Page 1 of 137 Rage of Angels First Complete Draft

Rage of Angels
First Complete Draft
Completed 13th January 2005
Includes subsequent edits and notes
Page 1 of 137
1.8.2
1.8.3
Contents
Chapter headings are used for author’s reference only. They will be removed from
the final manuscript. Only the book divisions will remain:
Contents ___________________________________________________________________________ 2
0
Prologue_______________________________________________________________________ 4
0.1.1
Christian and Satanic Services ______________________________________________ 4
0.1.2
Description of Hell _______________________________________________________ 5
1
Book One ______________________________________________________________________ 6
1.1
Marduk ___________________________________________________________________ 6
1.1.1
Marduk’s victory ________________________________________________________ 6
1.1.2
Marduk’s defeat _________________________________________________________ 9
1.1.3
Marduk banishes Kutulu__________________________________________________ 11
1.9
Aftermath of First Kutulu Hack______________________________________________ 52
1.9.1
Janice asks for explanation of hack _________________________________________ 52
1.9.2
Janice realises there is no safety from Kutulu hacks ____________________________ 52
1.9.3
Nils and Liol discover Marduk’s Sword: OUT OF SEQUENCE (Should follow Live Firing
Exercise)
53
1.10
Kyrell in Hell ___________________________________________________________
1.10.1
Kyrell sees Hell from his basement _________________________________________
1.10.2
Kutulu Almost fades ____________________________________________________
1.10.3
Kutulu rapes and possesses Vivian _________________________________________
1.10.4
Kutulu Body fades to Hell ________________________________________________
1.10.5
Kyrell found by demons _________________________________________________
2
1.2
Rune Travels to Cape Town _________________________________________________ 13
1.2.1
Rune’s meeting at Xenix London ___________________________________________ 13
1.2.2
Rune’s journey to Cape Town _____________________________________________ 14
1.2.3
Rune receives his implants ________________________________________________ 16
1.2.4
Explanation of Xenix ____________________________________________________ 17
1.3
Underwood and D’Arte _____________________________________________________ 18
1.3.1
Underwood investigates Micky Jackson abortive summoning: OUT OF SEQUENCE (See
1.4.1, 1.4.2 and 1.4.4)________________________________________________________________ 18
1.3.2
Underwood gets occult information from D’Arte _______________________________ 18
1.4
Vivian, Kyrell and Micky’s Fate ______________________________________________ 21
1.4.1
Vivian’s gunfight _______________________________________________________ 21
1.4.2
Vivian confronts Helmsford and Kyrell ______________________________________ 22
1.4.3
Kyrell searches _________________________________________________________ 24
1.4.4
Kyrell and Vivian learn of Micky’s fate ______________________________________ 24
1.4.5
Kyrell’s search routines return _____________________________________________ 24
1.5
Kayleigh Escapes Helmsford _________________________________________________ 25
1.5.1
Kayleigh wakes_________________________________________________________ 25
1.5.2
Kayleigh begins her escape________________________________________________ 26
1.5.3
Kayleigh escapes Helmsford_______________________________________________ 27
1.5.4
Kayleigh phone home… __________________________________________________ 28
1.5.5
Kayleigh arrives in Cape Town ____________________________________________ 29
1.8
First Kutulu Hack and Kyrell is Sent to Hell ____________________________________ 44
1.8.1
Kutulu hacks Xenix, almost fades at vital moment and Kutulu reviews his progress ____ 44
54
54
55
57
58
58
Book Two ____________________________________________________________________ 60
2.1
Underwood and D’Arte start Investigation _____________________________________
2.1.1
Jason calls Underwood __________________________________________________
2.1.2
Jason prays for justice ___________________________________________________
2.1.3
Jason and Kayleigh talk to Underwood ______________________________________
60
60
61
63
2.2
Kyrell at the Court of Satan _________________________________________________
2.2.1
Kyrell is taken from the basement __________________________________________
2.2.2
Kyrell arrives at the court of Satan _________________________________________
2.2.3
Kyrell in the court of Satan _______________________________________________
2.2.4
Satan tells Kyrell of multiple Armageddons __________________________________
65
65
66
70
72
2.3
Second Kutulu Hack _______________________________________________________
2.3.1
Rune’s team review Kutulu hack___________________________________________
2.3.2
Vivian trapped within her body ____________________________________________
2.3.3
Kutulu prepares to hack again _____________________________________________
2.3.4
Second hack___________________________________________________________
73
73
75
77
78
2.4
Underwood’s Investigation __________________________________________________
2.4.1
Underwood’s Search Warrant _____________________________________________
2.4.2
Underwood’s Reprimand_________________________________________________
2.4.3
Underwood travels to Deal _______________________________________________
2.4.4
