The Phantom Chronicles BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  A stunned silence had engulfed the occupants of the security control room down on sub-level 25. Both men watched as the final crackles of energy, briefly blinding them, faded out, and the view of the lobby appeared clearly once more.

  Six men lay either unconscious, or dead. All had fallen, seemingly by magic, as if there were several Chloe Phantoms in operation up there. The manner in which she’d despatched them had seemed impossible. The speed. The efficiency. The frightening show of power.

  And now, she was merely stepping through the doors and out into the night, as if it was all nothing.

  Derik and Matt drew their eyes from the hologram and shared a look. Derik’s face was no longer red, but white. Matt’s was similarly pallid, his eyebrows lifted into a permanent expression of wonder and awe.

  “Guess we won’t be getting that reward then,” he murmured.

  Even Derik’s onset of greed had been quelled by what he’d seen. He merely nodded without speaking, his lips quivering as if wishing to retort, but finding themselves momentarily mute.

  On the feed, a spot of movement drew their eyes once more. From behind the main desk, two figures were tentatively stirring. One of them took a look at the fallen soldiers and began rushing out to check on them, moving from one to the next to feel for pulses and, if necessary, administer first aid.

  The other was already reaching for the holo-phone. He tapped a few keys and, in the control room, a ringing sounded.

  It caught Derik off-guard, causing him to jump. He reached over and tapped a button, and the night-guard’s face appeared before them, coiled up in a continuing disbelief.

  “Well…I guess you weren’t lying after all, Derik,” he breathed, shaking his head. “That was Chloe Phantom all right.”

  Derik flashed a guilty look at Matt, whose face might have taken on a victorious turn if it wasn’t still so confounded.

  “Yeah…didn’t I tell you,” breathed Derik. “Are the soldiers OK?”

  The night-guard glanced to his colleague, who offered a cursory nod.

  “Seems like it,” he said. “Appears she only knocked them unconscious.”

  “Interesting,” said Derik. “So, what now?”

  “Now?” grunted the guard. He shook his head, and looked over the scene above. “This is way beyond our pay-grade, Derik. I think we need to send this one right to the top…”

  7

  Agent Ragan Hunt was used to having his sleep cut short.

  Once part of the elite Panther Force, the most feared soldiers of the NDSA, he’d grown conditioned to being woken at any time of the night to carry out a mission. Now, working for the Central Intelligence Division (CID), the secret service arm of the Northern Democratic States, things hadn’t exactly changed. He was ever at the beck and call of his superiors, and never quite knew when he’d get a full night’s sleep, or have to go several nights without any sleep at all - thankfully, his nanobot augmentations made such a thing quite easy, allowing him to operate at near-full capacity for days on end without rest.

  Such was the permanent state of alert in which he lived his life, however, he’d taken to living and working on the premises in the CID Headquarters in New York. Many of his colleagues did the same, their offices coming with separate living quarters to ensure that they were on-site whenever needed. Ragan’s allotment wasn’t large, but it didn’t matter. His lifestyle hardly called for a luxurious manner of living.

  No. His existence was based on duty, and always had been. He was a piece in a grander war, and was used and directed where needed.

  Right now, something was clearly going on. His door was swinging open, and the lights were being turned on. He opened his eyes quickly, waking himself fast - a trait well drilled during his years as a soldier and spy - and found a technician standing at the foot of his bed.

  “Agent Hunt, sir. Apologies for the interruption, but Commander Wexley requires you immediately in the command centre.”

  The young man’s tone was snappy and to the point, not caring should Ragan be rather surly for being so abruptly disturbed. Around here, little scope was given to dithering, and anyone displaying such form would be immediately asked to seek alternative employment.

  Ragan was already slipping from his bed as the man spoke, the mention of his commanding officer, Richard Wexley, head of the CID, always a clear sign that something was up.

  He stood, displaying his lean torso and well honed 23 year old frame, and swiftly shot towards the wardrobe, pulling on a simple uniform of sleek grey pants and shirt, forgoing the jacket on top.

