by JM Guillen
13
The conduit pulsed a wicked shade of yellow, then began to hum. Its wordless song pierced my head and made my sinuses throb.
With a deafening CRACK, the circuit completed.
I rolled my shoulders back and stepped through, followed by Wyatt. A tingling, rippling sensation tickled at my skin.
Soft blue light cascaded over us from an immense bank of monitors set flush against a wall just shy of my own height.
Nice view. Wyatt nodded toward the wall. It sprang from the floor in a gentle curve echoed by a set of windows to my left, as they belled out toward a massive city of towers and glass on the edge of a beautiful sea.
Nice place. I glanced at the massive table in the middle of the room. More art than table, the thing had been cunningly sculpted from mahogany, oak, and glass. Comfortably rounded swivel chairs surrounded it, all subtly turned to face the bank of monitors.
Irrats with money? Sounds bad.
Look at these things. Wyatt whistled. In front of each chair, screens thin as paper rose at an angle, inset into the table itself, clearly able to be pushed flat or accessed at a moment’s notice.
I wondered where the accompanying keyboards had been stashed.
Glancing about, I took in the recessed ceiling, decorated with swirls of texture, tastefully lit with hidden lamps matching the blue glow from the half-wall.
I gave a low chuckle of appreciation as Wyatt came around my side and gazed around.
I jerked my head at the windows. “Tokyo?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah.”
A sliding glass door hid at the far end of the wall of windows. I strode over and opened it, stepping out onto a massive balcony overlooking the city. Wind whipped at my hair, and I gripped the railing tightly as I took in the sights. After a moment, Wyatt joined me.
“Hard day, huh, Hoss?”
I glanced at him curiously. “Do I look that bad?”
He made a show of scanning me from top to bottom. His eyes lingered on several wounded areas, tears in my clothing, and my hands on the railing. He gave a one-shoulder shrug.
I grinned, but it faltered as I caught sight of rose-tinted light outlining the conduit.
Who else is coming with us? I asked Wyatt.
I have no idea. He stepped back into the room, the conduit CRACKing as it completed its circuit.
Beyond him stood a slim, white-blonde woman clad in charcoal gray. Her head abruptly tilted to one side, wide blue eyes staring vacantly into space as her fingers played an invisible mandolin.
Anya. I couldn’t keep the broad grin from my face as I went to her.
Michael, she returned.
Anya, you have no idea how good it is to be able to hear you clearly!
That’s true, she all but murmured in my mind. I don’t.
I chuckled, which caused her to flick a confused glance my way.
We just weren’t expecting you. I shrugged.
I assumed you had been updated. Her confusion deepened, creasing her brow. Because Liaison Stone’s latent signal is not able to be accessed through Deep Telemetry, it has been decided that a Preceptor is required onsite.
Latent signal?
Yes. Stone’s Solomon’s Crown last registered active in this building. Preceptors are able to track a signal that it emits.
But not currently? I knew that I had been tracked through my latent signal when I went missing; it felt unnerving to think that Stone’s had gone silent.
Affirmative.
She looked like she might say something else, but her eyes slid into blankness once more. Her fingers resumed their plucking motions, flexing faster than before. A tiny frown marred the perfect skin between her fair brows.
What’s up, princess? Wyatt inquired before I could.
I am confused. This is not a Rational location, she replied.
Wyatt and I shared a glance as she slowly revolved in place, seemingly scanning the rich carpet at her feet.
It’s not? I frowned. Everything seemed perfectly normal; the Lattice worked perfectly, gravity behaved as usual, and no Irrats bent on our destruction had burst into the room.
Still, Anya’s readings never lied.
No, our Preceptor answered. There appear to be pockets of warped axioms. Her bland, nearly sterile mental voice sounded distant, distracted.
Topiatic snares, y’ mean? Wyatt must have been thinking the same thing as me. Like Mojave?
On a reconnaissance mission last year, we’d encountered several tricky Irrational traps in the Mojave Desert. One in particular had launched us, car and all, into a pocket dimension filled with giant gorilla creatures hosting violent tentacle monsters but zero roads.
