It was a late morning, even for Tasha. Despite the thrill that chasing people brought her, she would always make time, as she put it, “to have some fun.” She had been up most of the night, celebrating the merger. With it came more power for Tasha. Her elite undercover forces were second to none. It was their specialty to dispose of inconvenient people. Tasha and her Troopers would do so by implicating their subjects in crimes about which they knew little until getting arrested for them. This method had proven less risky than simply rubbing someone out, particularly because it drew negative attention to the victim, not Tasha and her forces. However, given the opportunity, Tasha didn't exactly shy away from what she called “justified kills.”
Tasha was in her futuristic kitchen, preparing a protein and vitamin shake. Her skimpy purple underwear and a sports-bra left little to any observer's imagination. The only other item on her muscle-bound body was a miniature phone clipped to her undies. It would have been a rare moment to see Tasha without anything digital. She felt the need to stay connected to the global hive via some kind of device at all times. The front door slammed shut. Two very attractive young women were on their way to a yellow Italian sports car in the driveway. Giggling and chatting, the two women appeared very happy as they sat down into their car and started the engine. A smile came to Tasha's face. She heard the sound of the car peeling out of the driveway and dropped a couple of strawberries into the running blender.
Tasha drank a sip out of the blender's jar and carried it with her into the next room. She placed her breakfast, swirled in red and blue, on an interactive tabletop. A few voice commands and the table's surface displayed a list of her current suspects and targets. Tasha flipped through several profiles that showed each of the individual's whereabouts, phone conversations and images from traffic, security and laptop cameras. The phone on her hip rang. Tasha answered it before it had a chance to ring a second time.
"Methusa!" Hers was the voice of a soldier addressing a superior officer.
Instead of someone's response, a sequence of three tones played and repeated. Then, the call disconnected. Tasha snapped her phone shut and headed to the kitchen where she poured the rest of her breakfast down the drain. She rushed to the bedroom to get dressed. Although practical for combat, Tasha's attire managed to underline her sexy appearance. As usual, purple was the dominant color in her clothes and gear. She clipped, belted and strapped on a multitude of weapons, communications equipment and survival gear. One would have never known the lethal arsenal she had concealed on her body when looking at Tasha fully dressed. Last but not least, Tasha carefully took a silver locket out of a wooden box on her dresser. It was the only piece of jewelry she ever wore. The covert assassin placed the sterling heart around her neck when a call came in. Tasha rushed to the living room to answer it. Her body and mind were at attention as Gene's image appeared on an interactive wall panel.
"Sir!"
The confident expression on Gene's face from earlier that morning had given way to one of slight anger. He barked at Tasha. "I have a mission for you, Commander. "
Tasha's blood-lust was showing through her military discipline. It was as if Dr. Pavlov had rang the bell to feed his dogs. Tasha hungrily replied, "We have a target to eliminate then?"
Gene's ego wasn't ready to accept that any one person could pose a real threat to his plan. "A simple show of strength should be enough to send this one crawling back under her rock," he boasted. Gene slid Isabelle's dossier from his onto the warrior's screen.
Tasha's appetite for action grew as her eyes explored Isabelle's image for a moment before she snapped back into her martial demeanor. "Very well, sir. I will report in as soon as I have taken care of the problem."
"Good," Gene replied.
Tasha could see his grin push the anger off Gene's face, just before he disconnected the call.
9 ISABELLE FEELS THE HEAT
Isabelle had left her office. With still no access to the Internet or any of her digital files, she decided to spend the rest of the afternoon at the library. In the trunk of her car was a crate of literature. Several of the books discussed folklore surrounding ball lightning and other atmospheric phenomenon that conventional physics could not explain properly. Since Isabelle’s car was a hybrid, it still required gas and the tank was nearing empty.
Isabelle arrived at the gas station near the media center. A tractor-trailer cement mixer with a barrel that was striped in blue and purple was parked curbside. The filling station wasn't very busy and Isabelle pulled up to a pump on her right. A quick reach into her bag and Isabelle had her debit card in hand. Television played on the pump's video screen.
