Deus Ex: Icarus Effect

by Swallow, James

  He threaded his way along the length of the jet, to the stairs dropping to the lower level. Crouching, Saxon carefully placed each silent footfall, keeping in the lines of shadow along the main corridor. Blinks of light, from the wingtip navigation indicators on the jet's wings, cast faint halos of color over his shoulders through the oval windows. Saxon knelt in the lee of a support frame and cycled through the variant modes of his optics. Through the partition walls, he picked out the faint heat-blobs of the two-man flight crew up toward the cockpit area, while at the aft, in the operations center, the only colors were the dull green-blue glow of the idling computer systems.

  Saxon entered the ops room and closed the door behind him. Keeping low, he threaded his way to Namir's console and tapped the glassy surface. The panel came to life, immediately demanding a pass code. He let out a breath to steady himself, and tapped out the first string of symbols. Melina's date of birth.

  The panel chimed a warning; the code was wrong. The sound seemed like a shout in the quiet of the dormant room, among the low murmur of the computers. Saxon waited for a moment, one hand on the stun gun, but no one came to investigate. He went on; the second code string was also incorrect. A fail on the third attempt would lock down the console and doubtless trigger some kind of alert—but the list of potential passwords Janus had provided had more than three variations. He ran them through his thoughts again.

  Namir's sister. His daughter. A simple code. It would not be complex, Saxon realized. Namir wasn't that kind of man, not one to waste time on needless subterfuge. He was direct. There were no shades of gray to him.

  Saxon thought about people he had lost, people he had felt responsible for; and then he typed in the name of the dead woman as it might have appeared on her gravestone, plain and unaltered.

  The console unlocked and bloomed with new display windows, welcoming him into the main lines of its data store. Saxon's eyes narrowed as he saw line after line of files, labeled with places, dates, names ...

  Targets. There were hundreds of people listed here, and they were all objectives for the Tyrants. He scrolled through the names, looking for points of commonality, struggling to understand. There were men like Mikhail Kontarsky, high-profile figures linked to criminal groups like the Hong Kong Triads and the Russian Bratva, others tagged as in collusion with terrorists and activists—Juggernaut, L'Ombre, Purity First, and others. On the surface, people who looked like bad guys, up to their necks in illegality.

  But Saxon had only to scratch the surface to find lists of action orders ranged against the names of civilians, politicians, scientists—people the Tyrants had no business going against. Some of the orders were straight kill commands, others ghosted under setups that would appear as suicides, robberies gone wrong, accidents. A few were tagged as "coercive"—no deaths there, instead the application of violence and intimidation.

  Saxon felt betrayed. The mission of the Tyrants, the reason he had allowed himself to be recruited by Namir, was a lie. The faceless men of the group giving the orders were not using them to help maintain global stability—they were using them as enforcers, eradicating anyone who might prove dangerous to them, killing or intimidating all across the planet.

  He picked a handful of files at random and opened them. June SellersDepartment of Homeland Security—terminated; Donald Teague, advisory staffer on the United Nations science council—terminated; Martine Delancourt, founder of the French Bioethics Association—terminated; Garrett Dansky, CEO of Cadin Global—terminated; Ryu Takahanada, cybernetics research scientist at Isolay—terminated ... The list went on and on, and among it all, Saxon found the data on the men he had surveilled in Glasgow and Bucharest; one was a technology researcher on the payroll of the British government, the other a politician. Both files had additional information beyond what he had turned over to Namir; there were still images, digital shots of a body in an alleyway, throat slit and pale, another of a car on fire. Neither man had been a criminal, but clearly, someone had considered them a threat. Now they were both dead. Both killed by the Tyrants. He saw expedited code tags on the files, bearing the idents "Green" and "Red." Scott Hardesty. Yelena Federova.

