| |
14:19 Monday 28 October 2069
Marcus Gallagher stood outside his main research facility, looking at the gaping hole in the main door of the complex. His arms were folded and his eyes were full of rage, his ire further compounded by the events at HMP666 earlier that morning whilst the research complex was being attacked. To be honest, it was quite possibly the worst day of his many lives. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a bad day. Not only had he lost Caitlin, but he’d arrived back at his prime research facility to find it had been attacked and he had lost valuable equipment and data. The dead security guards were expendable. But worse than everything, so much worse than everything else, was that the capsule containing the Pindar’s soul had been stolen... by children! And he was angry at himself too. His arrogance had allowed this to happen. He had relied too much on technology to provide security at the facility. The automated defence system had been so state-of-the-art that he had found it inconceivable that it could be bypassed. He had completely ignored the fact that his principle adversary, the Businessman, was easily able to finance both countermeasures and innovations that could leave the Illuminati at a disadvantage. His ego hadn’t allowed him the humility to think that perhaps he wasn’t as all powerful and invincible as he had believed himself to be. He may be a clone but he still possessed a human soul and the accompanying human frailties.
Of course, just like any other leader drunk on his own power, he would never admit to this publicly. It was difficult enough to admit to himself. He needed to vent his anger and frustration in such a way that it would send a message to all those who might oppose him. The resistance needed to know that a heavy price would be paid for this most recent act. His response would have to be unambiguous and brutal. And his response would have to start now.
The surviving eighteen security staff had been summoned to the front of the damaged building and were standing in two nervous rows before him. Marcus waved his hand in the direction of the damaged building.
“Would somebody care to tell me what the hell happened here?”
Nobody offered a response. Marcus asked again.
“What the hell happened here? I want to know.”
Again nobody offered an explanation. They knew that there was no response that would have satisfied Marcus, so the security staff thought it better to say nothing at all, rather than anger him even more.
Marcus didn’t have the patience for this. He pointed at one of the security officers, a balding, slightly overweight Latino man who, like everybody else, had been trying to remain anonymous. The man was caught unawares. He followed orders, that’s all. He wasn’t a decision-maker. Why had the Pindar singled him out? Surely it would have been better for him to question his superior? The man was the monkey, not the organ-grinder.
“You. What’s your name?”
“Carlos Rocha, sir.”
“Well, Carlos Rocha. Perhaps you would like to explain to me how a rag-tag bunch of resistance fighters were able to enter the building unseen? Not just resistance fighters but a bunch of bloody kids?”
“I don’t know sir. The cameras didn’t pick them up and the automatic pulse-guns were somehow disabled.”
“How were they disabled? Did somebody unplug them?
“I don’t think so, sir. I think an EMP knocked out the electrical systems.”
“EMP? I thought we’d resolved that problem.”
Carlos Rocha wanted to say ‘apparently not’ but knew that that would be a really stupid thing to do.
Marcus continued his interrogation.
“And why were so many of the security staff away from the facility?”
“I believe a stronger security presence was deemed unnecessary, seeing as we have state-of-the-art Pulse technology.”
“And just who deemed it unnecessary to keep a decent force available at all times?”
“I suppose that would be Captain Stewart, Sir.”
“Captain Stewart. Please raise your hand.”
An overly tall man with a bulbous ginger moustache that over compensated for his receding hairline half-heartedly raised his hand. Marcus marched briskly over to him, took his pulse pistol from its holster, set it to kill, and pushed it against the now terrified man’s forehead.
Captain Stewart started to shake. Marcus pulled the trigger and the captain fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.
The post-mortem of the events of the early hours was interrupted by the loud whooshing sound of a dozen military trucks pulling into the yard. In contrast to the peaked caps and side-arms worn by the security staff, the new arrivals – about one hundred and fifty of them - were dressed in battleship grey uniforms, storm-trooper helmets and gas-masks, grenades strapped to their belts and carrying the latest TA (Tag Assault) rifles.
Marcus addressed the anxious security staff for what would be the last time.
“Your services are no longer required. Your services have been terminated.”
As Marcus uttered the word terminated, he stepped away from the group of men and two dozen TA rifles were primed. Two dozen triggers were pulled and two dozen miniscule RFID tags were invisibly attached to the uniforms of the recently fired security staff, who sighed with relief having expected to have been shot and were surprised to find that they were still breathing. They had merely lost their jobs; not a good situation to be in but surely better than meeting the same fate as Captain Stewart.
Marcus returned to his position in front of them and shouted right in their faces.
“Run!”
Nobody moved.
“Are you fucking deaf? Run!”
The group of former ONP employees looked around at each other, wondering if they should do as they had been ordered. A petite, pretty woman of around twenty-eight years suddenly darted away from the main group and sprinted for the woods. Marcus nodded to one of the Defenders who shot his TA rifle into the air. The bullet arced, unseen, in the air and followed the path that the woman had taken. Within a second it had caught up with her, drilling its way into her back and exploding inside her ribcage.
Three more figures made a dash for freedom and three more shots were fired into the air. Two of the runners headed for the woods and one ran back into the building. The two who had taken the same escape route as the dead woman suffered the same fate, the last thing they ever saw being the cover of the woodland as they felt the pain of the bullets’ entry into their backs and the subsequent shattering of their ribcages and internal organs.
In a blind panic, the third would-be escapee locked himself inside a room in the main building. Surely he must be safe there; the bullet wouldn’t be able to pass through walls.
But the bullet didn’t need to. It simply followed the path of the wall of the corridor, seeking an air vent. Once found, the bullet worked its way around the maze of tubes, guided by the RFID tag embedded in the man’s clothing. No matter how long it took to find its target it would do so. The only thing that could deter it was if it was disarmed by the Defender who fired the shot.
The runner sat against the far wall of his refuge, breathing heavily, wondering if he should perhaps get out of the room and make a run for it. But, if he did so, he knew that it would only be postponing the inevitable. Whilst he sat there, procrastinating, the bullet emerged from the air vent above his head, made a 180 degree turn, and buried itself in his stomach, ripping apart his internal organs. If only he had known to get rid of his clothing he may have survived.
The remainder of the group remained still. They had seen how futile it was to try to escape from this situation and, one by one closed their eyes resigning themselves to their fate. Marcus gestured to the owners of the twenty rifles that had not, as yet, fired bullets and the troops decommissioned the tags, which unhooked themselves from the clothing of their targets and dropped to the ground. Marcus barked at the group before him.
“Open your eyes and listen. You have been fired from your jobs but you are alive. I’m not a monster. You may get another job. You may not. I don’t care either way, but any future job will not be with the ONP or any of its affiliates. You will leave here with your lives intact but your reputations in tatters. I’m sure you will never forget what you have seen. Indeed, I encourage you to tell others what happened here. You must tell your families and your friends. You must make anybody you know understand the peril of crossing or displeasing me. You must encourage them to tell others. You will fear me but you will know that I can also be merciful. You are all the living proof of that. Now go!”
The fourteen survivors of this demonstration of power and force made their way into the woodland, still expecting a bullet in the back at any time. But none came. They were much more useful alive, spreading their eye-witness accounts of what had just happened, rather than being just another corpse on the ground, waiting to be retrieved and taken to the nearest incinerator.