Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Read online

  “Kanang, get me the Chishima Lab authorization codes.”

  -------------------

  Dawson-Hull Estates. London, England. New European Union. 6:00 a.m.

  Jackson MacKinnon watched the sun creep into the new day. In the gaining light, there were many options, opportunities, moves, and countermoves. His mind fastened on one in particular, and with a start, he turned around. Moving deliberately to the head of the huge conference table, he touched a recessed button underneath.

  “Yvette,” he said into the air.

  “Yes, Mr. MacKinnon? The computer’s voice filled the room, full and proper British, with a hint of sensuality. “What can I do for you?”

  “Secure the room. Code blue three five five. Engage SCIF protocol.”

  “Yes, Mr. MacKinnon.”

  Instantly, the large glass windows hazed opaque white, and a low ambient hum filled the edge of Jackson’s awareness as the Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility measures took effect. He waited another moment. “Open a secure sat-link with channel 00597. Maximum encryption. Audio only.”

  “Right away, Mr. MacKinnon. Sat-link engaging... Online.”

  After a small static whine and hiss, another voice filled the air. Clipped and British as well, but it was very human.

  “Brenton, here. Jackson, I take it you met with Asian Pacific?”

  “Hsiang left over an hour ago, smarmy little toad. Practically seethes with ambition. APAC denies complicity in the break-ins. But you knew that, yes?”

  “Yes. It’s his ambition we’re counting on, you know,” Brenton said.

  “I know.” MacKinnon paused.”Was the prototype stolen?”

  “Initial reports indicate the boy is missing,” Brenton answered. “The Toulouse base was certainly breached. The two Rapid Response units you sent were neutralized as well. Both their transports shot down with one platoon wiped out completely. Most of the casualties occurred when the infiltrators fought their way out. No one knew they were there until then. Whoever APAC hired did extremely well. No losses on their account that we could determine. Very thorough, very professional.”

  “And the major? Is she—?” Jackson asked.

  “Eames is alive. Frothing mad, of course, out for blood.”

  “Good. Any leads?”

  “Seems the local air defense net picked up signals from of an unidentified transponder at one point, a small craft heading south toward the Pyrenees. A possible flight path into the Barcelona Metro Zone. Your dear major jumped on that, invoked the C and C with Madrid. She intends to go jack-booting in there, loaded for bear. She’ll have the whole of the BMZ flex-cuffed and up against the wall if she gets her way.”

  “That’s why we pay her, Brenton. She’s the best man we’ve got. One platoon wiped out, you say? Who performed the infiltration?

  “Yes, an entire platoon. And a third of the security force. We’re still working on the mercenaries’ identification. Not much to go on, I’m afraid. Just footprints and a few drops of blood. I’m not concerned about that, however…” Brenton’s voice hesitated, “... final trials were underway. The boy made absolutely remarkable progress, better than anything else thus far, but it was obvious the technology hadn’t developed into its final phase. From the earlier versions, things cascade rather quickly once the critical point is reached.”

  “You’re saying things were delicate, I understand,” Jackson replied. “But you were going easy on him, said you wouldn’t risk triggering an advanced state prior to the window of opportunity. All the reports indicated the nanites were stable. Advanced stage activity was dormant.”

  “He wasn’t ready, Jackson… We’ve spent over nine months preparing him for the next phase. For the boy to be taken now, it could ruin—” Brenton caught himself.

  “No matter. The thing’s in motion. There’s a new variable introduced, that’s all,” Jackson said firmly. “Barcelona, you say?”

  “Yes, as best we can tell. Eames is sure. ‘Gut feeling’ and all that. Intel division says it’s credible.”

  “I want to contact Hester and bring him in on this jumble. I’ll brief him personally. It’s a rather… diverse target package this time.”

  “Hester… really? Why bring him to the surface? What about Buenos Aires? Terrible mess, that was.”

  “Not his fault really. It was self-defense.” Jackson sniffed.

  “I know he’s your agent, Jackson, but eliminating two cartel families seems a bit of a stretch for preservation instinct.”

