by T. C. Edge
Mikel moved towards the man. He recognised him.
“Commander Wexley,” he whispered coolly. “How nice to see you again.”
Wexley’s face remained oddly calm, eyes unblinking as they stared out. They glanced down to a single screen below him, then back up at Mikel.
“Again?” Wexley said. “I don’t think we’ve ever met, soldier.”
Mikel removed his helmet - he found it stifling - and dropped it to the floor. He had no intention of putting it on again, not with that camera hidden in the helm, relaying his every move. No, he didn’t want to be watched and monitored anymore.
He continued forwards, drawing a smile.
“You don’t recognise me, Commander?” Mikel said. He opened out his arms. “I suppose, I have gone through something of a…change, lately.”
Wexley’s eyes narrowed, confused. Then they glanced again to the screen before him.
Mikel drew closer.
“We met only once,” he said, “a couple of weeks ago.” His eyes tilted to the ceiling. “Up there, a few floors. I came and took something…off your hands.”
The realisation spread across Wexley’s face like a fire spreading through bush.
“It’s…you,” he murmured.
“In the synthetic flesh,” Mikel said, in that pleasant tone of his that he was still trying to correct. “Now tell me, Commander. Where is Agent Hunt? I’d dearly like to see him again.”
Wexley’s gaze stayed on Mikel, but a single hand drifted forward to his station. What was he doing, reaching for a gun? Pathetic.
Mikel’s eyes dropped down, however, to find no weapon there. Instead, Wexley was lightly tapping on a glowing keyboard, built into the desk.
Mikel acted immediately. He flew around the side of the station, gripped Wexley’s arm, and tossed the man backwards. The CID commander went flying to the floor in a bundle of limbs, as Mikel nonchalantly looked down at the screen.
He read the words Wexley had typed. He’d stopped him before he could finish.
‘Mikel is…’ was all the message said.
But sent to who? Mikel wondered, now rather enjoying the game. He smiled. Hunt, probably. Perhaps he wasn’t here, after all. Perhaps I’ll have to continue my hunt for the man a little longer?
He didn’t mind that. After all, what else was there for him to do?
Looking at the screen, Mikel then noticed something else. There was a loading bar, filled in green, indicating that an upload of data had been sent to the same location as the half-written message. He noted the unique code of the receiver, memorising it. He knew about these - the Panthers and CID agents had unique interfaces on their inner right wrists, used for tracking vital statistics, sending and receiving data, and tracking location.
This one might prove useful.
He pursed his lips and turned on Wexley.
“What is this?” he asked. “This upload?”
Wexley weakly clambered to his feet. He grimaced in pain; clearly the fall had been hard on the middle-aged man.
“Suit yourself,” said Mikel. He reached to the screen and tapped to open the file.
“No…” said Wexley, stepping forward. He stumbled, his ankle badly twisted, maybe broken. “It’s…nothing. Don’t!”
“Nothing doesn’t garner such a reaction, Commander,” said Mikel coolly. He looked again at the screen, now filling with information included in the upload. He saw schematics for a facility of some kind, an early design it seemed and not fully developed. He studied the images quickly, his sharp mind clicking into gear, putting everything into place.
“Ah, I see,” he said. “It’s the research centre where this new body of mine was born. Hmmmm, seems I was right. An underwater facility, right at the heart of Lake Michigan.”
He grinned, proud at having worked it out, put together the puzzle. The plans were incomplete, but he could get a sense of the layout at a glance. It made sense, given the time he’d spent there, certain floors and rooms seeming right. He looked over at Wexley, who was hauling himself back to his feet, hobbling feebly over.
“So, you found the facility’s location, did you?” Mikel went on, looking back at the plans. There was a large highlighted area on a map of the centre of the lake. The facility must have been built somewhere within it. “Well done, Commander. Now who did you send it to? Hunt?”
Wexley didn’t answer.
