by T. C. Edge
He’d try, at least…
“I know he’s considering it is all,” Maddox said. He sneered at Ragan once more, and then stalked away, moving back to his companions at the table.
Ragan sat back on his bed, wondering whether to continue his provocations. He wanted information - he needed it - but wasn’t getting anywhere on that front. Maddox clearly knew what had been happening over at the CID - that had become obvious by his regular sojourns away from this place, heading off down the corridor with communicator in hand - but as yet had refused to give anything away.
Perhaps I’ve been too obvious in my desire to hear what’s happening, Ragan thought.
A man like Maddox, who evidently enjoyed administering various methods of torture, both physical and, clearly, mental too, would take pleasure in withholding information Ragan so yearned for. That persistent sneer on his face made that point particularly obvious.
Ragan drew a frustrated breath, and tried to relax onto the thin mattress on his bed, back to wall, looking out through the bars of his cell.
It shouldn’t matter so much really whether he heard what was going on or not. He had nothing else to contribute - he’d already told Wexley everything he knew - so had to trust that his old commander, a man of great patriotism, would do everything in his power to act upon Ragan’s intel.
Still, he was desperate to know. There was something about being a control freak in that. Ragan was a man of lies and secrets, a man who had lived and operated from the shadows. He enjoyed the dark, though didn’t like being kept in it. These hours spent here, with three sneering guards for company, and a veritable swarm of questions and concerns constantly assaulting him, were some of the worst of his life.
He felt like pacing, like screaming for answers, like purging himself of his frustrations. That, he knew, was exactly what Maddox wanted. He wanted to watch Ragan lose it, fall into despair, stamp about and cry out and rip futilely at the bars.
Ragan couldn’t give the man that satisfaction. He had to try to hold firm, to portray a relaxed demeanour despite it all. To sit on this bed and be patient.
No matter how hard that was.
Another excruciating hour passed. The dozing Panther completed his nap, prodded awake by Captain Maddox, who admonished him for sleeping more than a couple of hours.
The Panther offered a muted shrug and frown, suggesting that there wasn’t much else to do down here, and that Ragan wasn’t exactly going anywhere. That prompted a fierce lecture from Maddox on duty, responsibility, and following orders, no matter what. Ragan was sure that a lot of that was intended as a criticism of him.
The captain’s diatribe, however, was interrupted by a beeping at his hip. Ragan watched as Maddox took up his communicator and marched off down the corridor once again, never letting his captive get any wind of the conversation.
He reappeared a few minutes later, returning with a bustling step. Ragan’s interest was piqued as he arrived at the table, glancing over at him in his cell. The two Panthers under his charge leaned forwards from their perches, eager to hear what their captain had to say.
Unusually, Maddox began informing them of the conversation without lowering his voice to a whisper, as he had before. So far, all updates he’d given his men had been purposely quiet to prevent Ragan from hearing. Either that, or Maddox simply refused to tell them anything, probably thinking it not important enough for them to know.
Perhaps this particular update wasn’t worthy of the Captain Maddox seal of secrecy?
Or was it something else?
“What is it, sir?” asked one of the Panthers.
Maddox glanced again at Ragan, frowning.
“Probably nothing,” he said. “A tip came into the CID, warning of an imminent attack there.”
Ragan sat bolt upright on his bed, eyes widening. He moved immediately for the bars, clutching at them, peering through.
“What tip?” he asked firmly.
Maddox looked over again. He stared at him a moment before answering. He actually answered this time.
“Some ex-Spectre,” he said. “Claims that a base in the Colorado mountains was destroyed by synthetics this morning…”
Ragan’s heart flared as he listened, eyes widening further. His knuckles grew white as they held the iron bars, all but making indentations in the metal.
Maddox studied the change in his expression, the desperation. He stepped closer to the bars, and began nodding.
“You know, don’t you,” he said quietly, dangerously. “You know about this place.”
Ragan’s mind rushed. The base…Project Dawn, destroyed? What of the Crimson Corps? Could the MSA have released their synthetics this soon? And this ex-Spectre? Who could that be? There were many ex-Spectres among the corps. Had one managed to get out?
He couldn’t hide those questions from running about in his eyes. He’d wished to keep the identity of Project Dawn secret from the CID. Whatever happened to him now - whether killed or incarcerated - he felt no need to indict the organisation, to bring them under the watchful eye of New York.
But, were they now destroyed? And why would they, or any of their soldiers, call the CID to warn them, unless they knew everything that had been going on, and that Ragan was there with them?
Then it hit him.
The ex-Spectre…Tanner.
It had to be him, didn’t it? Had they returned to the base after Ragan left them in Cincinnati? Had they gone back to try to smooth things over, and had now been attacked? Was Chloe there too…was she safe?
The questions assaulted him in an ever more worrying stream. His eyes fell, brow furrowing deeply, expression giving everything away.
He looked up again, and saw that Maddox had drawn nearer. He could almost smell the man’s toxic breath on his face, pouring through the bars and up his nose.