  “Good thing we were present to take advantage of the market shift afterwards, I say. Regardless, this is the single most critical venture we’ve undertaken in a decade. It could sway affairs completely in our favor. We can’t risk failure, Brenton. The Board is well aware of the gravity of the situation. Hester is a necessity.”

  “Very well, Hester it is. I’ll have the lads in the dark room locate him and drop him off in Barcelona on the double. He’ll be in touch, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Keep me apprised,” Brenton said.

  “Of course. MacKinnon out.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT: STOLEN

  Gibson: It’s all my fault. I jacked in without permission, and now I’m in trouble. Dr. Evans told me to pay attention, told me not to go alone, but I did. The jet is moving, we’re lifting, the engine roars so loud it’s making my headache worse. I’m not supposed to leave.

  I’m scared. There was noise and fire and running. One of the big men carried me, and now I can barely breathe, cramped inside their black jet with them. The men are scared too, angry and arguing. Something went wrong, and one of their friends is hurt. They’re mad and scared for him, and for themselves I think, because they can’t do anything about it. His head is almost in my lap, the one from the Grid, and they’re scared he might die.

  Two of them went up front and the three big pale men are here with me, dressed in armor suits black like the jet. They don’t speak, just hold their guns and watch me. I’m so cold my hands won’t stop shaking. Dr. Evans isn’t here, but I’m not going to cry. Breathe, he’d say. Focus. Focus. I’m trying, but the tears make everything blurry. One of the three, the one that carried me, sees me gulping for air. He sets down his rifle, takes my hand and holds it. The other two move near, their bodies closing in around me. Their breathing is warm and the jet is loud, and I am moving fast to somewhere I don’t know.

  I’ve been stolen.

  CHAPTER NINE: LOOSE ENDS

  Asian Pacific Consortium N. EU Division Regional Offices, Amsterdam, Netherlands Zone. 8:05 p.m.

  Avery Hsiang’s office was large, befitting his position. Nothing ostentatious, it was a calculated understatement of satin black and brushed steel that emitted a sense of power like radiation at a Siberian nuclear site. The stark minimalism of a single desk under high vaulted ceilings, back-dropped on three sides by panoramic windows, was all calculated to emphasize executive transcendence by blunt subliminal. Beyond the tall armor glass, the city dropped away, pulsing veins of light and motion entwined among smaller black towers. The restless tracery of arrhythmic urban glare below him, it was a precipice of dizzying authority, but Avery Hsiang was bent forward under the desk lamp. He never looked out the windows anymore.

  The hardcopy report compiled by his secretary lay stacked in two neat piles in front of him. He rubbed his eyes and continued reading.

  ...while these agencies act as intermediaries for any number of subcontract outfits, both legitimate and covert, Asian Pacific Consortium’s security department has determined that Eshu Export, [Belfast Metro Zone, Ireland sector, principles: Jaithirth Rao and Matthew Dengler—see Appendix 1A] are the exclusive handlers for two elite level clandestine operation teams: Black Friar and Eshu International. It should be noted that Eshu International has been engaged on numerous prior occasions with a high degree of success and profitability. Due to the very nature of our dealings, much of the information following is partial and speculative. However, several known Bl
ack Friar operators were injured in a recent mission in the Singapore Maritime Zone, making it likely Eshu International is the team currently engaged in this extraction operation. Knowledge of team members is sketchy, and to be considered unreliable and out of date. [BF & EI Personnel Profiles attached—Appendix 1B &1C]

  He yanked out the attached profiles and grunted, thumbing through them quickly. As he suspected; typical outcasts, zone trash. All military and corporate failures.

  Tam Song: North Korean. Raised in State military orphanage. Drafted into NK ground forces for the Unification War ‘38; served 18 months with distinguished service citation during Pacification and Withdrawal phase. Selected for NK Special Response Unit. Advanced training in urban combat, surveillance, and demolitions. Combat citations in Malaysian Counter Insurgency, Thai, Cambodian & Indo-Pakistan theaters. Suspected Military Assistance Advisor Group in Philippine Revolution. Battlefield promotion to captain. Last known action during Taiwan Crisis, D day +1. Missing, presumed dead.