“Someone who’ll no doubt rally a charge to destroy it?” Mikel said, nodding and smiling to himself. “A good plan for certain. Destroy these synthetics at their source, take out the data stored in the depths.” He nodded again. “Yes, a fine plan. And don’t worry, I won’t interfere.”
Wexley frowned, breathing heavily, still dragging his limp leg onwards. From out through the command centre and down the corridor, gunfire chattered, closer now. The other synthetics were near.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Mikel asked, looking to the CID Commander once more. “What, you think I care if the location of the facility is leaked? You think I care if you mount a strike. Oh no, quite the opposite, actually.”
Wexley hobbled nearer, unable to put pressure on one leg. What a feeble form he had. Surely I didn’t throw him that hard?
“What do you mean?” growled the man. “I won’t let you pass this information on, Mikel.” He drew a knife, brandishing it at the former nano-vamp.
“Cute,” Mikel said with a smile. “But I have no intention of passing it on.”
“But..why?”
“Because, my dear Commander Wexley, I want them all dead too.” He drew a snarl onto his face, leaning forward. That practiced growl of his ripped from his throat. It sounded better than ever. “I was special, Commander,” he rasped. “I was unique. And now…I’m just…another one of them. Oh, they made a mistake including me. I want that facility destroyed, and every stored consciousness, every clone being grown, destroyed with it.” He leaned back, and smiled. “And then…then it will just be me. Special…and unique.”
Wexley’s eyes flared, perplexed by what Mikel was saying.
“You look confused, my dear man,” Mikel laughed. “You shouldn’t be. I am built for chaos. I thrive in it, live for it. I will let your people destroy that facility. I will send no warning. And then…I will hunt down whoever is left.” He glanced at the other synthetics, rushing along the corridor towards the command centre. “Them,” he went on with a whisper. “I need a challenge, a purpose. I need a proper hunt.” He eyed Wexley, gaze turning manic. “And they will give it to me. They will give me what I crave…”
He drew back, suddenly, as the synthetics surged into the room, spreading out, smashing workstations, murdering anyone they found in corners and hiding in nooks and crannies. Mikel looked to the workstation next to him - Wexley’s workstation - and in a sudden burst of speed, slammed a gloved fist down into it, shattering the entire console, and destroying the evidence of the message Wexley sent.
“There,” he said to the man in a whisper, screams filling the air around the room. “Now they’ll never know.” He reached up and tapped his nose. “I’ll be our little secret.”
And then, pulling out a pistol, he shot Commander Richard Wexley in the forehead.
The head of the CID dropped to the floor, dead.
105
Ragan had never been inside the Black House, though he had seen pictures of the interior before. The President’s compound had been modelled on the old White House, destroyed some time ago, though was larger, grander, and darker in tone. It was a sprawling network of long corridors and grand rooms, fitted with many secret places that one could hide.
Right now, however, the intention was not to hide. It was to escape.
The group rushed up from the basement floors, reaching the ground level. Ragan and Maddox were at the back, protecting the rear. The President’s personal guards were at his flanks, and the other two Panthers under Maddox’s charge were at the front. They moved in a tight unit, all avenues covered, Rashmore locked bet
ween them behind a wall of bodies.
They poured out into a grand entranceway, the front atrium in the compound that gave access to the rest of it. A host of other guards had been drawn here, while staff were moving the other way, dispersing off in all directions in a wild panic. Seeking those hiding places, most likely. Hide away and hope for the best. There wasn’t much more that lowly staff could do.
It wasn’t the same for Rashmore and senior staff in the building. The Black House had contingencies if it was ever stormed, with a highly secure bunker at the rear, built down into the earth. In most cases, if ever the city was attacked or bombed, then that would be the place to go. That seemed to be exactly what the President’s personal guards were thinking.
They hurried in that direction, moving towards the rear of the compound. The distant sound of gunfire could now be heard outside, the attacking soldiers carving a path through the front gates and towards the main entrance.