  He swiftly checked his look in the mirror, brushing his strong fingers through waves of brown hair, and noted the weary shape to his striking blue eyes. He blinked a few times to dismiss the lingering fatigue, and concluded he had no time for a shave. His firm chin and chiselled jaw, dusted with stubble, was usually cleanly shaven during any interactions with Commander Wexley. Given the clear sign that haste was required, he knew having a peppering of dark stubble wouldn’t be held against him.

  Completing his rather expeditious check, he turned to face the technician.

  “Right, let’s go.”

  Following the young man through the door, Ragan worked swiftly through the building, up a couple of flights of stairs, and down a long corridor towards the HQ’s central command post. The technician stopped outside - his security clearance didn’t extend to within - and Ragan walked right past, letting the various scanners confirm his identity by way of his eyes, body shape, and even DNA code. Upon completing the job, the large doors hissed and parted, opening from the centre and revealing a further corridor, and several more levels of security beyond.

  Another round of inspections finally confirmed that it was, in fact, Agent Ragan Hunt attempting to enter, before a last security door made way and Ragan stepped into the bustling core of the NDSA’s foremost intelligence service. He found his boss, Commander Wexley, beside a bank of monitors being overseen by some of the smartest men in the nation.

  Wexley’s eyes, a moody shade of brown, discovered Ragan’s entrance immediately. He marched towards him in his usual military manner, stiff and efficient, and performed a perfunctory nod, arching his neck a little to reach the summit of Ragan’s formidable 6’3” frame.

  “Agent Hunt, thanks for getting here so fast. Please, come this way.”

  Ragan began following Commander Wexley towards a private module, passing by all manner of large screens and holograms as the intelligence agents went about their work. Wexley stopped when he reached a chair, dropping his thickset frame into it. He had a stern disposition as befitting his job, a natural result of a man shaped by war and service to his nation. As highly decorated as he was respected, he’d served with great esteem in the Second American Civil War a couple of decades back, and was now front and centre of the Northern Democracy’s efforts in the current conflict.

  Though some people liked to refer to it as a ‘third civil war’, really that wasn’t accurate. The second war had, after all, seen to the dissolution of the Unite States as they were then known, forging the four new nations that existed in the colloquially termed ‘Disunited States’ today. This new conflict, therefore, was a war between separate nations, so couldn’t technically be termed ‘civil’. It was a point that Ragan was always keen to hammer home to anyone who didn’t appear to grasp the distinction.

  As he settled into his command module, Commander Wexley ushered Ragan to his side, directing the young agent’s eyes towards a large, central monitor ahead. Then, tapping a button, an image hovered before their eyes, displaying a lobby, a small unit of what appeared to Ragan to be WSA peacekeepers, and a couple of night-guards cowering behind a security desk.

  The holographic video began playing, displaying an attack of some kind. The soldiers moved quickly into a defensive position, before being assaulted and swiftly taken down by a single enemy. Well, not single. Ragan’s keen eyes were swift to note the presence of a nanobot drone, and a highly sophisticated one by the
looks of things.

  Wexley let the video play until completion, when the assailant finally came into proper view. Ragan’s eyes widened as he watched a young girl unleash a net of blue and white lightning from her fingertips, ensnaring her final foe and swiftly disabling him. It was an ability he knew all about, one only this girl could perform.

  “Chloe Phantom,” he whispered, shaking his head and feeling his breath begin to rise. “She’s…reappeared?”

  He looked down at Wexley, who tapped a button to stop the feed, just as Chloe stepped out of the main doors and disappeared into the night.

  “Indeed,” murmured Wexley. “First sighting in six months. We intercepted the feed from the WSA. They’re going to be all over this, and we need to act fast too. President Rashmore won’t want us missing this opportunity.”