  Jace Manner: North American Union, Canadian Sector. Volunteer, Canadian Armed Forces. Two tours in Canadian Ranger regiment. Expert arctic and survival training. Recruited for the 427 Special Operations Aviation Squadron (SOAS) at CFB Petawawa. Two years fixed wing, VTOL, and helo training. Meritorious Service medal for Siberian Operation in ‘40. Volunteered Joint American/Canadian Drug Interdiction Task Force. Advanced CQB and Surveillance cross training with US Delta force. Stationed to Detroit-Windsor-Cleveland Metro Zone ‘41-’43. Wounded four times. Deployed with N.A.U. forces to Taiwan Strait ‘45/46. Wounded in action. Dishonorable discharge: Gross Insubordination. Court-martial transcript sealed.

  Devante Galeno Perez, alias “Poet9” North American Union, Central American Sector. Mexico City Sprawl. Child prodigy in computer systems and programming. Convicted in ‘33 of e-fraud and grand theft. Sentence commuted. Employed by BioGen International under 20-year indenture, System Security Division. Surgically fitted with advanced model cortical cybernetic interface. Disappeared while on loan to Dawson-Hull subsidiary in ‘51.

  Eshu International has been thought to hire from a pool of experienced former military and police members as tactical parameters dictate. However, unconfirmed rumors persist of two, possibly three Pretoria series combat clones attached to their permanent roster. If verified, this represents both a considerable force multiplier and a serious hazard to any potential adversary, not to mention a breach of numerous international laws and U.N. Resolutions. Advised to proceed with caution.

  Avery shoved the file aside in disgust. Employing illegal, substandard clone units... Colonel Otsu was a fool. These were exactly the sort of degenerates that would renege on a contract. He was surprised they’d managed to acquire the device. No question they were offering it to a higher bidder. The mercenaries, the sloppy infiltration in Toulouse, Colonel Otsu… loose ends, that’s what they were, and Avery wasn’t about to risk unraveling his presentation to the Board the following week.

  Avery Hsiang opened up a secure link to the Chishima Lab.

  PURSUIT

  CHAPTER TEN: TROUBLE ALLEY

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Spain. New European Union. 6:00 a.m. Day One

  I kept the Gaki moving fast as we threaded through the snow-flecked Pyrenees down into the Barcelona Metro Zone. Dawn was coming over the Mediterranean, and I wanted to touch down before BMZ AirNet caught a glimpse of us. The old city of Barcelona sat high on its plateau, clean and separated, gleaming in the sun’s first rays. Old Barcelona, or UpCity, was the region’s exclusive district and corporate capital. Through the cockpit window, I spotted the Collserolla communication towers twinkling like Mardi Gras sparklers, and the barbed spires of Santa Eulalia. In the east, I spied the dark hunchback of the Montjuic Administration Center. It perched on the cliff edge like one of the cathedral’s gargoyles, brooding over the Barcelona Port Complex below.

  The Port Complex was almost a city in its own right. Splayed out over the oil black harbor, the massive North and South Docks were long collisions of craggy gray steel streaked with orange rust, bright with the actinic glare of thousands of halogen lamps. Even at this hour, the twenty-story labyrinths were crawling with the ants of commerce diligently eviscerating stacks of colored cargo containers. In the waters below, white shoals of packing foam and twisted plastic threaded the girth of support pylons, rising and falling with the rainbow-sheen tide, shifting with the endless procession of cargo ships.

  We’d flown here to hide, so I turned toward the outer districts. The sprawls were the UpCity’s opposite: dark, mottled scabs that spread out below the plateau like a crust of industrial run-off. Over them, a haze of smog was smeared like grease on the pale film of the morning. There was no way to get an exact count, but Madrid authorities estimated twenty million people were crammed into these feral, failing slums.

