’t.

  Soon the incoming missiles would pulverise Shiva.

  “Five minutes to impact, Hugo!” Alexander grabbed Hugo’s arm, pulling him away. “We must go now.”

  But Hugo couldn’t let go of the glowing cylinder. Diana had given him so much. And he, bedazzled by Maya, had never appreciated her in the manner she deserved.

  Never forget, he thought he heard Diana’s voice echo from the ceiling.

  Never forget ….

  It was an illusion. Alexander professed to have heard nothing when Hugo asked him. Diana had fallen silent, doing her final job before the curtain came down.

  Hugo fell on his knees in front of the Shiva cylinder. He pondered descending to the operating theatre, where Diana’s body remained on the aluminium platform. But then he lowered his head, caressing the glowing surface as if it was her skin.

  Alexander grabbed Hugo’s arm and dragged him away. “Run!” he shouted as they rushed for the staircase. They only had to go one level up to the rooftop, but the intruders were growing restless again as the hunger stirred their stomachs.

  One last time Hugo let his gaze glide across the pool area, thinking of Maya’s eighteenth birthday party. He could almost feel the dancing crowd around him. He recalled the contentment in Maya’s eyes as she was celebrated by her friends, adored by her suitors and beloved by her parents.

  But now they were gone—all of them.

  Alexander was the first to reach the helicopter. He took the pilot’s seat and set the rotor in motion. “Fasten your seatbelt!” he barked at his sole passenger.

  “Got a gun?” Hugo pointed at the loiterers flooding the pool area. They were running straight toward the aircraft as it struggled to lift off.

  “No!” Alexander said as he pulled the control column. One of the youths grabbed the landing skids, but Alexander’s sudden swerve shook him off. “Bye-bye!” Alexander waved at the aggressor as he fell down all the way to the pavement.

  “There’s no reason to gloat,” Hugo said, pointing at the open sea. From a distance, the exhaust fumes of two cruise missiles converged toward Singh Tower.

  “I told you so.” Alexander turned the helicopter ninety degrees and flew straight south. A quick dive, and they avoided the incoming rockets before two blasts nearly burst Hugo’s eardrums.

  The concussion wave propelled them farther out above the ocean. Alexander turned ninety degrees again, this time to approach Mumbai International Airport.

  “Booked a flight for us?” Hugo asked, looking out the window. The cruise missiles had razed the tip off Singh Tower, obliterating the data centre, including Shiva and the Room of The Three Gods. Black smoke arose from the remainder of the hexagonal spire that had once towered over southern Mumbai.

  “We’re flying first class with Air France to Paris. Isn’t that the way you like it?” Alexander winked.

  “Why Paris?” Hugo asked as he watched the metal beams of Singh Tower melting away. Then the icon of the Singh dynasty collapsed into a pile of rubble.

  “That’s how empires fall,” Alexander said without answering Hugo’s question. “They become too big, they get submerged from within and … poof!”

  “How did you know we were about to be attacked?” Hugo asked. “Your message predicted the impact down to the minute.”

  Alexander grinned. “It’s not just Mumbai.” He turned on the onboard television screen and switched to an international news channel.

  “Breaking News: More Than 100 Al-Antqam Strikes Worldwide” scrolled through the lower half of the display. A breathless anchorwoman tried to keep track of the wave of simultaneous explosions that rocked the capitals of the world.

  Hugo saw a fiery blaze where the giant clock of Big Ben in London had once stood.

  The transmission cut to Paris. The bell towers of Notre Dame burst apart.

  Fumes arose from the Art Deco skyscraper at 30 Rockefeller Plaza in New York.

  In Singapore the pool area on top of the Marina Bay Sands’ curved triplet towers was blown away.

  A wave of destruction rolled around the globe, and no one seemed able to stop it.

  “Let me guess,” Hugo said, “we’ll count exactly one hundred and eight attacks.”

  Alexander nodded. “That’s right. At last the governments got their act together. Seems like everyone had to fall unconscious for a few minutes before they realized they had to do something. Hours had already passed since Sarah had unveiled on geek-o-matixx where to find all Shiva installations.”

  Hugo didn’t feel like celebrating. He felt depressed that Diana had surrendered the part of her soul that had survived in Shiva. Deep inside he was convinced that she could have foiled the coordinated assault on the AI’s replicas. Given what Shiva was capable of, Diana could have diverted the missiles or made them explode before they hit.

  But she had chosen not to.