  Saxon closed the files and sat in the dimness and silence, musing on what he had seen, silently cursing his own stupidity. At first, he hadn't wanted to think too hard about what he was doing, about what the meaning of the Tyrants might be. It was only as time had passed that the nagging disquiet in the back of his thoughts had grown to a ceaseless churn—and now that he had an idea of the truth, it made his blood run cold. He thought about Janus's repeated question, and nodded grimly. Do you know what master you serve? He was beginning to build a picture, and he didn't like what he saw. This was what the Tyrants did. This is who they were, and he was a part of it.

  With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone, Saxon brought up a search function and keyed in the phrase "killing floor." He wasn't sure what he had expected to see—the name drew up ideas of some kind of arena, perhaps something like the fight room in Namir's home. Why the members of Juggernaut were so eager to find it was beyond him; but instead of opening a file, the computer showed a new set of data panes. It took Saxon a few seconds to realize what he was seeing; the console launched an interface protocol via an encrypted tight-beam signal to an orbiting communications satellite, and then on into the global web of data net connections.

  On the screen, the Killing Floor unfolded; a virtual space existing in a realm of pure information. Shielded by layers of smart attack barrier programs, firewalls, and baffles, the non-place was a shifting island in a sea of data. Program nodes contained files at levels of encryption so powerful that the console read them as impregnable, spiked spheres—but there were other panels of text that were clearly visible, doubtless open for Namir or anyone with the same access level. Saxon read them, but in isolation there was little he could glean. He saw references to Federova's current mission, to the "primary target" Namir had mentioned in passing—but who or where that person was did not make itself clear. He frowned, activating the vu-phone's wireless link, starting the process to copy the contact protocols from the jet's mainframe.

  It was clear that the Killing Floor had no true physical reality to it; it was a synthetic server construct, a clever agglomeration of computer programs moving through the data net in a chaotic, unpredictable pattern that no outsider, no hacker, could ever hope to calculate. Without the locational key to gain access, there was no other way in—how could you break into a fortress you couldn't find? It was an encrypted virtual space, reachable in seconds from any location on earth if one was granted clearance, a place where the group could exchange target information with the Tyrants without fear of ever being overheard. It was the digital equivalent of a piece of espionage tradecraft over a hundred years old—the "dead drop."

  The vu-phone chimed, signaling the conclusion of the data transfer. Saxon wasn't willing to risk using the device to contact Janus, not yet at least. After they landed in Europe, maybe then ... But before that, there was still one more thing he had to do.

  He entered two words into the search protocol and waited. Instantly, a file tagged with numerous security flags unfolded before him. There, laid out in stark text, in emotionless, clipped terms, was the reality of what had happened during Operation Rainbird. A dark, fearful impulse made Saxon hesitate; part of him didn't want to know. He wanted to disconnect, to erase the file and bury the memories of that night deep.

  But that would be a betrayal, of Sam and Kano and the other members of Strike Six, of himself, of the truth.

  Saxon began to read, and as he did he felt himself detach from the moment, losing all sense of where he was. In his ears, he heard the rattle of gunfire and the howling of torn metal; he felt the heat of fuel fires on his bare skin, and the sting of burning plastic and spent cordite in his nostrils. It was as if no time had passed, and he was there again on the Grey Range, fighting to stay alive.

  What he read on the screen
hollowed him out. He saw the reports from the Belltower recon, the intelligence profiles of enemy strength and numbers, the warnings of sleeper drones; and with them, he saw mirrors of the same data, only with all threat and nuance carefully bled out of them. Fabricated reports showing the area of operations for the Rainbird mission clear of enemy contact. Lies and more lies, dressed up like truth.

  A truth Ben Saxon had accepted without question. A truth that had cost his men their lives. He heard the crunch of metal and glanced down; his augmented hand had fractured the arm of the seat he was sitting in. Sucking in a breath, he released his grip and glared back at the screen. Where has this false data come from? How long has Namir had it in his possession? Saxon's jaw set hard, and his thoughts turned toward darker places.

  When he heard Namir's voice call his name, it didn't come as a surprise.