Ponytail host Michael Leese was standing in the Arctic frost. Green and yellow ripples of aurorae borealis illuminated the night sky above him in a mystical display of color and light. Serving as Michael's background was the entrance to the Apophis seed-bank. A megalithic blast door locked in the seed stock from Earth's nations. The popular television personality was eagerly promoting one of Gene's many institutions. His voice, which had become a familiar sound to most, was booming from the overhead speakers.
"I don't know about you, but I sleep well, knowing that our agricultural heritage is safe from terrorists and disasters, here in the permanent frost of the arctic..."
The video was replaced by a computer message asking Isabelle to see the gas-station attendant. She turned towards the mini-mart on the far end of the property. Sling-bag in hand, she walked towards the entrance where a man was being arrested for shoplifting. One of two policemen was taking the handcuffed man to the back of the squad car. The other uniformed peacekeeper was holding an evidence bag with a bottle of water in his hand. Isabelle walked past the police cruiser and entered the store. A customer was pouring countless individual-sized creamers into a foam cup of sludgy coffee. The clerk stood behind the counter, setting up a display of erectile-dysfunction medication. Isabelle walked up to the counter and addressed the sales person.
"The pump didn't take my card."
This was a conversation the person at the register had several dozen times a day. He didn't need to think about the answer he gave everyone. "It does that sometimes to see if you're really the cardholder. Could I see your driver's license?"
Isabelle reached into her bag to retrieve the requested item, but she came up empty. "I know I had it yesterday."
The clerk had heard this answer hundreds of times. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but once the system asks for your I.D., I can't sell you anything until I see it."
Isabelle reached for some money. "You do take cash, don't you?"
The clerk muttered a sympathetic "sorry" as he lazily pointed over his shoulder where a sign read:
For Your Safety and Convenience, NO Cash or Checks accepted.
Isabelle said good-bye to the less than helpful man and returned to her car, hoping she had enough gas left for the rest of the drive. She drove past the cement mixer as she pulled into traffic. It was Tasha's strategy to hide in plain sight. Her theory was that the more heavy equipment she employed, the less people suspected it to be someone's disguise. The enormous cement mixer was a shining example of this approach. The barrel housed one of Tasha's state-of-the-art surveillance rooms. Its interior was home to an array of equipment that enabled Tasha to gather incredible amounts of information on her prey. The drum's concave shape served as a panoramic screen. A three-dimensional image of Isabelle filled the semi-sphere. The system that had been partially developed by Tasha used every digital imaging device within range to composite an uninterrupted video representation of her suspect.
Virtually any consumer device with a camera or infrared sensor had been built to provide some type of outside connection. Through Internet and most devices' cordless functions, the system was able to access cell phones, laptops, and security cameras on structures and in vehicles. A micro-camera Tasha had invisibly placed in Isabelle's windshield-washer nozzle afforded a larger than life close-up whenever she was in her car. Isabelle's cam
era-phone supplied a constant audio feed and periodic snapshots when the situation allowed the view. Surrounded by the dome-shaped screen, Tasha sat in the center of the sinister room. Flanking the Commander were two of her Troopers. The rest of the covert platoon wasn't far. Tasha reached for the talk-button in the console before her.
"Package is on the move. Purple team proceed east on Sixth."
Tasha's command emanated from two dozen cell-phone earpieces and text displays that kept her platoon in constant contact. Several vehicles in and around the gas station started up and populated the lanes around Isabelle's bright-yellow car. The special-forces platoon consisted of two dozen men and women from their early twenties to mid-fifties. Her Troopers came in all races and body sizes. Everyone was dressed to blend in. Each member of the platoon was monitoring his or her cell phone via headset or reading Tasha's commands as the system transcribed them into a constant stream of text messages. The vehicle pool consisted of twelve cars and a command post. All but one where high-end, painted in nondescript colors such as grey or white. The lack of saturated colors made the vehicles less memorable and thus helped the squadron to blend into the background. The only exception was a dark-blue 1980s Japanese model of an automaker that no longer existed. The clunker served as a rolling obstacle. With its smoking tailpipe, it would be the sort of vehicle someone would expect to drive slowly. When needed, this helped Tasha decelerate her prey enough so all her vehicles could stay in pursuit.