That was a worrying thought indeed. It was generally considered unwise to attack any stronghold where it was strongest. The fact that these synthetics were doing just that suggested they had little fear of the resistance they’d face.
“Hold on,” called Ragan as the group ran onwards, away from the fighting coming closer outside.
They didn’t stop.
“Hold on!” Ragan said again, far louder this time.
Now they did turn, Rashmore himself looking back with a raised brow. He hadn’t seemed to have noticed Ragan and Maddox joining them at the back.
“What on earth is he doing here?” the President asked, aghast.
“We need the help, sir,” said Captain Maddox.
What an odd turn this was, Ragan thought. Now I’m being defended by Maddox, of all people…
The President didn’t offer further complaint. He looked far too panicked, too frightened, to be concerned about having an extra guard.
“Sir, we need to go,” said one of his detail. “We have to get to the bunker…”
The man took a grip of Rashmore’s arm again, ready to haul him onwards. They were simply following the set directives for if an attack occurred on the compound. Apparently, getting the President to the secure bunker, where he could be properly defended, was the first response. Other important staff on site, with their own guards, would be heading there too.
“We can’t go there,” Ragan said, shaking his head. “The enemy will expect it. They’ll have a means of getting through.”
“With all due respect, Agent Hunt,” said the guard. “The bunker’s been designed to hold off…”
“Yes, I know its capabilities, soldier,” said Ragan firmly. “And so will the men who have come here to attack us. They will expect you to lock yourself away, Mr President. They will have devised a means of getting to you.”
“How…can I trust you,” asked Rashmore, eyes curling up. He was sweating through panic and terror now, the reaction most civilians would have to this sort of situation. The rest were steely eyed, determined, ready to lay down their lives. They’d been built that way, trained that way. “You’re just trying to escape,” Rashmore went on.
“I’m not trying to escape, sir,” Ragan said. “I’m trying to help you escape.”
“I agree with Hunt, Mr President.” Ragan turned, shocked, to find Captain Maddox in agreement. “He’s right. We can’t lock ourselves down here. It’s too dangerous. We need to get out, sir.”
A sudden, louder burst of gunfire began chattering across the hall. It was coming from just outside the main doors now. Ragan sensed that dozens of soldiers protecting the compound would already be dead. More continued to flood from other areas, drawn here by the fight. It took a lot for Ragan not to add himself to the fray.
But no, this was more important. The President needed to live. The nation couldn’t lose its figurehead.
“We have to move,” one of the guards said. He grabbed Rashmore again, leading him out of the entrance hall, hurrying down a long, lushly carpeted corridor. The interior of this place was…magnificent, though Ragan had no time at all to appreciate it.
“There must be another way out of here,” Ragan called out as they went, fearing the guards were just leading them towards the bunker. Ragan’s own knowledge of the compound was limited. Only certain staff, and the President’s personal guards, knew all of its secrets.
They reached another hallway, smaller this time, with half a dozen corridors stretching off from it in various directions. This place was a maze. Would the attacking soldiers know the layout? Had they managed to hack schematics and plans of the building?
Surely they had. By the sounds of the fight, still drawing closer, they were surging right after them, heading right for where the bunker’s access tunnels and lifts were situated.
They stopped, briefly, in the hall, the President puffing and panting, red faced and trembling.
“They’re following us right for the bunker,” Ragan grunted, his own breathing steady, his visage fiercely alert. “They’ll likely catch us before we even reach it. Now what else is there? Where else can we go?”
His eyes, strained, tense, turned directly to Rashmore. Those eyes of his, a deep blue, demanded an answer.
“There’s…the escape pod,” Rashmore said, breath lurching into his lungs. “It’s…a last resort. Launches from beneath the gardens at the back.”
“And it can fly?” asked Ragan hastily.
“Yes. It blasts off, then the wings extend,” Rashmore panted. “It was…meant for short range travel to take me to another secure location, if the compound were ever…overrun.”
More gunfire rang out, echoing down the halls. Screams and shouts and howls of pain came with it.
