The Amber Rooms sb-3

by Ian Hocking

  Hand on heart.

  There had been—how many?—nine of those self-interfacing cerebral chips. Each had been the size of the pills he used to take for his circulation before the i-Core became his one treatment. It had been the Hartfield Foundation that had pushed for their application in law enforcement. The risk had been great, and not just to those sorry criminals whom Beckmann had picked by hand. In truth, nobody understood how those glass lozenges worked. Nobody understood how it was possible for them to work. And nobody, as far as Beckmann could discover, knew where they had come from.

  Another weakness.

  With the exception of Brandt and Klutikov, the remaining FIB agents had died in the line of duty. All, that is, apart from his final recruit, Shangxiang. She had disappeared on a mission to the Arctic. Her death had been probable but never verified.

  He took a deep breath, pressurising his heart as one might squeeze a hand in reassurance, and looked at the vast, blank ceiling of his bedroom. He liked the blankness. He liked the simple geometry and the colourless. But this eyrie would be different if he had family. It would be warmer, fuller.

  Shangxiang had been codenamed for a third-century warrior and noblewoman known as Lady Sun.

  He closed his eyes.

  When the sun touched Beckmann’s clifftop house, its tinting layers darkened, pushing back the light, maintaining a certain gloom in its chambers. Beckmann would watch the process most mornings as he ate breakfast on one of the higher balconies. The tinting reminded him of slowly closing eyes. It reminded him of his death. When the evening came, and the tint faded, Beckmann liked to think that this was the house waking. It was a night-thing, like him. That was why he called his house the Moonflower.

  Beckmann had an uncomfortable erection. He reached into his pyjamas, pushed it to one side, and tried to sleep. Two minutes later, thoughts entered his head that were not his own.

  ’…related to that gunshot earlier. Entry attempted. Not sure how many.’

  Beckmann woke fully. The words had entered his head via a connection to the cortical region of his auditory pathway. The connection was mediated by the i-Core, and Beckmann had given one person alone the authority to break into his consciousness: Klutikov, his head of security.

  Klutikov? thought Beckmann, passing his thoughts along the same channel. Give me a—

  He was overwhelmed by a rushing wall of light. It faded, calibrating, until he perceived the gate that blocked the switchback road leading to the inner security barrier for the garage beneath Moonflower. Klutikov had said, ‘Entry’: there was a security breach. But was it virtual or physical?

  What am I meant to be seeing? he sent.

  ’I think I saw her. I’m redeploying men. Stand by.’

  The direct auditory connection preserved tone of voice. Klutikov sounded anxious. That was unlike him.

  Klutikov, stay focused. Give me a report. What do you mean by ‘her’?

  The scene was a virtual plane eight metres from his face. Beckmann looked around it. He could see no signs of trouble. The enhanced image showed the exterior wall—intact—and the gates, which were closed.

  ’Sir, five minutes ago, an individual was sighted near the front gate. She matches the description of Lady Sun. Repeat, I’m moving men into—’

  She died years ago, said Beckmann, cutting him off.

  ’It’s her.’

  An augmentation in Beckmann’s mind informed him that the vocal stress complexes in Klutikov’s voice were more than three standard deviations from his mean. He was losing control. Beckmann sighed. Klutikov had always been his most stable FIB agent, and he had been an exemplary bodyguard for much of his later career—until an incident six months previously when he had called an abort on Beckmann’s annual skiing holiday because he claimed to have sighted Lady Sun.

  Have you actually seen her? Show me the video.

  The display before Beckmann shimmered as it clicked back four minutes, then five. It stopped on a guard walking on his perimeter control. It was one of their Taiwanese, name of Qiyu.

  I’m not seeing her. Is this the correct time?

  There was no reply.

  Klutikov? Keep the channel open.

  ’She’s reached the garage. Christ, she’s good. I’m passing her description to the automated systems.’