  To the south, I could make out Las Tres Vergüenzas, three deep scorched craters that pocked the district’s center. Massive explosions had marked the last stand of the Separatist Revolt of 2027. Madrid’s official word was the Basque terrorists had craved martyrdom over defeat, triggering old American fuel-air bombs they’d stolen from air bases in the Gulf. Survivors told another story: Mossos d’Esquadra units driving semis into the contested Esplugues de Llobregat district then abandoning them in the dark hours before dawn. Apparently, the Montevedo administration had demanded the military set an example and put an end to the insurrection. They did. Nothing had been built there since.

  I swung north, into the Sant Adrià de Besòs district, and after a few minutes searching, dropped onto a tar-veined, parking lot hidden in the middle of a cluster of abandoned factory ruins. The Gaki settled barely blowing trash, and we climbed out.

  Signs on the fence warned off trespassers, while a large hologram billboard propped over the broken-down office building announced the construction of another subsidized housing project. The impossibly tidy apartments popped out at us next to the smiling face of the prime minister, who sported an Armani suit and matching hardhat. The start-up date was five years past.

  As the Triplets scoured adjacent buildings for life forms other than weeds and rats, Tam searched out a place to stash the ship. He found a suitable dank and far corner in the burnt-out skeleton of a decrepit steel foundry. I taxied in, shut it down, and the Gaki vanished in the thick shadows. Tam took Gibson by the hand as I carried Poet9, and we walked back out to the lot following a procession of enormous smelting cauldrons caught in dense tangles of chain. It creeped me out, this cascade of iron tonnage frozen in mid-tumble, perpetually falling like some kind of pending judgment. I picked up the pace until we got outside.

  “No word from Doc. K yet, but the Garcias say they’ll let us stay as long as we need,” Tam said. “I told them we had a WIA. Didn’t say who.” He looked at Poet9, pale and limp on my shoulders. “Doc will come in time, Jace.”

  “Don’t doubt it. Now would be good though.” I shifted his weight and found Gibson staring with those startling bright eyes. I tried to return his gaze, felt another smart-ass line fail to materialize, so I gave him a wink instead. A little smile flashed back.

  “All clear,” rang in our headsets. The Triplets were headed back our way at a steady jog. Tam was staring at the empty buildings.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shook his head once. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah right. What is it?”

  “Reminds me of the last time I was in North Korea, that’s all.”

  “When was that? Fifteen, sixteen years ago? Right before Unification?”

  “Yeah—all seven weeks of it.” He laughed with a soft bitterness. “They drafted the whole school into the “glorious drive” south.” He looked around again. “Damn, this place almost looks better than that state orphanage.”

  “Well, then here’s to ghosts and the glory paid to ashes,” I said. “Both come too late to make a difference.”

  “Here’s to the wet dreams of psychotic dictators,” he countered. His eyes traced the b
uilding’s scarred profile a moment longer until he finally turned away. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here. Real people and downtime will do us good.” The six of us walked away from the chill of those brick and iron husks into the smog and light and rising babble of a new day.

  -----------------

  The Garcias lived in an anonymous block of concrete tenements, amid a hundred identical slab-sided, soot-grimed buildings. Crowded together on the edge of the Northern District, they made a warren of narrow streets, markets, and slip cuts called Callejón del Apuro: “Trouble Alley”. We entered through a dented steel door in a sliver of an alley and descended into a large cellar where Alejo, and his wife, Carmen, were waiting for us. Warm spice and bread smells filled the air, rising from covered dishes on a long dining table made from two battered wooden doors. Their eldest son, Curro, propped himself in the stairwell across the room. It took me a moment to recognize him; he’d been Gibson’s age last time I saw him. He waved as we entered. I spotted a number of faded military lockboxes stacked in a corner, and a simple unadorned cross was mounted on the wall above them. Reminders of where the Garcias had come from, and who they were now.

  Carmen let out a little shriek when she spied Poet9, and immediately shoo-ed me toward a bed off to one side. There was a first aid kit and a newer model autodoc propped open on a sheet metal stand beside it. I laid him out on the covers.

  “No wounds?” Her eyes scanned his body rapidly, her hands checking for broken bones.