  Maybe she hadn’t trusted herself with the power she had acquired through Shiva. Without her final sacrifice, her capacity would have ballooned beyond human imagination, until she had expanded throughout the universe.

  Hugo lowered his head as he pondered the loss of the most fearless woman he had ever known. In the end, Diana had refused to let Shiva become a god. She had cut short the AI’s accelerating journey to transcendence. She had let stupid humans, with their bombs and missiles, destroy what could have become the most complex structure in the cosmos. Instead of arising to the divine, she had chosen the same path that Hugo had selected when Maya had paid him an imagined visit during his delirium.

  The human path.

  It dawned on Hugo that this had been Diana’s final job: destroying a godlike artificial intelligence that even her iron willpower could no longer keep in check.

  “Gott ist tot,” Hugo whispered silently as the helicopter touched down in the private section of
Mumbai airport. God is dead.

  And this time, he shed a tear.

  Epilogue

  Ball Of Fame

  Sunday, 10pm CET

  Hugo clapped as the victor strode across the VIP area to the sound of upbeat French pop music. “I can’t believe I’m applauding Jean-Marc Tanguy,” he told Khaled.

  “Neither can I,” Khaled replied, caressing his bowtie. “But it was a nice touch of him to invite us. And you guys even snatched a first-class ticket!” He pointed at Alexander making hilarious dance moves while Sarah stood at the bar with her girlfriend.

  “The Showcase has always been one of my favourite nightclubs,” Hugo said. He gestured at the indirectly lit sandstone arches beneath Pont Alexandre III.

  “It’s not a bad place for a victory party,” Khaled replied, looking down on the illuminated party boats on the Seine. “Last year Tanguy wanted to kill us, and now?”

  “Now I’m president!” a voice boomed from behind. Tanguy put his arms around Khaled and Hugo’s shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “But it’s just a first step. I’ll call new elections within six months.”

  “Why?” Hugo asked. “It’s not your fault that the incumbent party didn’t manage to field a proper candidate.”

  “A murder and a resignation in a single week are too much for voters to stomach. I can only govern on the basis of a proper mandate.”

  Hugo nodded, marvelling at Tanguy’s conversion from a ruthless Machiavellian to a principled democrat. While the prospect of high office daunted many people of talent, it seemed to have liberated the president-elect. Even Tanguy’s annoying facial tics had disappeared. The new president seemed at peace with himself and the world.

  “Jean-Marc,” a female voice cooed from behind, “you haven’t introduced us yet.”

  Hugo turned around to face an attractive young woman in a long scarlet dress. Her blond hair had been pinned up to highlight her slender face. Her blue eyes reminded him of Diana’s, but something about her smile was twisted.

  “Zoë,” Tanguy said with a grin, “meet my friends, Hugo Hyde and Khaled Sharkhor. I’m trying to convince them to join my administration.”

  Hugo noticed Zoë lock eyes with Khaled, but neither of them said a word. Surely, Tanguy had joked when suggesting that he wanted to hire the two of them.

  “Oh!” The new president covered his mouth in feigned shame when the conversation seemed stuck. “And this is Zoë de Valenciennes.” He put his hand on the blonde’s lower back, making her smile. “She’s one of those Parisian birds trying to fuck their way to the top. I trust you’re familiar with the type, Hugo,” he added with a wink.

  “Jean-Marc!” Zoë cried, but her double-edged smile returned after a flicker of outrage. “You’ve had too much champagne.”

  “Au contraire,” Tanguy said, waving at Alexander to come over.

  To Hugo’s surprise, Alexander had three men in dark suits in tow.

  “No!” Zoë protested when the bulky guards separated her from the victorious candidate. “You can’t arrest me! I’ve signed an immunity deal!”

  “You did indeed,” Tanguy said just loud enough for Hugo to hear amidst the thumping pop beats. “You can’t be prosecuted for your role in the assassination of Christian Casimir-Perier. About corruption though, now that’s a different story.”

  “Corruption? I’ve never taken money from anyone!”

  Tanguy reached for her left wrist, deftly removing her watch. “It’s a Cartier Rotonde Tourbillon, worth more than two hundred thousand Euros. You received it when Etienne Saint-Clair came to the Elysée Palace lobbying for the counter-terrorism bill. And now,” he added with a smirk, “I shall confiscate it for the state.”

  Zoë gasped. “You bastard! You set me up! You arranged … this!”