  Beckmann sat upright. He dismissed the image of the front gate, pushed his duvet aside and slipped from the bed. Automatic lights brightened. He put his mind through a series of discrete intentions, each of which were identified and tagged by his standard neural implants. The bedroom door locked; metal blades slid down the window, where they stacked to reinforce the glass. He moved towards his wardrobe but hesitated when a thumping sound came from inside.

  Knocking. Slithering. It made him think of a trapped snake.

  He suppressed his fear and approached the wardrobe. It would not open to his touch. He put his fingers into the gap between the two large doors and managed to slide open the lefthand door. His day suit — a shiny sack of fabric that would assume his form and interface with his i-Core — was twisting and struggling on its hanger. Its control code had malfunctioned.

  As Beckmann closed the door, he cursed aloud. He did not want to meet a threat wearing his pyjamas. However, the thought was irrational and wasteful. A weakness. He dismissed it.

  He felt a drumming through is feet and heard a distant rattling.

  He had never known the large-calibre ballistic weapons of Moonflower to fire. Whatever was happening beyond his bedroom, whatever had breached the compound, was serious enough for the automated systems to risk the structure and its inhabitants.

  He took the hint. He reached out to the drawer near his bed, which was already opening. A fist-sized pebble of smart matter flew slowly to his hand. Once gripped, it became a gun.

  Beckmann looked at the weapon. He rarely used smart matter, but his neural augmentations were able to clean up his half-memory of a training session from two years before and present the knowledge to him in a form that made him feel expert and capable. He thumbed the safety twice. When it turned red, he knew that the gun was under local control and could not be hacked like his day suit.

  Klutikov, what’s that firing?

  ’Qiyu and Zelan are down, sir. I don’t understand. Stay where you are.’

  What image did you give the house systems? Show me, as an overlay.

  In a moment, the bottom left corner of his vision showed the target that Klutikov had ordered the house to attack: Qiyu. So the guard had been killed by the Moonflower’s own systems. Beckmann could only guess at the end of Zelan. Perhaps he had come to the aid of his friend and been cut down en passant.

  Listen to me, Klutikov. You’ve been compromised. Take no further action.

  ’Sir, she’s approaching your room.’

  Without thinking, Beckmann looked at the door. He wondered how he could suspend Klutikov’s security permissions. He had no idea. That kind of thing was Klutikov’s expertise. Anyway, it was too late.

  Klutikov, where are you?

  ’I’m in the—‘

  The transmission terminated with a gasp.

  Beckmann put his hand on his heart. He looked at the door. The deadlocks had made him feel safer a moment before. Now he felt trapped. Was Lady Sun even here? This situation—all the hacks—fit the signature of a remote attack. But he could not assume as such. The situation was ambiguous.

  To the i-Core, Beckmann thoughtsent a metaphor of reddish leaves falling in late autumn, which was his favoured image of relaxation. The edge of his anxiety dulled.

  With that, he understood what to do next. He would verify the location of Klutikov and somehow override his security clearance. Then he would arrange to confine the man and turn his attention to confirming their attacker was physical.

  As long as those confirmation methods were not also compromised.

  He concentrated on a discrete intention to see the security suite. This intention was picked up by his neural implants
and passed to the Moonflower computer.

  A remote image of the suite appeared before him. Beckmann saw a bright room containing a row of lockers, an antique desk and chair, and, sitting in the chair, Klutikov. His head lay on the desk and his arms reached to the floor, touching his feet.

  Crash position, Beckmann thought.

  He noticed two things. A circle of blood was expanding across the green leather of the desk. And Klutikov was still holding his firearm.

  For Beckmann, Klutikov had been the closest thing to family. He was surprised by the absence of even the smallest grief. He understood that Klutikov had failed him. He regretted that Klutikov had not been better.

  ‘Computer,’ said Beckmann, ‘tell the island authorities that the house is being attacked.’

