The procedure required serious processing power to coordinate. Within the transmission bubble, it didn't take much to hack into the waste management system. Then it was just a matter of following the shit to its source.
Once she was inside The City's mainframe, the real challenge began. Plugged into flow space, Sarah rezzed into the central processing system. The true artistry of her hacks lay in their interface. In any system worth a hack, there was far too much information to process as raw code. So the hacker engineered an interface. Despite all the advances, all the power computers held, they still needed to process data in a linear fashion. A human could go tangential. And that's why hackers still had the upper hand. Gut instinct was the last human trait to fall. The key to hacking was finding an interface that allowed the hacker's gut instinct free rein.
Sarah dredged her free running interface from her flow-point. She used different interfaces for different operations. Free running was perfect for The City.
Before her, the central processing codes shifted to her will, settling into a format she could fathom. It took the form of a city. Not The City—just a city. Each building represented a processing node, each car and bus a packet of information being transferred. Even as the shift locked into place, she began her run.
Free running had come into vogue late in the twentieth, an extreme sport rising from the ghettos of Europe and sweeping the globe. Cities became playgrounds for those hunting freedom.
All the walls and barriers that separated and stratified became obstacles for free runners. The best could traverse a city by hurtling from rooftop to rooftop using a mix of gymnastics and climbing techniques. Those off their game suffered the consequences. There was no room for error. One had to commit totally. It was the perfect interface for a hack.
Sarah began her run. Each step had to be light and fast. Holding in any one spot would alert the system's security protocols. In her interface, that meant she'd glue-stick to the spot, and the city itself would consume her.
She hopped from the intrusion window into the world she had created. It landed her in a ratty apartment building. Her foot hit worn carpeting and she immediately felt the pull. The system was sensitive. Very sensitive. She'd have to move quickly.
Reality adjustment held her for a crucial instant. The door before her slammed shut. There was no breaking through it. Sarah pumped her knees, unsticking herself and gaining some speed. Just before the door, she flung herself up and sideways, slamming a foot into the wall and pushing up and off. The force of her move flung her headlong through the ventilation window over the door. She flew through, got a snap peek at the ground before curling hard and throwing her right arm into an arc. When she hit, the force of the impact rolled her back to her feet.
She gained speed down the hallway. Triggered by her landing, a hunt-kill avatar resolved and closed in on her. In the interface, the avatar took the form of a rabid dog. An instant before its jaws sank into her thigh, Sarah lunged up, grabbing what looked like an electrical conduit, and pulled high. The avatar glanced off the wall and crashed out. No time to stop. Sarah monkey-manned off the conduit and around the hallway's corner.
She hit the hall's end, crashing through the window and grabbing the fire escape, holding fast as the force pulled her back to the wall. She vaulted up the escape, reaching the roof as several more avatars rezzed before her.
One dove at her just as she gained a standing position at the roof's edge. Before she had time to think it out, Sarah arced back, lunging off the roof. The dog flew over her chest, so close she could have smelled its breath—if it were real. Sarah continued her arc, backflipping to land on the stairwell.
The impact smashed her knees into her chest. Sarah dispersed the force, snap-rolling back and smacking her arms out wide. Before the material could grip her, she popped back up and made for the roof.
Another avatar appeared behind her. Sarah pumped. She'd need two huge jumps to reach The City's central processing plant. Reaching the building's corner, she hit the wall and pushed hard, legs bicycling in the air. She got a single flash of space below her, hundreds of meters to a hard paved street. The building before her loomed, closer and closer. She hit the roof with slamming force, leaning forward to offset the momentum. She rolled hard and pulled out to a run.
The central plant loomed before her. One more jump—but it had to be dead on. No room for error.
Legs churning, she pushed off with all her force, vaulting high into the air. Dogs followed her, forcing Sarah to go for a straight-line dive. If she missed, it would be over.