Inside the cement mixer's barrel, Tasha's eyes were on a map. It showed locations of each of the cars in her platoon and Isabelle's, triangulated from their cell phones. The map also displayed the traffic signals' current colors at intersections around the unusual convoy. One of the Troopers by Tasha's side was facing a smaller version of the map-display in his console. He brushed his hand along the street on which Isabelle was traveling. The traffic lights began to change. The map showed regular traffic's blue icons being redirected from Isabelle in every direction. Only the young journalist's red icon and her pursuers' yellow ones would occupy a one-mile radius. Like plow-sheers, Tasha's platoon and their special package cut through the blue field of traffic.
Tasha's cement mixer and her Troopers' cars were the only traffic Isabelle encountered. The platoon's vehicles each would drive either in front, next to or behind Isabelle. After a few blocks, Troopers would turn off to the left or right. Since no other traffic was let into the area, Tasha's drivers could easily speed to the front of the convoy on side streets and be waiting there to rejoin Isabelle's journey. Most people did not pay enough attention to their surroundings to notice that the seemingly nondescript cars along the way were all the same. This method of surveillance assured that the person they followed would not be able to make contact with anyone the team did not know or permit. If Isabelle was going to think she was in trouble, any stranger she'd approach for help would be a Trooper. She would be unable to leak out whatever it was that Gene worked so desperately to protect.
Isabelle drove a few blocks. The journalist in her was usually looking at the world with critical eyes. This afternoon, her mind was mostly looking for the reason she was locked out from the Internet. Even the screens in her car remained blank. This lack of data and imagery usually projected on Isabelle’s windshield gave her eyes a rare opportunity. Her mind sought out information and stimuli in traffic and the surroundings as she moved down the streets of Los Angeles. Isabelle rarely relied on her car's navigation system. She had developed a sense for finding shortcuts around traffic that generally clogged up the city's main roadways. This day, however, was different. This was no ordinary way for traffic in Los Angeles to behave.
Isabelle noticed the wave of traffic that parted a mile in every direction she looked - even side streets. It was as if she traveled in a bubble, except there were some other cars in her bubble of empty streets. Like a school of fish, they grouped around her, cutting in and out of Isabelle's line of travel. Tasha's Troopers were in complete control of traffic. Oncoming traffic gushed by in waves too fast for interaction. Isabelle was to Tasha like a dolphin in an ocean of salt-water piranhas.
Isabelle made an abrupt left turn into a side street. This forced an oncoming Trooper to slam on his breaks. The covert car overshot the intersection and, unseen by Isabelle, quickly turned down the following side street. The Troopers immediately behind Isabelle drove on. Several of the cars further behind turned where Isabelle had made her left. Isabelle reached Pico Boulevard, the next major eastbound road. Pico was like many streets in Los Angeles: A dual turn lane marked by yellow stripes divided a roadway with two lanes of travel for each direction. During times when commuters would flock to the city's roads, the curb lane would become tow-away and offer a very bumpy third lane of travel for each direction.
It was rush hour, yet the street seemed eerily deserted on both sides. Isabelle turned right at the light that Tasha had turned red. Tasha's cement mixer thundered down one of the empty side streets to catch up with Isabelle. Isabelle was alone on Pico Boulevard when just a few car lengths in front of her, Tasha's enormous blue and purple cement mixer shot out of a cross-street and with its tires screeching, made a turn into the second lane.