“I knew it,” the cruel captain said, nodding. “You were part of something else. It’s all so clear to me now, Hunt.” He grinned widely. “Rashmore’s going to execute you for sure.”
Ragan’s eyes rounded on his, growing fierce.
“Tell me what else you heard?” he said suddenly, voice powering into the room. “Tell me, Maddox. This is important. Who sent the message? Who is this ex-Spectre?”
Maddox smiled, delaying. Ragan had truly shown his hand, and Maddox looked set to take advantage.
He shrugged, and shook his head.
“You know, my memory is a little hazy,” he said. “I can’t remember.”
“Maddox, listen to me,” growled Ragan. “That tip is real. The base in the mountains is run by an organisation that had been trying to find the data. The MSA have destroyed them to keep them from speaking out about what they know. You have to safeguard the CID immediately! You must take this tip seriously!”
Maddox continued to sneer, basking in this joy of seeing Ragan so strained and desperate.
“I’m sure Commander Wexley will take it seriously,” he said. “We have plenty of security throughout the CID, heavily bolstered since that nano-vamp managed to get in. I’m not worried about that. I’m just delighted that you’ve shown me what you truly are, Hunt. The President will hear of this immediately…”
“Fine, fine, I’m a spy and not to be trusted,” ran Ragan’s voice. “That doesn’t matter now. What matters is the MSA are playing their hand. Surely Commander Wexley’s checked satellite imagery of the base’s location? You can see if it’s been destroyed or not, confirm that the tip is real. Did the ex-Spectre tell you where it was? Have you checked?”
“He gave us a location,” nodded Maddox calmly, eyes lit bright. “And yes, it’s been checked.”
“Then…what did it show?”
“Not very much at all,” Maddox said. “Just forested hills, largely obscured by black smoke. Looks like a forest fire, apparently.”
A forest fire? That makes no sense…
“That can’t be…you must have the wrong location.”
Then it hit Ragan. The cloaking tech in t
he base. It must still be intact, hiding its location, showing only the forest. The black smoke must be from the burning buildings, only becoming visible after passing through the cloak.
“The base is cloaked,” rushed Ragan’s voice. “That’s why you’re not seeing anything. But it’s there, I assure you. The base is there!”
Maddox made an amused gesture, one brow lifting, sneer returning.
“Why aren’t you taking this seriously!” Ragan growled, finally losing it. “Are you really that dumb?” He looked past Maddox and to the other Panthers. “You need to get to the CID now,” he said. “All of you.”
“How convenient that would be for you,” said Maddox. “Leaving you unattended.”
“And where can I go?” shouted Ragan. He looked around his cell. “Where, Maddox!”
“You have your ways, I’m sure,” Maddox said.
“Then tell them what I’ve said, at least,” implored Ragan. “Or are you that petty that you’ll put the CID, the entire city, at risk, just because you don’t like me?”
Maddox snorted.
“Don’t like you?” He leaned in. “I…hate you, Hunt. You sicken me to my core. But unlike you, I serve this country and always will. I’ll pass on your message to Commander Wexley, because it’s my responsibility to do so. And…well, he asked me to find out what you’d say. I am loyal, no matter how I feel about someone. I don’t let my personal feelings get in the way of my duty. Not like you.”
He issued the statement with a disgusted sneer on his face, before spinning on his heels and marching away. Ragan watched from his cage, chest heaving, hands trembling upon the bars.
Terrible thoughts ran through his head, those of a base burning, of a rampant slaughter. Had his friends truly been there? Had Chloe?
Just what in the world was going on!
He stood, fixed to the spot, until Captain Maddox returned. He marched right in, eyed Ragan with his usual displeasure, and then took a seat. The other Panthers looked on, far more unconcerned than they should be.
“So?” said Ragan, staring down at Maddox.
The captain arched his neck, looking over.
“Message relayed,” he said nonchalantly.
Then he turned away, his back to Ragan, and refused to answer any more of his questions.
101
Pamela Chase, the most powerful figure in the Mid-States of America, was fast becoming the most powerful figure across the entire continent. The proud, almost smug, expression upon her face was making clear that growing distinction.
Martha didn’t like that look particularly, as she stood beside her old friend, watching startling and dramatic footage of the battle at the base of Project Dawn. Several of the synthetics had been equipped with cameras, built into their helmets, to feed back imagery from the attack. Seeing the organisation she once served be so violently obliterated, her old colleagues so brazenly killed, did more than turn her stomach - it all but twisted it inside out.
“Aren’t they glorious,” Pamela purred, watching the clones do their work. The footage had been recorded from the battle - though it really wasn’t much of a battle - early that morning, and was now playing on loops across several screens so the synthetics’ performance could be appraised.
Naturally, Randolph, head assessor, was there, that slack-jawed gape of his starting to get on Martha’s nerves. There were also several scientists, military officials, and intelligence technicians in the large control room, hastily planning the next assault.
“We should have fixed cameras on all of them,” Randolph said, watching on. “It would give us more data to work with.”
He looked to the President, dipping his chin as though he’d spoken out of turn. His tone of voice was a little more demanding than usual, it had to be said…
Pamela regarded him a moment, then smiled and nodded.