She locked in on the black fissure at the roof's center. Her target. She dove, headfirst, laid out flat, and snuck through with no room to spare. Dogs smashed into the space she left behind—the security protocols unable to enter the core.
Sarah took a moment to breathe, thrilling at her victory.
Secured within the plant, she killed the interface. Here it was 1, 0, and nothing else. She scanned The City's heart, hunting data. After the visceral rush of the incursion, the dead mass of data before her felt anti-climactic. It didn't take long to find what she needed.
—Laing. The credit chip that Taylor paid shipping with—it's just been used. Mezzanine deck. A snack bar called La Cocina.
—On it.
34
THE CITY
Expectation jump-started Laing's haggard body, charging him for action. He pushed through the mingling throng on the mezzanine deck and knew he was close.
A swatch of green amidst The City's white, this was the ship's main park. Designed as an amalgam of the great parks around the world, it had a shrunk-in-the-dryer, Disney reality to it. People laughed and mingled, hunkered over espresso and chessboards. The park sprawled.
Ryan and Frank ambled with the rest, trying to blend with the general air of levity while feeling anything but light.
“Too many people,” Frank muttered. “This whole place—”
“Like living in a sterilized dream,” Ryan finished.
“That about covers it. Though most of my dreams involve more tail than I've seen here.”
“Nice,” Laing snorted, shaking his head. He'd grown used to Frank's crass edge. It had been a long time since Laing had anything like a friend. Madda maybe, years ago. The notion startled Laing. He defined himself as separate, other. The tug and pull of his life had forced it. Not many who could understand him, or would want to.
In spite of himself, Ryan found that he craved the bond. The driving urgency that was his life needed a foundation. Sarah had been that, and maybe would be again, but she was too close. She had bored so deep into him that his internal life included her. Frank was different. He was some-one to spend time with. To work with. A man he respected—maybe even trusted. With Savakis, he could just walk.
They strolled along the wide sanded path, nodding to their fellow residents, eyes hunting for their target.
“Long way from the stacks,” Laing said.
Frank shrugged. “People are people. Same bullshit everywhere, on the docks, in this,” he waved his arm over the scene, “this nuthouse.”
“Does feel like an asylum with all these uniforms.”
“Yeah—got the uniforms, got the clean, futuristic thing going on. It's all crap. People are people. They sweat, they fuck, they kill. This just covers the stench in clean sheets.”
“I thought I was cynical.”
“Fuck—I'm not cynical. I'm a realist. I'm all about sweatin' and fuckin'.”
“And killing?”
“I do what I have to. No pleasure there. But I'll tell you now, I'd rather go down with a garrote around my neck in some dark alley than piss out my life here.”
“Never married?”
Frank laughed. “Almost. Once. Didn't play out. The fuckin' I got wasn't worth the fuckin' I got.”
Laing smiled, eyes continuing to scan. “We've done a full circuit here.”
Frank nodded. “Looks like a bust.”
Even as Frank spoke, whit
e terror electrified Ryan.
—Ryan . . .
Sarah's flow-link snuffed in a blaze of static.
Sarah almost made it.
Deep-probing the central plant, lost in a world of information, she shouldn't have heard the dull scratch of her cabin lock flipping back. Her augments saved her life.
Low-amp sound waves washed the room, slipped through the reduction static of the flow goggles and entered her ear as the slightest flicker of input. It tickled her—a tiny piece of reality that didn't fit. Adrenaline pushed to max. She ripped off the goggles, not bothering to end the flow-link, and dove off her chair.
Sarah felt the cold swipe of fingers just touching the back of her neck and flashing over her collarbone. Had she stayed in the chair, the blow would have struck the side of her neck, impacted the vagus nerve or, worse, her carotid artery. Unconsciousness would have been the best possible outcome.
But the attacker hadn't counted on detection. Sarah continued her roll, pulling her legs tight, the force of which flipped her up to her feet.