Isabelle looked to her left and saw the cement mixer barreling along next to her. A trail of black smoke billowed into the air. Isabelle sped up and shook off the heavily-laboring truck. Soon the rest of the platoon had caught up with her. The swarm of Troopers once again had surrounded Isabelle. Her work as an investigative journalist had caused her to be followed before, but she had never seen an effort on this scale. There has been a car or two in the past, but her previous tails were relatively easy to lose. Her past pursuers never had control over traffic like this. It wasn't unusual in Los Angeles to pass by police every major city block or so, but Isabelle hadn't seen a single black and white cruiser on this drive. Isabelle knew this was big, but she had no idea of the wealth of Tasha's resources.
There weren't many acquaintances in her life whom Isabelle could trust in a situation like this. Most people had great loyalty for the Apophis Corporation. Many identified part of their personalities with the products they bought. The general sentiment towards Apophis was thus a positive one. Most thought of someone who spoke out against Apophis and their doings as someone who had attacked them personally. Even many of Isabelle's friends would have found it suspicious that she was being followed like this. Gene had the general population trained to see a terrorist in everyone. The fear of terror was a great tool for Gene. It was more powerful than any of the outlandish weapons Gene had created. Without fear, the people never would have permitted such atrocities as war and starvation of the poor. Isabelle knew that humanity's potential lied elsewhere, but an elitist few have managed to keep the world in a continuous state of war and suffering to maintain their positions of wealth and power. A call to the wrong person or let alone to the police surely would have gotten her arrested as a suspected terrorist. That would have lead to a quick end since terror suspects no longer had the protection once offered to the people by the Constitution. New laws permitted all non-lethal interrogation methods which were routinely outsourced to AGC. This abbreviation stood for Apophis Guaranteed Confessions, a firm that had a 100% success record of proving a prisoner guilty. Many of the interrogated wound up missing limbs, motor function or organs, all necessary as permitted to extract confessions by AGC's contract with most major police agencies.
There was one person Isabelle knew she could trust. His name was Fuji Satori. Isabelle had known Fuji as long as she could remember. He had been there after Isabelle's mother Gemma perished in the firestorm that destroyed her jungle village. For years, Fuji had been teaching Isabelle the ways of enlightenment. Fuji practiced Buddhism, which was most apparent in the fact that he would sit and chant twice a day. He would generally do so for about an hour when the light changed from night or day. He had been teaching Isabelle that there was more to life than appeared to most. Engulfed in a swarm of Tasha's Troopers, Isabelle ga
ve a few voice commands and the car's speaker phone was dialing Fuji's number. The call appeared on a screen in Tasha's rolling command post. Quickly, the Trooper at her side announced to Tasha, "Ma'am, package is attempting a call to one Fuji Satori." A history of calls between Isabelle and Fuji filled another screen in the console.
"Let it through," barked Tasha in her militaristically-booming tone. The Trooper struck a key and the screen showed Isabelle's call continue on to Fuji's line.
Fuji Satori's house was situated on a large estate, well-hidden from the view of passersby. Clad in thicket and trees, his home presented a fairly unassuming look from the street. Fuji was in his living room, seemingly praying before a mouse when Isabelle's call rang in on the phone. His single-story home stretched across a good portion of the sizable property. In the back, a Japanese garden defined the yard. The garden was brilliantly beautiful. A creek cut across the meticulously-landscaped garden. A gravel pathway lead across to a small waterfall.
Inside, the large house was rather Spartan in its decor yet elegantly furnished. Sporadic native art from virtually every culture made it obvious Fuji was a worldly man. The lack of television and computer screens that littered most homes in the area set his apart in an auspicious way. Fuji had finished his prayer. It was becoming clear that he wasn't praying to the mouse. He was praying for it. With the phone ringing in the background, he lifted the rodent by its tail and placed it in a large terrarium. The glass tank was home to Fuji's python. Fuji finally turned his attention to the phone. He picked up the receiver and listened without saying a word. Isabelle had gotten used to his eccentricities over the years and liked the opportunity to begin the conversation.
With These Eyes Page 5