  Tanguy smiled as he turned to Hugo. “Would you trust a woman who sleeps with her boss’s fiercest rival?” he asked as Zoë was escorted out of the club.

  Hugo laughed. “Of course not.” He felt his cheeks redden when he remembered his deadly double-crossing of Maya while they made love.

  “You’ve got a great team,” Tanguy told Hugo, looking from Khaled to Alexander to Sarah. “I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping them on my payroll.”

  “Keeping?” Hugo asked. “Wasn’t Alexander fired in disgrace?”

  The man from Saint Petersburg laughed. “It was a ploy!”

  “Just before I left office,” Tanguy said, “I instructed the SSI to keep track of anyone who attempted to rebuild Sibyl. After a short while, we heard that someone in Mumbai was desperate to hire anyone who used to work for you, Hugo.”

  “So, the SSI discharged me in disgrace,” Alexander said. “Freeing me to work for Yogi.”

  Hugo realised how Alexander had saved his life once more. “That’s how you knew about the cruise missile attack on Shiva! The SSI informed you in advance.”

  “We didn’t manage to contact the Brits in time,” Sarah said, her arm around her girlfriend’s waist. “I opened a back channel through geek-o-matixx, but the secret service was obstinate. In the end, the RAF only struck when people collapsed on the streets en masse. Thank God they all came back to life after a few minutes!”

  “What about France?” Khaled asked. “I was locked up, so I couldn’t follow.”

  “That’s the real reason why Charenton had to go,” Tanguy said. “The SSI couldn’t stomach his dithering when faced with an urgent threat to national security. He didn’t even have a backup plan against a malevolent AI like Shiva.”

  Hugo swallowed at the thought of humanity’s narrow brush with annihilation. In the end, Diana had saved them all. It tore his heart apart when he realised he no longer had an opportunity to repay his debt to her.

  She was just … gone.

  Tanguy looked from Hugo to Khaled to the others. Without a word, the president-elect retrieved five envelopes, each one bearing nothing but a name.

  Sarah Parker.

  Jamie Bennett.

  Khaled Sharkhor.

  Alexander Popov.

  Hugo Hyde.

  A sixth letter remained in the pocket of Tanguy’s jacket, but Hugo glanced at its addressee: Diana Holborn. He put on a brave face while his colleagues opened theirs.

  “Special advisor to the president,” Sarah read out her job offer. “How about you, Jamie? Fancy doing something useful for a change?”

  Khaled and Alexander smiled as they received promotions to the upper ranks of the SSI. Hugo briefly scanned his letter, unsure what to do.

  “Call me nostalgic,” Tanguy said to Hugo, “but I think your team should reunite here in Paris, where it all started.”

  Hugo nodded. “It’s very thoughtful of you, Monsieur le Président.”

  “Jean-Marc, please!”

  Hugo turned around and walked to the parapet that shielded the nightclub from the riverfront. Could he really work for his old adversary?

  There was a vibration in his pocket, and he retrieved his mobile.

  Take it, someone had texted him from an unknown number.

  Who are you? Hugo wrote back, puzzled.

  That’s so Hugo. We almost did it two days ago, and you’ve forgotten me already.

  Hugo couldn’t think of anything to say in response. He looked around, trying to spot the camera through which the woman who texted him was observing him.

  Want a hint to tell me from all the other ladies? I’m Lucrezia.

  Hugo couldn’t believe it. His heart pumped faster, and he almost leapt for joy that Diana’s mind was still around … somewhere.

  But 108 explosions? He wrote back, keen not to compromise her identity. Chances were the SSI surveyed his electronic communication.

  108 backups, Diana replied. It’s not the same as 108 installations.

  So, they had forgotten one instance of Shiva somewhere in the world. But where? Somehow Hugo felt that Diana couldn’t be far away.

  Take Tanguy’s offer, she wrote as he stood baffled in silence. You’ ll regret
it if you let it pass.

  Hugo felt a hand on his shoulder. “Texting your new girlfriend?” Tanguy asked him when he turned around.

  “Why would you think so?” Hugo inquired with an awkward smile.

  “You’ve never struck me as the type who stays alone for long.”

  Hugo laughed as he locked eyes with his former nemesis, wondering what the new president really had in mind with him and his team.

  Then, at last, he shook Tanguy’s outstretched hand.

  THE END

  Copyright

  Published by Clink Street Publishing 2018

  Copyright © 2018

  First edition.

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that with which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBNs:

  978–1–912562–42–8 paperback

  978–1–912562–43–5 ebook