THREE CITY BLOCKS from Alice, Doctor Hope’s footsteps were echoing off the tiled tunnel leading to the Domain moving footway. She was headed for one of the underground entrances to subterranean Oceana Level 7. There were secret entrances to Oceana facilities all over the city. This one was specific to the underground laboratories.
She passed a sign on the wall warning:
Beware of Muggers
She stepped onto the moving footway that mechanically transported her past the graffiti-covered walls. Suddenly, she was aware of the sound of someone approaching her from behind. A sixth sense told her to throw out an arm, and as she did, it flattened an oncoming mugger. He crashed, a tangled mess of roller skates and limbs, onto the wide barrier between the two moving footways. Moving as fast as her legs could carry her, Hope frantically raced along the footway to escape her attacker.
The mugger hauled himself to his feet, pulled a knife from his belt, gripped it between his teeth and skated off in pursuit of his prey.
Hope leapt from the end of the footway at a blistering pace, because the travelator had almost doubled her speed. She bounced off a wall, regained her balance and raced into a dimly-lit tunnel at panic speed, finally arriving, out of breath, in an old, nondescript dusty foyer. She stopped at the grille of an antique elevator and pressed the call button incessantly, glancing back over her shoulder for any sign of her assailant.
“Come on! Come on!” she growled, impatiently at the elevator.
The ominous rumbling of the approaching skates was building to a crescendo. The mugger skated up behind her, screeched to a halt, whipped the knife from between his teeth and held it up threateningly. Resigned to taking him out, Hope swivelled to face him. Neither said a word.
Wearing coveralls and with a brown nylon stocking stretched over his head, the mugger’s face appeared contorted, making him even more intimidating. The dim light from the moving footway glinted off the finely-honed blade in his hand. But Hope was no slouch — she’d had years of close combat training.
Holding her breath, Hope waited for the mugger to make the first move. He lunged forward with the knife. She deftly transferred her weight and, moving with lightning speed, grabbed the weapon arm and savagely kicked him in the groin. With a firm grip on his arm she transferred her weight again, turning him to face away from her and using her other hand to grip the back of his head and hammer him face-first, hard, into the tiled wall. The force of the blow knocked him out, and the knife dropped from his limp hand. She released her grip and he slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood from his shattered nose.
A loud clunk announced the arrival of the elevator. Hope spun on her heel and raced for it, pulled open the grille, stepped inside and slammed it shut. She pulled a coded card from her top pocket and slid it into the slot on the security module. The elevator was ancient, but its operating mechanism had been modernised. She inserted her index finger into the module for fingerprint recognition. A green light flashed, and a screen indicated she had been approved access to the 7th floor sub-basement. She withdrew her card from the device and was just taking a deep breath when she was shocked by a loud bang — the mugger had recovered and grabbed the grille, and was now glaring at her with a hideous expression on his blood-drenched, stockinged face.
The elevator jerked and began its descent. She turned her back on the mugger, breathing heavily and with her hand over her pounding heart. Her own tired reflection looked back at her from a small, tarnished mirror mounted just above the control module. “What a day!” she sighed.
The Bridge Street entrance to Oceana SSD headquarters opened onto a tastefully old-world, marble-walled atrium. Three elevators had architraves and doors of shining brass, above which old-school floor indicators resembled brass clocks. Waiting by the elevator doors, five men dressed in identical Government-issue black suits stood in line, a pair flanking each of the first two elevators, and a single man beside the third.
Alice cruised into the atrium. He knew he was running late but didn’t give a shit. He glared with contempt at the men lined up, knowing damned well they were agents. They remained steadfast, facing the elevator doors, ignoring him. The agent who had been following him arrived and fell into line opposite the single agent at the third elevator.
Nonchalantly, Alice shot him a knowing glare, unimpressed by the pretentious Oceana lobby and the poorly-disguised agents. All six of them looked up in unison at the floor indicator, wondering which of the three elevators would be first to arrive. Then, like clockwork, they turned their heads and faced Alice, each with a repugnant stare.