“Next time, my dear man,” she said, patting the squat, toad-faced assessor on the shoulder. “There will be plenty of opportunity soon, I assure you. I’ll have all combatants fitted with them for the next mission. The suits are being modified as we speak.”
Randolph hunched his shoulders up a little as she spoke, smiling awkwardly. The man ever quivered in Pamela’s presence. Many around here did, to be fair to him.
This control room, though - fitted with surveillance equipment, screens, advanced holographic tech, and busy with bustling technicians - was really the last place that Martha wished to be, though she had to keep up appearances.
Horrible as it was, she wished to stay on the inside of things, and perhaps offer a guiding hand where possible, even if it meant having to witness this sort of macabre destruction of people - good, innocent, people - who didn’t deserved to die.
The slaughter, while difficult to watch, was nevertheless awe-inspiring in a morbid sort of way. Though Martha had seen some of the synthetics train and practice in their new, advanced bodies, seeing them in live action was something else entirely.
The speed, the accuracy, and the ferocity of their attacks were staggering. The way they scythed through the ranks of the Crimson Corps, many hastily woken from their sleep, was also quite terrifying; a precursor, just a hint, of what was to come.
There had been no casualties among the synthetics, not even any major injuries. Some had been hit by bullets or shrapnel, but their advanced mesh-bodysuits were mostly sufficient to repel the fire. Any flesh wounds that had been suffered would heal extremely quickly anyway - even faster than regular nano-augmented soldiers - and the internal make-up of their bodies offered additional security, even if a bullet were to manage to get beyond their armour and through their flesh.
It seemed as though killing one of these synthetics would take a coordinated assault by a dozen or more highly proficient nano-enhanced soldiers, at the very least. Even then it wasn’t necessarily likely.
Of course, this battle - this slaughter - was partly won with such ease due to the sudden sneak attack they’d initiated. A prepared force of nano-augmented soldiers, fully armoured and armed with suitable weaponry for the fray, would put up a better fight.
Time would tell how effective they would be. The signs, for the likes of Pamela, were highly encouraging. For Martha they were’t quite so comforting.
The matter of using their surprise element to its full effect was currently under consideration in the control room; the ability to catch your enemy off guard was an extremely powerful tool, and one they didn’t want to see wasted. They’d used it upon the Crimson Corps, and it had worked extremely well, but the fact of the matter was, they were only the Crimson Corps. A mercenary force, really, and not much more. Highly skilled and able nano-enhanced soldiers, yes, but a small force compared to those under the charge of LA and New York.
And, unfortunately, it did seem as though not all of those within the base had been killed. Right now, all the evidence was still being pieced together, but it looked as though some managed to escape into the mountains during the attack, while a single jet plane also escaped the hanger.
They didn’t have great footage of that incident - the synthetics were split between the barracks in the northern quadrant, and the command centre towards the south, at that point - but one jet had been spotted from afar lifting skyward and disappearing from sight.
They couldn’t be certain, but it also seemed likely that none other than Colonel Slattery had been aboard. His corpse hadn’t been discovered after the fight, and so if anyone was to have escaped via that jet, it would surely have been him. The fact that Jason, the young lieutenant and Slattery’s chief aid, was also missing made the theory especially convincing.
That didn’t necessarily matter, of course. After all, the mission to the base held three specific purposes: one, disable the command centre and all intel on base; two, destroy the Crimson Corps; three - and this one was rather less tangible - test the synthetics.
That third directive was a little more indefinable, though had clearly been successful. They’d performed tasks one and two wi
th ease and efficiency. Beyond that, their instruction to wipe out all others at the base wasn’t one hundred per cent successful, but that was to be expected.
Slattery, however, remained a slight pebble in Pamela, and her team’s, shoe. It was also rather ironic for Martha that the one person she’d have been happy to see killed during the attack, had been one of the few to escape.
Typical, she thought, shaking her head. Of all the people to escape the massacre, the odious Jeremiah Slattery just had to be one of them…
Pamela pulled back from one of the screens, displaying the performance of Colonel Heston, who had one of the few micro-cameras affixed to his helmet. The man had run the show extremely well, and claimed his fair share of kills at the same time. He was an experienced military vet, a wise and instinctive combat-officer now inserted into a much younger, and more powerful, body. He was precisely the sort of recruit Pamela had been searching for.
“I want him in charge of the LA team,” Pamela said, her words intended for a stiff man called General Mulchrone, who took up position by her side. He was a senior military figure in the MSA army, drafted in to oversee the running of the new synthetic unit. A man with keen eyes typical of his sort, short grey hair, and a stern, no nonsense demeanour. Just the sort of man for the job.
“Certainly, Madam President,” General Mulchrone said, his deep voice rumbling across the space around them. “I’ve worked with Colonel Heston many times before. He won’t let anyone down. And New York?”
Pamela frowned and eyed Mulchrone pensively.
“Major Olsen is the next ranking officer, and used to command,” the General went on. “I’d place him in charge.”
“Of course,” Pamela nodded. “Whatever you think best, General.”