  “But, sir. The WSA? We’re at war. We can’t…”

  “We can,” said Wexley firmly. “Or…you can, to put it plainly,” he corrected. “This is to be an off-the-books mission, Agent Hunt. We need you to head over there immediately and see what you can dig up. We’ve heard reports that the initial sighting was made by a Matthew Lindon, one of the guards in the building who spotted Miss Phantom while performing a routine check over some fatality down there…”

  “And where exactly are we talking, Commander?” asked Ragan, looking at the screen again. He inspected the lobby more closely, and came to his own conclusion. “Looks like the entrance-level of an earthscraper,” he said. His eyes swept to his boss. “She wasn’t in Los Angeles?”

  “Your surprise is understandable,” said Wexley. “It’s unlike her to spend much time in any major city, let alone the capital of the Western States. I suppose her reasoning was to blend in. It appeared to work fairly well until now. Our intelligence officers have discovered via intercept that she’s been living in an earthscraper designated Sub-Tower 12 for roughly three months.”

  “Sub-Tower 12. Is that industrial?”

  “It is. She was working in textiles, keeping a low profile. The guard only spotted her by luck.”

  “How?”

  “Details are thin on the ground, but it appears he recognised a scar on her lower right abdomen, one he’d spotted in our most recent wanted poster for the girl. He must have a rather good eye to put two and two together like that. And that’s where you come in, Agent Hunt. I need you to question this man, and conduct your own investigation of the area. You’re our lead tracker, Ragan. If you’re quick, you might get a good sniff of her. God knows President Rashmore will be grateful if you bring Miss Phantom in.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Ragan, with a note of haste. Chloe Phantom had been forefront in his work for quite some time. He wanted nothing more than to catch up with her before someone else did. “And, if the WSA realise I’m there? What level of force am I to employ?”

  “You know the drill, Ragan. We are at war. This is not peacetime, where we need to tiptoe around each other. You don’t have to worry about an international incident. If you’re discovered, they will try to take you in for torture and questioning. Use all necessary force to ensure you’re not captured. And if you are, remember your training. You will give nothing up, do you understand me, soldier?”

  “Loud and clear, sir,” said Ragan immediately.

  “Good. Now, we’ve got on this early, but it’s going to spread fast. No doubt President Arnold over in the Western States will be sending in his own investigators to try to track the girl down. You need to get to her first, Ragan. The race is back on.”

  “Good,” smiled Ragan. “It’s what I was born for, sir.”

  “As your surname suggests,” nodded Commander Wexley with a hawkish grin. “Now, go see Doc. He’s working to fit you out with a suitable cover. It should ensure you blend in just fine.”

  Wexley stretched out a hand, and Ragan took it firmly. The two men shook once in regimented style before Ragan immediately began marching away.

  Commander Wexley called him back with a final word.

  “Oh, and Hunt…” Ragan turned. “Make sure you don’t let her slip away again.”

  The barb stung, fired close to the mark. Wexley left a firm glare on Ragan for a moment longer, before swiftly turning his eyes back down to his module. Ragan turned and continued on, his commander’s words stirring a memory.

  So close, he thought. I was so close to catching her once before…

  He banished the memory of failure, something he never tolerated. His life had been one of winning, of success, of achievement. Letting Chloe Phantom slip between his fingers was a black mark against his name that he was always trying to cover or remove.

  He firmed his mind to the task, and nodded resolutely to himself.

  This time, she won’t get away.

  8

  The industrial districts on the outskirts of LA were sprawling fields of smog, peppered with an assortment of old overground warehouses and factories, and the newer earthscrapers and sub-towers that were now beginning to replace them. Set in the southern reaches of the vast city, one could quite easily find themselves lost within the expanse without a proper guide or sense of direction to help them find their way out.

  Such was the level of pollution, coughed up from both the subterranean and overground factories and plants, that the air was perpetually laden down with thick toxic fumes that made spending any length of time outdoors unbearable. Even to someone like Chloe, who couldn’t possibly see her health affected by the smog, the smell, taste, and mere feel of the air upon her skin was truly unpleasant.