Alice leered at them like they were a gaggle of objectionable monsters. They all appeared to have the same face. The surreal nature of what he was seeing struck him. Once again, he felt that illusory veil overcoming his senses, he was losing self-control. He reached to his inside coat pocket and withdrew a collapsible MAC-10 machine pistol, unfolded it like a trained mercenary, palmed the magazine into place, and sprayed the agents with bullets. The roar of the automatic weapon echoed in the narrow confines of the marbled lobby. Each agent was catapulted violently backwards by the impact of the high-velocity bullets. Blood spattered on the elevator doors and the white marble walls. Smoke from the carbine swirled in the lobby, and the floor had become a scarlet river of blood, the dying victims contorted on it in silent agony as the resounding thunder of the blasts died away. Alice stood amidst the haze with the formidable black carbine rested on his shoulder, smoke drifting from its barrel. He glared at his victims and grinned: killing them had been a total turn-on.
A loud ding snapped him out of his violent fantasy. The elevator door opened, revealing a mahogany-panelled interior with polished brass fittings. Alice stepped inside, followed by the men he’d mentally killed.
Hope entered a long, dimly-lit, grey-walled corridor and walked past a sign that read:
Level 7 - Labs 6-12 - Security Zone Red
She had walked this corridor countless times since joining Oceana HQ, but she couldn’t help thinking this time would be the last. The truth was that she had no regrets about resigning her post. She had lost faith in her employers, and her sympathies now lay with the Octagon. In her opinion, the integrity of the government had been compromised, with power being granted to idiots the likes of Honor and Karzoff.
She continued along the corridor until she came to Lab 7, and inserted her ID card into the security module at the side of the metal door. A servomotor sounded as it slid open and she entered.
Lurking in a far dark corner of the well-equipped lab, the ominous figure of a man dressed in a long black lab coat was perched on a stool. He was holding a test tube up to the light and studying its contents. He put it down and stood up.
Doctor Secta was a really weird dude. Eccentric, with his head razor-cut into a widow’s peak and a long black ponytail from the crown of his head to the middle of his back. Androgynous looking, six feet four and skinny, he had a sharp wit and a matching tongue. Secta was sarcastic, narcissistic and known for his devilish sense of humour, but despite those traits the genius of the man couldn’t be denied. He was revered by the international scientific community for his brilliance, and considered a national treasure by the President of Oceana. His pioneering inventions, like Nanobot blood sweepers and mastoid communications implants, had brought in billions in foreign revenue. He was a world leader in cybergenetics and holographic particle matter transfer. He was also a valued member of the Transhumanism movement, which was aiming to transform the human condition by developing sophisticated technologies to enhance human intellect and physiology.
Secta had published a scientific paper on transhumanism while at university. His hypotheses was that the rapid progress of communication technology meant one day everyone would have a brainwave receiver in their ear, with which they could receive and convey their thoughts. His recent invention of the mastoid communication implant was seen as a revolutionary step towards this vision. He had also recently developed an android guard, built using living human tissue. It was still at an experimental stage, but took the advancement of artificial intelligence to another level. Secta believed implicitly in the future vision of a new intelligent species, into which humanity will ultimately evolve.
“Hope! I’ve done it, I can create a race of beings!” he exclaimed as his sister entered the room. “The serum is stabilized — think of it Hope, my own race … I’ve done it Hope … I mean we’ve done it, of course…”
Hope was livid. “You’ve sold out, Secta!” she yelled. “Don’t try to deny it dear brother, that bitch Honor filled me in.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Secta said, coolly. “And it doesn’t matter, Hope. I’ve already injected myself with longevity serum. I’m going to live forever.”
Hope’s anger boiled over. “I really don’t care, Secta,” she snarled. “You might live forever, but it will be without me…”
Perturbed by her attack, he paused, then tried another tack. “Don’t be like that, little sister,” he said, calmingly. “You know how important our work is. With the serum stabilized, we’ve achieved our goal … Look,” he added, holding out his hand. “No trembling … I injected it over an hour ago, and there have been no side-effects. Forget the politics — we’re scientists, and this is a cutting-edge result.”