  ‘Security Head Klutikov has already sent that message,’ said a voice that came from every surface. ‘It has been confirmed but the authorities are experiencing difficulties with their systems.’

  ‘How surprising. Briefly, where are my guards?’

  ‘Ho Chang is in the garage. Liu and Pribićević are on the level above the garage. Memedi is on this level along with Hao. Memedi and Hao are the only guards whose status is green. It is likely that all others have been killed. It is also likely that Mr Klutikov is dead.’

  ‘I know. Did you see what happened to him?’

  ‘Data for that event have been deleted. However, live feeds indicate that he has received one shot to the head.’

  ‘How many shots did he fire?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘He killed himself?’

  ‘That is forensically consistent with the scene in the security suite, but given my experience of Mr Klutikov, I find this unsatisfactory.’

  Beckmann paced a circle. He felt absurd in his pyjamas. Not old; the i-Core lent him youth. He looked at the black dots of the cameras around the room. Behind him, the possessed suit continued to thump against the closed wardrobe door.

  ‘Mr Beckmann, you are in danger,’ said the house computer. ‘I would like you to proceed to the secure room.’

  ‘I think that the intruder would anticipate that move.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A single shot was fired somewhere in the house.

  ‘Mr Beckmann,’ the computer said, ‘another guard has been killed. Only Mr Memedi remains. He is outside your door. I think he wants to come in.’

  Beckmann said, ‘No.’

  He could not concentrate enough to send a fear-inhibiting metaphor to the i-Core.

  ‘Mr Beckmann, it seems to me that the guard is acting strangely. I would like to show you, but your neural implants are not responding.’

  ‘I’ve taken them offline as a protective measure. Put the picture on the wall.’

  Beckmann turned to see an image of young Memedi half-crouched. His head was shaking. There was a spray of blood on the front of his grey suit.

  ‘Turn up the volume.’

  When the computer did so, the room was filled with the guard’s fast breathing. Beckmann saw the darkness around his eyes. He looked more scared than anyone Beckmann had ever seen.

  ‘Can he hear me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Memedi, this is Beckmann. Someone or something is interfering with your mental processes. Try to resist.’

  Beckmann saw the man turn to one of the high cameras. In reaction, the computer switched to that camera.

  Memedi was looking right at him. His face had become expressionless. Relaxed to the point of inhumanity; corpse-blank. Beckmann wondered whether his warning had got through. Then Memedi’s eyes widened, as though seeing his nightmare in the dark eye of the camera dot. He fired twice at the lens. Beckman winced as the first one missed. The second one hit; the image dissolved.

  Beckmann was about to request an alternative angle when Memedi screamed. Its pitch disturbed him. It was punctuated by a third, silencing shot.

  The quiet that followed made Beckmann’s heart twitch. He put a hand to it.

  ‘Moonflower?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m afraid the last guard is dead.’

  Beckmann nodded. Events had taken him beyond the threshold of fear. He was calm. He looked at his smart matter gun and rippled his fingers around the handle. He had first killed a man as a teenager.

  Strange to remember that now.

  He had not thought of that man for years. He had forgotten the sense of power that came with firing a bullet. Just like throwing stones, he remembered, only faster. A grown-up game now. As a teenager, he had proven something to himself.

  Today, I’ll prove it again.

  Beckmann knew that, by most measures, he deserved the death that was coming. But damned if he wouldn’t delay the appointment.

  ‘Computer, I want to head for the secure room. Maximise my chances of doing that.’

  ‘Very well. Do you believe you can traverse the gap between your balcony and that of the first guest bedroom?’

  Beckmann considered. The rooms were next to one another along this flank of the house. The balconies were separated by a two-metre gap. If he fell, there would be three hundred feet to regret it.

  ‘I’ll do it. If I die, destroy yourself, and this villa. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He strode across to the balcony doors and touched the handle to open them. When nothing happened, he frowned.

  ‘Computer, I’m going to shoot out the window with a smart matter gun. Can you raise the blinds?’