  It was past midnight when she ventured out into the mist, the heavy coating of clouds, blotting out the heavens above, doing much to render visibility even more unfavourable. Through the mist, she could make out the shapes of great domes, topping off the earthscrapers that dug so deep into the soil and sediment and crust below. They spread into the dark night like the tips of mighty icebergs, just a glimpse of the vastness of what lay beneath.

  Across the land, the domes of the earthscrapers, lit via security lights, could be seen spreading off into the distance. Yet among them, various sections were empty and drowned in pitch darkness, the overground factories and warehouses, shut off for the night, hidden away in the gloom.

  Further off to the northwest, the city proper lay. It was hardly visible, despite its size and endless array of twinkling lights, due to the poor visibility, yet Chloe was quite aware just where it was. She gazed in its direction, knowing of the perils that lay beyond, of the heart of the government that ruled these lands, and the vast military that held preeminence across the continent.

  Even now, the state of the conflict was such that seeing soldiers through the city was an entirely common sight. The peacekeepers who’d come to check up on the tip were such a unit. They roamed far and wide, charged with both keeping the peace and keeping watch to ensure spies and foreign forces didn’t slip through the net.

  Mostly, the peacekeeping forces were made up of ordinary and often reserve soldiers, those surplus to requirements in the actual conflict and battle zones elsewhere on the continent. Some, however, were experienced soldiers merely returning to LA for some RnR and to get a bit of respite from the harsher world beyond the city’s borders. Sheltered by the San Gabriel Mountains, the capital of the WSA was well protected by its natural geographic features, yet elsewhere the same couldn’t be said.

  Many major cities and towns had now been reduced to rubble, lived in perhaps by only a few hermits and leftovers from days gone by. The Second Civil War saw a lot of the landmass fall to ruin, yet the recovery had barely had a chance to get started when fresh conflicts rose anew, brewed up by a constant battle for supremacy between the nations of the northeast and west, the NDSA and WSA, in particular.

  At certain points, the other two nations of the Disunited States had entered the fray, either joining forces with a neighbour or trying to stake their own claim. Now, however, the Mid-States of America (MSA) with its capital in Chicago, and the Southern Republic of Ameri
ca (SRA), centred around Houston, were going it alone, and primarily keeping out of trouble.

  The SRA, third most powerful of the nations, seemed to keep a close eye on proceedings, as if ready to stake a claim when the two more powerful nations to the northeast and west had tuckered each other out.

  The MSA, however, were more tolerant than their neighbours, and less inclined to war. Were they to enter the conflict in any meaningful way, they’d find themselves swiftly overcome. Mostly, Chloe always considered it a far safer haven than any of the other nations, though any time spent there couldn’t hide her from the creeping eyes of agents of the governments, bounty hunters, and evil corporations looking to bring her in.

  It seemed that the entire world was after her, and though she wasn’t completely sure of exactly why, she knew there must be compelling enough evidence that kept them coming, month after month and year after year.

  Her conclusions on the subject had changed through the years, though nothing would stop her running. She was compelled to do so, driven by some mystical force. No doubting it was, in reality, the work of her nanites, and Remus too, that kept her on the move, never willing to relent or hand herself over. Her father, Chloe was certain, had designed and coded her specific nanobots as such, making sure she never gave in or let her guard down.

  Perhaps, in the end, it was that very thing the people were after. Professor Phantom was the foremost leader in nano-robotics, as well as other related fields, and the nanobots in Chloe’s body were state-of-the-art. Maybe the nanites were the very thing the authorities were after? Maybe they remained, even to this day, the most highly evolved form of the technology, sought after by various parties to help further their research and capabilities in that field?

  That was often Chloe’s conclusion, yet it made little sense. If that were true, why would Chloe’s father put his beloved daughter in such danger? Why would he fill her blood with the very thing the authorities were after? Why would he curse her to this life on the run, of being perpetually hunted?