Secta was right in one thing: the results were significant. Together, they had been working on a formula to prolong cell life, a switch to alter DNA. Instead of cells dying, they revitalised. It had the potential to extend human life by hundreds of years, allowing subjects, in theory, to continue their important works for the betterment of mankind. Secta believes that their work should take precedence over the matter that had incensed Hope, but that wasn’t how she was seeing it.
Infuriated, she snarled: “Enough of your sanctimonious crap, Secta! You and I both know I’m not talking about the serum. I’m talking about what you’re trying to avoid ... Black Alice!”
“Oh, him,” said Secta, dismissively. “Look, just think of him as another experiment, Hope. You’re being far too sensitive. You know there’s no place for empathy in science.”
“I can’t think of him as a lab rat,” snapped Hope. “I have my principles. As scientists, especially as scientists, we shouldn’t lose our moral compass. You’ve committed to doing just that. Anyhow,” she spat, “You’ll be working without me. I’ve resigned from the project, and I’m joining the Octagon peace movement.”
“What?” he yelled, in disbelief. “How can you leave now, after all I’ve have done for you?” He grabbed Hope’s arm. “I need you to monitor me,” he pleaded. “The serum…”
Hope tugged her arm angrily out of his grip, and strode defiantly to the door, where she stopped. For a moment, Secta hoped she was having second thoughts. But she turned sharply to face him, and with daggers in her eyes said: “Maybe you’ll be your own victim. I hope you and your new race will be happy in your own private hell!” She stormed out of the lab.
“Octagon peace movement, damned undisciplined rabble of tree huggers…” growled Secta. “You’ll pay for this Hope. Mark my words little sister. Mark. My. Words.”
The Oceana SSD boardroom receptionist’s headgear was attached by a series of fibre optic leads to a voca-phone internal intercom system. This routed calls via the mastoid implant communications intranet to all government employees who had been granted security clearance and linked to the network. Secta had developed the system, which was still in its infancy and experimental. The implant in the mastoid bone behind the ear was the size of a grain of rice, and allowed the system to connect directly to implanted peoples’ brains. It melded with the nervous system in a similar way to an AI bionic limb control unit, or cochlear hearing implant. With a combined GPS and data signal facilitated by a government satellite, it was intended ultimately to replace telephones and other communications devices, not only for government workers but also, eventually, for the entire population of the world.
Alice cruised out of the elevator and up to the receptionist, coming to a halt by sitting playfully on the edge of her desk.
“Yes sir, can I help you?” she said, shocked.
“I have an appointment with Inspector Honor,” he said.
She blushed and stammered into the head mike of the voca-phone. “Senior Inspector H-Honor to reception, please.”
She was aware that the rock idol Black Alice was scheduled for an appointment, but the reality of having him sitting on the edge of her desk was overwhelming.
Alice turned to see the spectre of Honor standing like a vulture at the base of a staircase, which led to a mezzanine floor not serviced by the elevator.
“Senior Inspector Fanny Honor,” Honor snarled, looking down her own nose at him. “Please follow me.”
Alice had anticipated her neo-Nazi attitude loathing for him and everything he stood for.
It was a brave move walking into the fascist, corrupt den of the SSD, totally ignorant of why he had been summoned. But he was hell-bent on determining whether they had murdered Stain. To that end, he was prepared to take the risk. Truth be known, Alice sometimes felt that his fame as a public figure would protect him against the likes of the SSD, that he was, almost, invincible. Perhaps naively, he was convinced they wouldn’t dare harm him.
Honor marched pompously up the wooden staircase to the top floor. Alice slid off the desk and followed.
He tailed Honor into a long, rectangular room at the top of the staircase. It had a low ceiling and dappled grey walls with a horizontal red insignia line all the way round the room, punctuated on the two long walls by a line of tall oval windows. In the centre of the room a long black boardroom table was surrounded by chairs. Seated at one of them was Karzoff with his blaze of short red hair, grinning at Alice like a groupie.
Honor stopped at the head of the table and barked like a school headmistress: “Take a seat, Mr Alice.”
When Alice hesitated, Karzoff echoed her, though more courteously: “Yes, please take a seat Alice.”
Alice, not one for taking orders of any kind, grunted. He took the 8-ball out of his pocket and bounced it up and down in his hand.