  ‘Yes. They are still under general control.’

  The horizontal blinds rose to reveal the sparkling edge of the Vinodol coast.

  Beckmann pointed the gun at the centre of the window. The target-identity function within the gun would ramp it up to maximum kinetics, so Beckmann straightened his elbows before firing. The shot was not loud, but it forced him back.

  A plate-sized hole appeared in the glass. Its edge was scintillating. The hole got smaller as Beckmann watched. The window was repairing itself.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, clubbing the edges of the gap before it could shrink further. The smart gun hindered him; pieces of spent matter were returning to it, docking with little clicks.

  ‘Computer, stop the repairs to window.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Beckmann. The code elements controlling the window repair system are too low level.’

  Beckmann growled. He articulated an intention for the gun to change its shape; something, anything, that would widen the hole in the window. He felt the gun rumble. In an instant, the smart matter was a spidery star occupying the hole. Then it fired filaments into the layers of glass. The entire window buckled and fell outwards under its own weight, pulling the smart matter from his hand.

  The sea air blew the drapes across his face. He stepped onto the balcony, avoiding the window. The balcony floor was cold against his bare feet. He crouched in the darkness. His pyjama cuffs fluttered. He imagined himself in the crosshairs of a weapon. The night was a vast, empty darkness. He could hear the thump of the mainland nightclubs.

  Something touched his hand. He started, but it was only the smart matter returning. It resumed is massy, comforting shape.

  The door to his bedroom burst from its hinges and a tinnitus filled his head.

  Move it, Beckmann, he thought. Jump the gap.

  He looked towards the end of the balcony.

  The lights went out. All he could see was the jewelled line of the shore to his right.

  This is it.

  The acknowledgement of his death gave him no mastery. He felt scared, old and weak. He would die in his pyjamas, never mind Dr Hsieh’s i-Core. The technology was advanced enough to repair most bodily injury, but he did not doubt that his assailant could defeat it just as she had defeated Klutikov.

  But not me, he thought. Not yet.

  He hurried forward. His nerves grew tighter in anticipation of a bullet or plasma strike. He was sure that the first injury would not be fatal. It would give his assailant time to gloat.
Why else kill him last?

  He heard footfalls behind him. Deliberate; cold; heel-to-toe.

  Beckmann pointed the gun over his shoulder, imparted full remit on target selection, and pulled the trigger. The kick hurt his wrist.

  He did not turn to see the effect of the shot. He remained focused on the gap between the balconies. If he could make it across, and shoot through the window, he would be two doors away from the secure room, where he could await the Croatian authorities.

  His heart thumped. Beckmann put his left fist against it once, as though marking his solidarity, and then reached for the rail. He would vault the gap like the man he had been thirty years before.

  ‘Beckmann,’ said a voice that might have been woven from the night itself: a wintery, thin voice, probably female. It seemed to come from all around him.

  Beckmann would not stop. He told himself that he had enough forward momentum to make the jump. He remembered it as narrow, but when the dark lines of the other balcony became visible, he saw that the distance was more than two metres.

  He jumped. There was enough time to feel foolish. He knew that the balcony overhung the house and the cliff; down there would be the ghostly surf, forever away, pinked by the lights of shore.

  Beckmann understood, half way across, that he would not make it. The gap was too wide. He was going to fall. On instinct, his arms reached out for the rail and his fingers splayed. He released the smart matter.

  There was a jolt in his shoulder. Had he been struck by a ballistic weapon, perhaps a projectile from the Moonflower automatic defences?

  But it took an instant to see that the thump had come from the deploying smart matter, which had formed a cuff around his wrist. It had sent three grapnels towards the rail of the balcony. The grapnel had struck, held, and even now Beckmann was swinging painfully into the glass.

  He cried out at the impact. Somehow, his arm did not break. His chest, however, slammed flush. Ribs cracked. For long seconds he hung there. He had no strength to lift himself over the rail.