“The compound is overrun, sir,” Ragan said. “We head for the escape pod.” He looked up at the guards. “Lead on.”
They glanced at each other, but there seemed no further time for debate. Turning, they hurried down one of the six corridors, moving off to the left, taking the lead now as the other two Panthers moved to Rashmore’s flanks.
They headed through the labyrinth, going down a level, creeping into the darker depths of the compound. The lavish decor up above began to gave way to something more functional. The lightning dimmed, the walls less artistically painted and ornamented, the floor no longer carpeted but nude, its comfy covering stripped away to reveal cold, slate grey stone.
The fighting to the rear started to quieten down a little. It seemed that they’d lost their pursuers down here, the enemy either unaware of this place, or simply not expecting them to venture this way. It didn’t appear as though many people ever came here, the tunnels on this lower basement level intended only as access points to the launch pad for the escape pod, situated beneath the rear gardens.
They reached a final turning, and a long, wide tunnel stretched away, its walls and ceiling of grey stone. At the end, it seemed to open out into a room, dimly lit by a security light. The air was dusty, stale. Rashmore coughed, the sound clattering down the tunnel, echoing loudly.
“That’s…it,” he croaked, throat tickled by the dust. He sounded relieved.
“OK, let’s go,” Ragan grunted.
They continued on, feet tapping on the floor, a jumbled song of footsteps rattling about down there in the depths. The tunnel was long, the square of light that marked its end growing ever closer as they ran.
Ragan, seeing the end in sight, increased his pace a little. He surged to the front, urging the others on, keen to get the launch sequence started. He called for one of the President’s detail to come with him; he’d know how to start the sequence. One of the guards nodded, pace increasing, the two of them sprinting ahead towards the light.
They reached it, pouring past the end of the tunnel and into the room. It was circular in shape, set with an egg-shaped pod at one side, workstations elsewhere. The place held a light mist of dust, its walls stained by time. When had anyone last come down here?
“Get the sequence going,” Ragan ordered, taking charg
e. It felt so natural to him to do so, and the man didn’t object. He moved to one of the workstations, powered it up, and began pressing switches and clicking buttons, beginning the procedure.
Ragan moved over to inspect the pod. It was white, sitting upright like an egg in a cup, thought flattened at the rear. Down its flanks were two slits, from which the wings would extend. It was similar to the escape pod stored beneath the falcon, the very one Mikel had used to get free not long ago, though bigger. It would just about fit all seven of them at a push - the President, his two guards, the three Panthers, and Ragan.
Ragan blew out a sigh of relief at that. He’d worried that the pod would be intended for one man, or two or three at most, forcing upon the group a rather difficult choice. Staying here in the compound would probably mean death for anyone left behind…
The footsteps, echoing down the hallway, grew louder. Ragan moved back to the corridor, turning his eyes around the edge of the wall. The group were approaching fast, the President clearly struggling to keep up with all the nano-augmented soldiers around him. The two Panthers to his flanks were all but carrying him now, one holding each arm, dragging him unceremoniously along, with the President’s other guard, and Captain Maddox, just behind.
Ragan looked beyond them, far down the tunnel. His brow tightened, chest doing the same. He peered far into the distance and saw it - a shadow, a silhouette of a man coming their way.
Ragan pulled out his pistol instinctively, and roared for the others to hurry. The President’s personal guard glanced back, and in that moment, Ragan saw his head snap to the side, drawing his body on after him. A gunshot echoed loudly, reverberating down the hallway. The guard’s frame tumbled, limbs suddenly slack, and dropped to the earth. On his forehead was a single red hole, perfectly centred.
“RUN!” Ragan roared.
He stepped quickly to the side, giving himself a better view past the oncoming group. The shadow in the distance was coming faster now, his frame appearing in finer detail. He was draped in black from head to toe, thin mesh bodysuit tight to his frame, helmet on his head. Ragan raised his pistol and shot, again and again, seeing sparks glint off the man’s suit.