We’d survived but had to hoof it through the Mojave after that. A later trap had hidden a series of nested topias where the Vyriim conspired to invade Rational Earth.
They hadn’t been pleased to see us.
Not snares at all, Anya corrected. It’s hard to describe. It’s almost as if there are miniature, incorporeal engines generating energy of an unknown type that’s snarling up… Her eyes grew huge with sudden understanding. They’re occulating Irrationality from long range telemetry!
Hiding it, you mean. Wyatt looked like he wanted to spit.
Fucking really? I frowned.
They’re creating their own conduit technology, Wyatt argued. Why shouldn’t they play fuck-around with other Rational axioms?
Yeah, but hiding their Irrationality from world-wide scans? That’s… I shook my head.
So, Wyatt continued. The Facility’s blind here, and we won’t see what’s comin’ our way to gank us?
Oh no. I can see. Anya’s quiet tone rang with smug satisfaction.
’Atta girl! Damned ’Rats might fool our fancy new deep telemetry, but they can’t fool you! Wyatt grinned widely, but then, a thoughtful look crossed his face. Huh, he all but grunted. Wonder how the oculus holds up? He began tapping keys on the tangler before firing a single spike into the floor.
Guess we’re not getting our deposit back, I mused. Would’ve been nice if Stone’d told us about the... I waved a hand. Occultation... thing.
Ah, give the man a break, Hoss. The Liaison couldn’t possibly know this any more than you. He ain’t a Preceptor. Or… He paused a moment, the device over his eye twinkling.
Or?
Ha! Wyatt actually pumped his fist, like he’d just scored a touchdown. Or a badass Artisan equipped with a fancy oculus, Wyatt pointed out, tapping near his new eye with pride.
Wait, so you can see it too?
He nodded. Not nearly like our girl here, but boy howdy. It’s all equations on my end, of course. We’ve got Irrational weavings all over this damned tower. I’m picking up all kinds of radiations and shit I never would’ve expected.
These readings are truly unique. Anya glanced toward us. We didn’t expect to find anything like this.
Right? Complex calculations poured down Wyatt’s oculus. Damn. We’ve barely had those Deep Telemetry scans a year, and these pieces of shit can already dodge them. I know tech has a short shelf life, but this ’un’s barely out of the shrink-wrap!
It did notify us when the Vyriim planned on invading, I pointed out.
The one time, he groused.
We got it taken care of.
Yeah, he capitulated. You linkin’ Gideon?
I will. I carefully put together a brief packet with input from both members of my small cadre and sent it Gideon’s way.
That’s news to me, he sent back. Liaison Stone must not have caught wind of any of this.
He’s not a Preceptor, I acknowledged. He couldn’t have known. I turned away from Wyatt’s superior smirk.
Correct, Gideon confirmed. You were assigned a dossier targeting a Rational site. I can’t believe the Designates would have sent in such a small cadre had they known.
I shrugged, knowing he would feel it. It’s the nature of the beast, Alpha. Battle plans rarely survive the first encounter. We all have to be flexible.
Fluid. Isn’t that always the way? Gideon’s link held wry amusement but only for a moment. Keep the link open as much as possible. Collect as much intel about these snarls as you can, but the Designates haven’t changed the mission specs. Get in, get Stone, and bring him home.
Will comply.
14
Moments later, we slipped into the hallway. Gentle classical music floated in the slightly perfumed air. The tinkling pitter-patter of a water fountain covered the sound of my footsteps on the marble floor.
Fancy. Wyatt took in our surroundings, a little taken aback.
Yeah. I gave the fountain a good once-over. Ensconced on a fluted pedestal and surrounded by ferns, the whole thing looked far too perfect to be real. Large mirrors framed by frost-etched scrollwork had been placed to make the tiny niche look far larger.
I watched our reflections. The high tech weaponry and tactical gear we wore clashed with our elegant surroundings like nails on a chalkboard at a symphony.
Alright. What the actual fuck? Wyatt looked from the lush surroundings to Anya to me. Who works here, Warren Buffet?