Underwood prepares with SWAT team ______________________________________
82
82
84
85
87
2.5
Angels in Hell_____________________________________________________________ 89
2.5.1
Angelic Assault Reported ________________________________________________ 89
2.5.2
Start of Angelic Assault__________________________________________________ 90
2.6
Helmsford Manor Assault___________________________________________________
2.6.1
Underwood and SWAT commence assault on Helmsford ________________________
2.6.2
Vivian/Kutulu return to Helmsford, Kutulu leaves Vivian________________________
2.6.3
Underwood and Swat Team continue assault__________________________________
1.6
Kyrell Summons Kutulu and Conversations ____________________________________ 31
1.6.1
Kyrell begins the summoning ______________________________________________ 31
1.6.2
Kyrell summons Kutulu __________________________________________________ 34
1.6.3
Kyrell’s first conversation: implants, Mars and why did you summon me ____________ 34
1.6.4
Kyrell’s second conversation: democracy and the government of Hell_______________ 36
1.6.5
Kyrell’s third conversation: hacking. Kutulu fades, Vivian revealed ________________ 37
1.7
Rune Live Firing Exercise ___________________________________________________ 39
1.7.1
Rune’s implants activated _________________________________________________ 39
1.7.2
Live Firing Exercise _____________________________________________________ 39
1.7.3
Live fire exercise review__________________________________________________ 42
1.7.4
Rune and Janice out for drinks _____________________________________________ 43
Kutulu explains faith to Kyrell while preparing sacrifice ________________________ 48
Kyrell is sent to Hell ____________________________________________________ 50
91
91
94
95
2.7
Heavenly Battle, Vivian and Kyrell arrested____________________________________ 97
2.7.1
Satan explains heavenly battle _____________________________________________ 97
2.7.2
Decimation of Satan’s Guard, Kyrell returns to Helmsford _______________________ 98
2.7.3
Vivian and Kyrell in the basement__________________________________________ 98
2.7.4
Kendal and Underwood find the basement ___________________________________ 99
2.7.5
Vivian and Kyrell arrested_______________________________________________ 100
3
Book Three __________________________________________________________________ 101
3.1
Discoveries ______________________________________________________________ 101
3.1.1
Rune’s team discuss hacking implants______________________________________ 101
Page 2 of 137
Underwood orders the examination of neural implant traffic at Helmsford __________ 102
Janice links Kyrell with “Tapeworm” _______________________________________ 103
Satan and Kutulu Conversation____________________________________________ 103
Kyrell exposed to Kutulu’s thoughts________________________________________ 104
Underwood questions Kyrell _____________________________________________ 104
Nils finds “Tapeworm” signature in his own implants __________________________ 105
5.5
Rune and Janice__________________________________________________________ 136
5.6
The Finale ______________________________________________________________ 137
5.7
Helicopter Gunships ______________________________________________________ 137
5.8
Syntax__________________________________________________________________ 137
3.2
Armageddon Begins _______________________________________________________ 106
3.2.1
Janice Possessed _______________________________________________________ 106
3.2.2
Janice steals Marduk’s Sword_____________________________________________ 107
3.2.3
Rune, Nils and Liol hack Janice’s implants __________________________________ 108
3.2.4
Rune Contacts Underwood and Demands an Explanation _______________________ 110
3.2.5
Kyrell’s Disillusionment with Hell _________________________________________ 111
3.2.6
Underwood and Rune question Kyrell ______________________________________ 112
3.2.7
D’Artes fly to England; Janice tears open the gate _____________________________ 114
5.9
Other inconsistencies______________________________________________________ 137
3.1.2
3.1.3
3.1.4
3.1.5
3.1.6
3.1.7
3.3
Armageddon _____________________________________________________________ 115
3.3.1
Rune, Nils and Liol physically sever network. Kutulu finds Nevada satellite uplink. Rune
starts hack of satellites.______________________________________________________________ 115
3.3.2
Enter Hell ____________________________________________________________ 118
3.3.3
The Assault Begins – US pre-emptive strike _________________________________ 119
3.3.4
D’Arte lands at Heathrow, taken to Underwood _______________________________ 120
3.3.5
D’Arte confronts Kyrell _________________________________________________ 121
3.3.6
Kutulu controls the satellites______________________________________________ 122
3.3.7
Nils continues to hack and Rune is told of the finding of Janice___________________ 122
3.3.8
D’Arte told of Hell and its plans___________________________________________ 123
3.3.9
Rune views Janice’s body________________________________________________ 124
3.3.10
Underwood leaves D’Artes in police station__________________________________ 125
3.3.11
Mayhem grips the planet, the satellites enter the atmosphere and the demons begin their
descent
125
3.3.12
Kyrell and D’Arte ______________________________________________________ 126
3.3.13
Kayleigh calls Rune ____________________________________________________ 127