  Dundalk—Maryland—United States of America

  Passing a network of accessways leading from the rail tunnel, Anna let herself be led by D-Bar and his two minders along a maze of featureless concrete corridors, until they finally emerged in a parking garage. The hacker brought her to a van with blacked-out windows that was uncomfortably similar to the prisoner transport she'd escaped from less than a day earlier, and once inside they set off. The trip was brief; the next thing she knew, the van was halting and the doors were opened once again.

  Kelso stepped out into a decrepit warehouse that was little more than a vast box made of bricks, girders, and aged glass. The smell of concrete, rust, and water reached her nose; she guessed that they were in Baltimore's old docklands. The area was a warren of derelict buildings left to rot and crumble, now that the cargo ships entering the city's port were largely automated.

  And for someone who needed space and privacy, a place off the grid, it was a good locale. Glancing around she saw that the old building had been retrofitted with converted cargo containers, military surplus tents, and bubbledomes—but it was unkempt and random, here a wide satellite dish, there a cook pit near a pair of armored SUVs. The place was a peculiar mix, like an army's forward command post by way of a rock festival. The eclectic look reminded her of the same chaotic community she'd seen on board the Intrepid in New York.

  D-Bar saw her looking around. "Don't sweat it, you're safe here." He pointed upward and Anna followed his gesture. High over their heads, vast sheets of silvery material carpeted the ceiling; her first impression was of a giant mosquito net. "Electronic camo screen," explained the hacker. "Blocks orbital scopes, smothers our EM footprint, that kinda thing. We could have the mother of all barbecues in here and this place would still look dead and empty." He beckoned her to follow him. "C'mon, you'll wanna meet the big cheese."

  As they walked, Anna caught sight of a circle of screens and a group of young men and women working at computer consoles. "Is this your hideout? Are they ... Juggernaut?"

  D-Bar snorted loudly. "Ha! They wish!" He grinned. "You don't just ask to join Juggernaut, Agent Kelso. You gotta earn it. They come to you, through the 'net. Hell, most of us have never even seen each other. Well, not for real, anyhow."

  One of the screens showed a replay of the footage from the Picus News report and she scowled when she saw it.

  The hacker gave a solemn nod. "That's pretty good work, if I do say so myself."

  "I never-"

  He shook his head. "The compositing, I mean. The fakery. It's not easy to pull off something of that quality that quickly." D-Bar gave her a level look. "It's okay, Agent Kelso. No one here thinks you're a killer."

  "Stop calling me that," she muttered, walking away. "I'm not an agent anymore. I don't know what I am."

  "Perhaps I can change that." Anna glanced up as someone approached. The man was a few years her senior, with an easy smile and immaculate brown hair. She couldn't place his origin just from a first look; Anna guessed that by the tone of his skin and the accent he was of mixed Hispanic extraction. "We're always on the lookout for new recruits. You seem eminently qualified."

  She looked him up and down. He wore a tailored Highman leather coat in rich brown that hung to his ankles, and a gold Rolex peeked out from under the cuff; the man was wearing clothes worth more than her apartment. "Don't get me wrong, but you seem a little out of place here."

  The man smiled. "Rebels wear a lot of faces." He offered her his hand. "I have you at a disadvantage, Ms. Kelso. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Juan Ivanovich Lebedev."

  Lebedev. The name tripped a memory and she reached for it. "I know who you are," she replied. "Your family are some big shots in shipping. I've seen the name on the side of airships." If anything, she was making an understatement. Lebedev Global was worth billions of dollars and carried all manner of cargo across the planet via air, sea, and land.

  "Sky freight is one of the company's core businesses, that's right. But I assure you, that's not my sole interest."

  Anna took a step closer. She was aware of other men, clearly Lebedev's security detail, watching her for any hint of danger. "What would someone like you be doing with a group of militants and infoterrorists?"

  He chuckled. "We both know that's just a convenient label for the world governments to hang around the necks of the people who disagree with them."