She gulped air, fighting for stability. Flow shift took time to zero out. Part of her mind remained in The City's infrastructure. She shook it off, flushing the flow from her perception as she backed against the wall, putting as much distance as she could between her and the attacker.
Focusing in, she got her first look at the man.
“Hello, Sarah.” The voice was soft—cold frost on the wind.
Zachary Taylor.
He circled her—a shark regarding its kill.
Peters had nullified his advantage of surprise. He made up for the loss by communicating the expectation of pain. He had seen it before, so many times. Something in him coveted that response: the involuntary bulging of the eyes, the scratch of dry lips closing, the rise and fall of the throat as the terror was swallowed down.
Sarah's fear was particularly appealing. He allowed it to fester, the urge building within him. The expectation of contact drove him to frenzy, the softness of her skin as he pressed in on her, dominated her. He took a step forward. The room was tight. She had nowhere to go. He circled, a snake toying with its meal. It was better when they knew what was coming.
Then, a shift. He watched, fascinated. She saw what he was doing, saw how important it was—how necessary—that she be terrified, and that he inspire it. But even as he zeroed in, her eyes hard-focused, glassy fear vanishing. Her lips clamped shut. Her hands curled into fists.
Before he could process the transformation, Sarah Peters attacked. Not the desperate flailing that Taylor was used to. Her fist flashed out, poised and deadly: a fast strike at his Adam's apple. Through his surprise, Taylor lowered his chin just enough to protect the larynx. Sarah's blow landed hard, punctuated by the crack of his teeth smashing together.
He stumbled, crashing into the bunk. His chin burned. He spit a shard of tooth from his mouth, looking up at the woman before him—a different animal from seconds earlier.
Sarah sported the slightest smile—terror bleached white. In its place there was only grim determination. The defilement he'd so wanted wouldn't be had here. She would fall defiant.
So be it, he thought.
Sarah lunged forward, whipping a leg over her head and bringing it down in a heel strike. Taylor rolled off the bed, the blow bouncing off the mattress.
They circled each other in the small space. Taylor watched her move, the easy flow of limber muscles. The novelty of a fair fight excited him. Usually, his targets didn't see it coming. But here, under The City's bubble, Taylor's standard implements of death were unavailable. It would be hand to hand.
She watched him with cold analysis, as he did her. As she moved, he pinpointed the single moment in her gait when she was off balance, exposed. He knew her augment specs better than anyone. She flashed out—a side-hand strike to the side of his head that was actually a cover for a sharp kick at his forward knee. Taylor stepped into both blows, spinning around her before she could adjust. They continued their circle.
“You can't beat me,” she said.
“That belief is your greatest weakness,” he replied in little more than a whisper. He didn't want his voice to muffle any misstep she took.
“I'm teched to the gills. Neurochem—knife work. The best—”
“I know. I watched Judson cut into you.”
“It was you in Dubai,” Sarah said, her voice cracking under the realization. “You killed Jud.”
Taylor's thin lips curled into a smile. “I had a hand in it.”
Sarah's eyes widened for an instant. “Then you know,” she said. “I'm stronger than you. Faster.”
“Most likely.”
She attacked again, this time a flicker-fast series of punches and chops. He zoned into them, phasing his moves to hers, parrying only.
“How—” Sarah sputtered.
“You jacked your speed, your power. Maybe even some training after all the augments—a quick intro on how to access your new abilities. Not sufficient.”
He threw a straight jab, snapping it off at the last moment, gaining more information from her parry.
“I have no tech. No augments. I have focus. I have dedication. I am a killer. You just play at it.”
Taylor watched the knowledge infuse her. Her eyes fluttered for a single moment, her mind elsewhere, maybe a prayer to her god, maybe something else.
It was the instant he had been waiting for.
The single moment was all he needed. He struck out, not with a flurry of blows, but a single open palm strike to her chest. His work had been done in the analysis, in the circling. He required only one punch.
The link died, Ryan's own name ringing through the rush of static.
Then, nothing.