Warren Buffet. The billionaire? I scoffed.
He nodded.
You’re actually asking if Warren Buffet works for a corporation of Irrats?
Made his money somehow, didn’t he? Wyatt grinned. It all makes sense now.
I shook my head. Not going with Bill Gates?
Nah. Strikes me as a bit of a geek. Man wants a more casual atmosphere around ’im.
I just sighed wearily and continued skulking down the beautiful hallway.
One o’clock, gentlemen, Anya stated in a sterile link.
As I looked up, I saw a man clad in a black suit, black button-up shirt, and a black silk tie enter the hallway from a nearby door.
Shit. Hoss?
Um—I stopped in place, not knowing what to do. I had thought we would at least make it more than fifteen meters from the conduit before things got dicey.
Holding what appeared to be a slim computer screen, the man tapped at it with his bare fingers, engrossed in whatever it displayed.
What was that thing? It reminded me of Facility tech, not—
Two dulcet tones came from the device, and the man frowned.
He didn’t even look up.
Had I been alone, I would have immediately toggled on Spectre and relied on the man’s distraction to let me pass unseen, but with Anya and Wyatt in tow, that seemed a selfish course of action.
I tensed, ready for whatever came.
The man looked up as he passed our panic-frozen forms and nodded.
“[Hello.]” The man’s lips didn’t match the word as he spoke, but our Lattice-linked Crowns translated his Japanese konnichiwa.
Anya gave the man a nod, and Wyatt followed suit, a bit late. I kept my hands low, ready to draw my kinetic disruptors.
Never breaking stride, the man moved swiftly down the hallway as he continued to poke at his device’s screen.
I gaped at his backside. Obviously the man had seen us; he had greeted us, just as one would any office acquaintances whose names one did not remember.
We hardly look like copy boys or coffee girls. Wyatt gestured at his outfit as an example. Thick black vests and trousers with micro lattice armor covered in innumerable small pockets weren’t exactly office wear.
Right. I peered after the man, but he didn’t even take a second glance. Not even at the T-90 Axiomatic Redistribution Algorithm pack, spike ejection mechanism, or curved keyboard at Wyatt’s hip…
Even Anya stood out here with her charcoal-colored cargo pants, padded holster shirt, and many-pouched utility belt.
How the hell could he ignore those things?
Wyatt and I had frozen in place, but Anya still paced down the hallway, as unconcerned as ever.
Anya? I queried softly. Do you know something we don’t?
Certainly, Michael. She smiled to take away the sting.
Spill it, twitchy. Wyatt grumbled.
I reviewed many of Liaison Stone’s patches. He made a note that Sadhana regularly hires mercenary crews for various tasks. Those that work here are quite accustomed to seeing armed operatives wandering the corridors.
Oh! I gave Wyatt a thumbs up. So we should be able to just walk right on by most people here as long as we play it cool…
Maybe not those people, Wyatt interjected.
Glancing over my shoulder, I followed Wyatt’s gaze to a group of men wearing an assortment of camo, armored vests, and headgear. A few wore helmets; some had mirrored sunglasses; and one or two had earpieces attached to narrow microphones. One gentleman even wore a ski cap pushed high on his dark forehead. Every single one of them had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. As I watched, one of them laughed raucously, clapping his comrade on the back.
Hmm. Time to go.
Roger that. This way. I touched my ear and nodded to no one, as if acknowledging some private message invisibly buzzed to me—which I supposed had happened. Jerking my head to indicate a bend in the hall up ahead, I took off at a brisk pace.
Copy that, Captain Pantomime. Wyatt’s tone rang falsely obedient.
A bare three meters further on, I linked Anya and Wyatt. They still there?
Anya answered, Yes, Michael. They have kept pace with us and continue on our trajectory.
I grunted.
Up ahead stood a frosted glass door emblazoned tastefully with the name Katsuo Fukui in gold letters. Without hesitation, I jerked the door open and strode inside.
Dim light issued from an elegant standing lamp next to an oak door across from me. The shadows it cast formed lunging, misshapen monstrosities among the delicate ferns and exotic flowers that covered nearly every inch of available surface.