  "Still..." She paused, looking around again. "You're running a real risk, aren't you? Being here? Talking to me?"

  Lebedev's calm manner turned cooler. "This is not a game, Ms. Kelso. A long time ago, I decided that there was work to be done to preserve our freedoms, and if our nations would not do it, then men like me ... Men with the money and the influence to do something about it... We could either serve, or resist. I chose the latter." He smiled without humor. "And as for risk? That van you were inside is packed with mobile screening gear. If we had found any recording devices or suspicious implants, D-Bar would have dumped you on the steps of the federal building and left you to their tender mercies."

  "He told me there would be answers." She folded her arms. "So if you're the main event, why don't you start with what the hell is going on?"

  Lebedev glanced at D-Bar, and then nodded. "All right. But first, I must know I have your trust, Ms. Kelso."

  Anna frowned. "That's pretty thin on the ground right now."

  "Indeed. That's why I'll start by confiding a secret in you." He walked to a table and poured coffee for both of them. "In your briefings from the Department of Justice, I'm sure you must have come across an organization called the New Sons of Freedom."

  She nodded. "Yeah. A coalition of independent militia groups. Idaho, Utah, Arizona, a few other places. Noise-makers mostly, throwbacks to the 1990s. They're on some domestic terror watch lists, but they're not red-flagged."

  "Good," Lebedev replied. "That's exactly how I want it." He smiled as she took his meaning. "The New Sons are my creation. We're one of many groups banding together across this nation with an eye to the future. Preparing. Waiting for the day when we'll be able to secede from the corrupt government running this country." He saluted her with his cup. "We're playing a long game, Ms. Kelso. We're getting ready for the fall."

  She eyed him. "Are you serious? You're telling me Lebedev Global is backing the New Sons?"

  "Yeah, it's a trip, isn't it?" offered D-Bar. Lebedev shot him a look and he fell silent again.

  He pointed at the hacker. "My people have mutually beneficial relationships with a number of other, shall we say, extra-legal groups? And Juggernaut is one of them. We've worked together very closely in the past. That's one of the reasons we've stayed off the radar of the FBI, the ATF, and all the other agencies."

  "You're building an army, is that it?"

  He shrugged. "It might be that one day. But not today. No, right now we're too small to be a serious threat to those with the real power. So we have to play the game carefully."

  "Why are you telling me all this?" she demanded.

  "Because all of us, you included, have a common enemy. The Tyrants and the shadow cabal they call master."

 
Despite herself, Anna tensed. "What do you know about the Tyrants?"

  "Bits and pieces," Lebedev went on, glancing at his watch. "We know they're the attack dogs in this particular arena. We know that you are right about them, Ms. Kelso. Your colleague, Agent Ryan. Garret Dansky. Donald Teague. They were all killed by Tyrant operatives."

  She felt her cheeks flush red. "So the hit on Skyler was—"

  "Cover," said Lebedev. "Two birds with one stone. Dansky was murdered, and Skyler intimidated. Have you seen the senator's most recent public statements? It's quite a reversal from her previous position."

  "I've been a little busy," Anna snapped. "You have proof of all this?"

  "Of course not. They're very good at what they do, Ms. Kelso. They'd never leave us a smoking gun. And the fact is, the Tyrants have been taking lives and enforcing the will of their masters all over the world, not just here in the United States. Everything they have done has been according to a plan."

  "What plan?" Lebedev sat and Anna did the same, staring at him across the table. "I want to know the reason why Matt Ryan died!" He hand was in her pocket, her fingers touching the coin.

  Lebedev pulled out a wallet; he drew a paper banknote—a rarity these days—and smoothed it out before him. "The one-dollar bill," he announced, turning it over. "You see this?" He indicated the symbol of the great seal. "The design of the pyramid, here? And the eye in the capstone, looking out? Some people call it the 'Eye of Providence.' But it's more than that." He tapped the banknote. "It's a representation of something that has infiltrated our lives, something lurking in the shadows. Something that has been around for a very long time."