Frank steadied Ryan, pulling him off the main path. They found themselves at a fountain shaded by oak trees. At the far end, a cascade of water dribbled down a wall of carved figures, each struggling over the other to reach heaven. Wrought-iron chairs ringed the dark pool. The place stood vacant, save for a thin man seated with his back to them.
“Laing!” Frank said, urgency tinting his voice. “What's the matter?”
Ryan's surprise triggered a rapid, staggering breath that devolved quickly into a coughing fit. He forced the cough back, gulping down the urge and grabbing Frank's arm.
“We have to get back to Sarah!” Ryan said.
“What?” Frank was ready to argue. Then he saw the look in Ryan's eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Sit down, gentlemen.”
Ryan and Frank both turned toward the intrusion. Confusion sprinkled over Frank's standard annoyance. Laing knew that face.
“Impossible.” It was all he could say before another coughing fit ripped his breath away.
The man stood, watching Laing with fish dead eyes. Then he turned to Frank. “While Mr. Laing is indisposed, let me introduce myself.” He extended his hand. “I'm Alfred Krueger.”
35
THE CITY
Alfred Krueger sat facing Ryan and Frank. He gazed into the pool's dark reflections, idly rolling a credit chip over his knuckles. It tumbled from one to the next in a mesmerizing slide, disappearing behind his pinky only to reappear at the top of his hand to start its journey again.
“You're dead,” Ryan said, confusion saturating his voice.
“Yes. Well . . .”
Frank turned to Ryan. “You know this guy?”
Krueger flicked the chip at Frank, who caught it in midair.
“The credit chip you were hunting for.”
Frank stared at it, then chucked it into the pool. “I don't like being fucked with.”
“Then we're in the same boat.”
“Sarah.” Ryan forced the word out, stifling his cough.
“She's okay, Mr. Laing. Zachary Taylor has seen to her.”
“If you—” The threat felt ridiculous coming off Laing's tongue. He stopped it in midstream.
Krueger nodded. “Good. You understand.”
“What's goin
g on here, Laing?” Frank asked, clearly annoyed at being the odd man out.
“Oh, he's as much in the dark as you, Frank. I run Taylor, and others like him.”
“You're Phoenix,” Frank said, incredulous.
Krueger smiled. “For a time—yes. I'm many things. Have been many things. A biologist. A weapons manufacturer. I am also what EMPYRE made me.”
The glazed shock in Savakis's eyes drew a chuckle from Krueger.
“No. It's not possible,” Ryan said with desperate assurance.
Krueger blew past Ryan's statement, eyes on Frank. “EMPYRE dragged me from the ashes and offered a new life. I had certain—talents—that EMPYRE capitalized on. It's one thing to plan a murder. Quite another to have the will and capability to follow through. I had—have—that will. And I found others like me. Men who understood that the world needs taming. I wiped them down and rebuilt them.”
“Men like Taylor,” Frank said.
“When I saw feed on his action in the Crimea—”
“Where he blew up a busload of kids,” Frank shot in.
“And a cache of chemical weapons that could have wiped a city, yes. I watched that feed and saw Zachary's cold-honed will. I gave him an alternative to life behind bars. The attack on the hovercraft was a set piece that both served EMPYRE's political ends and allowed Zachary a new life.”
“And you were behind the action in Tibet?” Frank asked.
Krueger nodded. “The assassination of the Dalai Lama and many more.” He laughed as if reliving a fond memory. “My last act for EMPYRE's grand plan of targeted destabilization. Have to love Andrew Dillon's ability to suck the blood from even the harshest act. Shame he had to die.” Krueger turned and stared at Laing before continuing. “But every child must, someday, surpass his parent.”
Laing felt locked in an infinite loop, unable to find a route through the quagmire before him.
Krueger pushed on. “Family, Mr. Laing. Nothing more important. Wouldn't you agree? A legacy, passing from parent to child, running back into history. I had that. Until you took it from me.”
Empyre Page 25