3.3.14
Rune discovers evil numbers in code _______________________________________ 128
3.3.15
D’Arte realises Kyrell told the truth. SA Police come to take the sword ____________ 130
3.3.16
D’Arte Prays __________________________________________________________ 131
3.3.17
Rune tears the sky______________________________________________________ 132
3.3.18
Kutulu caught _________________________________________________________ 132
3.4
Finale ___________________________________________________________________ 133
3.4.1
Summary of Armageddon________________________________________________ 133
3.4.2
Janice’s Funeral _______________________________________________________ 134
4
5
References ___________________________________________________________________ 135
4.1
Bibliography _____________________________________________________________ 135
4.2
Filmography _____________________________________________________________ 135
4.3
Musicography ____________________________________________________________ 135
4.4
Internetography __________________________________________________________ 135
Notes to Reader _______________________________________________________________ 136
5.1
The Xenix computer network _______________________________________________ 136
5.2
Hell_____________________________________________________________________ 136
5.3
Kutulu __________________________________________________________________ 136
5.4
Kyrell___________________________________________________________________ 136
Page 3 of 137
0
0.1.1
Prologue
Christian and Satanic Services
Behind the hooded figure, his arms outstretched, holding an ornamental sword
parallel to the ground, the naked teenager lay foetal. The blood from her mouth and
nostrils was drying against her chin and her breath came in short gasps. She could not
breath through her nose, clogged with drying blood, and tears stung her lacerated
cheeks running from eyes swollen shut into her mouth, swollen open. Blood still ran
freely between her legs, across her thigh and onto the stone floor. Her arms also ran
with blood, as the manacles dug deep into her wrists. Reality had faded to a blur of
drug-addled pain hours before, and she hardly noticed it nor could she feel the cold
vomit against her cheek. She didn’t know she was dying. She would probably have been
glad.
“Shemhamforash!” From within the black hood, only the tip of the nose caught the
light. Despite its weight, the sword was held steady, pointing away from the priest and
directly at the pentagram at the centre of the darkened room. The five-sided star,
inverted from the priest’s perspective so that the single, lower point pointed directly
back at the sword, was ringed by two circles. Between the circles, at the five points of
the star, were chalked the five letters of the Hebrew word which spelt Leviathan, God of
the Deep. Outside the circle, at each point, a black candle burned dimly against the
darkness. Four braziers, one on each of the four walls, were the only other light.
Around the pentagram, facing the priest in a horseshoe stood twenty-seven men
and women, solemnly silent. The men, dressed the same as the priest, had heads
bowed within their cowls to obscure their features. The women were clearly divided into
two camps – the older, or less physically attractive, copied the men with their cowled,
floor-length robes while the rest were dressed as revealingly and alluringly as could be
achieved. Black leather and latex appeared to be the preference, barely holding and
definitely not hiding. Two were entirely naked.
“Shemhamforash,” they intoned together in response to the priest. The noise
seemed to penetrate the consciousness of the girl lying behind him. She moaned
indistinctly and then coughed softly and painfully, ending with what sounded like a quiet
sob.
Within the shadow of his hood, he smiled. He stood between the two naked women
at the top of the horse-shoe, facing the pentagram and the priest. The raw violence and
shattering climax that had crowned his rape of the girl was still coursing through him.
Of course he had been first and of course he had watched with silent exultation as
thirteen of the twenty men present had done likewise. The girl had been chained to the
large, flat stone which was placed in the half-dark behind where she now lay. They
called it the Table, since the girl, herself, had served as altar. His smile broadened –
each orifice had been violated until the blood flowed freely with the spunk and the
sweat. She had not screamed with as much violence as he would have liked – he would
have to speak to Craig about the quantity (and quality) of the drugs used to subdue
her. They must be powerless, yes, but not half-conscious. The pain must not be dulled.
For his own sake, Craig had better learn to get it right. Fast.
The priest raised the sword, swept it down and then slashed across the air in front of
him, forming the sign of an inverted cross. He then turned and stepped over the girl to
lay it on the table behind her, where it and the other paraphernalia of his office had
been hastily placed once the girl had been unchained and tossed to the floor where she
now lay.
From his small, wooden pulpit – hardly more than a lectern – Baptist pastor Jason
D’Arte raised his head from the prayer he had just said. His eyes still shut, his “amen”
not yet said, he began to speak the words of blessing over himself and those who had
listened in slightly dull silence to his short sermon.