Looks like you found the garden, Hoss.
Anya followed me and drifted over to the gently curved desk in the center of the room.
Wyatt shut the door firmly behind us.
If they open that, it’s on. I looked to him, and he nodded.
Stepping closer to Anya, I saw a huge, blotter-style paper calendar, an old-fashioned, gold-and-white phone, and more pens than I could have lost in a year’s time. These all crowded into the tiny space left by the enormous orchid that lorded over the desk.
Names and times had been scribbled over the calendar, but nothing seemed pertinent.
I assume you’re getting a record of anything relevant? I leaned over the papers, peering at what she studied.
I’m mostly looking for names. Her blue eyes looked up at mine. Sadhana is known to employ Irrational agents.
Wyatt idled near the other door. I headed his way, dodging a tasteful leather couch sandwiched between two twisted bamboo plants in oversized pots.
Anyone in there?
Seems empty. He shrugged. Not that I can ghost through the door or anything.
I gave him a stern frown, but his grin only grew wider.
Pausing on the black sheepskin rug thrown over the hardwood floor, I geared up the Spectre.
I poked my face through the door and felt the familiar chill tickle my skin. Inside I saw an empty, if sumptuous office.
Clear, I linked to my compatriots and drifted all the way into the room. Once in, I disengaged the Spectre.
A sprawling, two-piece desk of paneled cherry wood took up most of the space in the luxurious office. The L-shaped edifice had tiny pillars of emerald green between the recessed panels, echoed in the etched details of the wall of cabinets behind it.
Papers had been scattered all over it and spilled out of the wire in/out box. It appeared that a lot of paperwork got processed here, despite the recessed computer screen and the askance keyboard and mouse.
Two lamps, twins to the one in the receptionist’s area, glowed softly on either side of a wall covered with awards and various sizes of framed pictures.
Photos. I’m getting a clear look for the record.
Roger that, Wyatt linked.
The same Japanese man appe
ared to be in all of them. He didn’t exactly look distinctive: average height and weight, a thin-lipped smile, and somewhere in his fifties in the most recent ones.
“Hello Mr. Fukui.” I got a good, steady look at them for the sake of the phaneric record in my Crown.
The first photo I peered at showed the presumed Mr. Fukui displaying his thin, smug smile. He stood in front of a stone building carved with human figures in various poses—some worshipful, others holding their arms high in horror. Ancient tree roots draped down over the building, almost as if about to physically drag the temple back into the jungle proper.
Apparently Mr. Fukui travelled a bit.
Comin’ in, Hoss. The door opened just after the link.
A larger picture hung between a couple of wood and brass plaques. It had a slightly grainy look, as if it had been blown up too much just to fit the expansive frame.
A younger Mr. Fukui shook hands with an extraordinarily large gentleman and grinned bigger than in any other picture. The larger Japanese man didn’t seem as thrilled as Mr. Fukui but still exuded a sense of arrogant pride. Behind them, a gunmetal gray wall sprouted an immense amount of dials and knobs, buttons and switches. Every inch was covered, except for a small, round window. Bright aquamarine light glowed through the portal, and a tiny swordfish had been frozen in the act of swimming past.
Perfect timing. Wyatt looked over my shoulder at the photo, and I nodded.
I ground my teeth the moment I saw the third picture. Look at this one.
Mr. Fukui stood holding a pair of oversized scissors above a bright red ribbon that stretched across the scene. Behind him, a large group of business men and women stood, wearing World War II-style gas masks around their necks. They stood nearly ankle deep in orange shag carpet next to a green and brown plaid couch.
That’s a touch familiar. Wyatt’s link bubbled with old anger.
I nodded and took a slow, deep breath in through my nose and held it while I stared hatefully at the silo we’d investigated in the middle of the Mojave Desert last year: Dossier I63-1998.
The noise of rustling papers turned me back toward the desk, and for the first time I noticed a spiral staircase on the far side of the room. Dismissing it for the moment, I raised an eyebrow at Anya as she rifled the documents.