“Now may the grace of God the Father,” he began. The words came as second
nature. Infrequently he tried to remind himself of their importance, but Sunday after
Sunday ground away at the significance they used to hold. Today’s sermon had been
short, a brief four points gleaned from the book of Ephesians, chapter two, verses eight
and nine. “It is by grace,” he had explained, raising his thumb, “that we are saved. By
grace, by God’s undeserved favour shown to us. It is through faith,” the first finger was
raised, “and our belief that He is able and willing to save us that we are saved. It is a
gift of God,” finger two, “that we are saved – given to us freely and with his
unconditional love and”, the third finger, “it is not by our works that we are saved. We
can do nothing to earn God’s favour. Only by grace, through faith can it be achieved.”
He had illustrated his point well, even bringing in the old favourite John 3 : 16 to
show the immensity of God’s love. But it had been a short sermon. Not so long ago he
would have pounded the pulpit for over an hour, sweat pouring down behind his ears in
the way that everybody recognised (to the point of the Sunday School children pouring
water on their heads to imitate him – good-naturedly, he assured himself). He would
have explained in every detail how salvation worked, how nothing could save us except
Jesus Christ Himself. He would even have ended with a call to all those who wanted to
respond to come up to the front for prayer.
It was not that he no longer believed, or even that his faith was diminished. If
anything, his faith was as strong as it had ever been. There was nothing, in this world
or the next, that could convince him that Jesus Christ was not his most personal
Saviour, his most intimate Lord, the love of his life and the King of his Universe. Jason
could not remember a time when he did not believe in these things and had grown
throughout his life with the wonderful knowledge of a personal God right there by his
side every step of the way. It was impossible to undermine that faith.
But there were so few sitting in the pews in front of him, and he knew them all. He
had visited each, drank tea in every kitchen, smiled at every child. There were barely
fifty faces looking back at him as he spoke, in a building designed for ten times that
number.
“…the love of His Son, Jesus Christ,” he continued. It was so difficult to bring people
in to church, here in the suburbs of Cape Town. When he had begun his ministry, thirty
years ago during the thirties, this church had been full to capacity. Three services on a
Sunday. Three! Two in the morning, and one completely packed service in the evening,
the young people cramming themselves into the gallery which was now empty and
roped off to try and prevent the few young people who did wonder in from sitting up
there and making out. It was almost as if those heady and uncertain days, as South
Africa had watched Apartheid crumble, had brought people in from all around,
desperate to pray for their tortured land. There had been a wonderful sense of
expectation, a sense that God was truly coming to heal the country and make it whole.
“Heal our nation!” they had sung with energy and enthusiasm he had not seen in years,
as, still junior pastor, he led the congregation in worship.
But the new Rainbow Nation was still fixated by the same two colours as had
dominated the old, and faith seemed to crumble along with the fortunes of this beautiful
Page 4 of 137
land. Crime and violence, an incapable government, an impotent police force, and after
ten years the secure and beautiful suburbs that nestled below the Constantiaberg
mountains had started to show their disintegration.
Those who could, left. He had lost count of the young people in his congregation
who had left for Europe, or the equally high number of families that had left for
Australia or New Zealand. For a time he had convinced himself that that was the reason
or the dwindling numbers, but he could not fool himself for long. It was as if people had
just given up, the hardness and the sadness of the times taking their personal toll on
each individual, each in a different way. Jason loved his country and could not separate
this love from his faith and his job as pastor. He just couldn’t work out whether it was
the land killing the faith or the other way around.
Next to where the priest laid the sword was a small bell. Ringing it “purged” the air –
awakening the acolytes to the end of this fantasy, this ghoulish spectacle of demonic
ritual, and returning them to their even more rancid reality. The bell tolled the
beginning of the rituals and it tolled their end. He pulled the wide sleeve of his robe
back so as he could lift the bell carefully without sounding it until he wanted it to sound,
turned and picked his way over the now silent girl back to his position before the coven.
He turned to face the back wall, where an elaborate Celtic-Catholic six-foot iron
cross hung inverted from a chain bolted into the ceiling. “Lilith!” he called in a loud
voice, beginning his call of the Diabolic Names chosen to end this particular pageant.
“Astaroth! Ishtar! Sekhmet!” He raised his hands outwards and upwards, calling like a
priest of old to the unholy image that hung in the dark behind the table and the
bleeding, dying altar, and the wanton powers of the Dark it represented.
Each cursed Name was repeated by those behind him, and Kyrell allowed each to roll
languidly in his mouth. He loved calling out the Names, the embodiment of each awful
entity and also, by occult law, the key to control over each, for the mage has dominion
over that which he can name. He smiled and stared fixedly into the darkness where he
could just make out the defiled cross hanging against the far wall.
The response to each Name was not a murmur, but a proud statement. They did not
shout, but nor did they mutter. They stood tall and called clearly the Names that the
priest called before them, reminding themselves of the natures of the evil entities who
served them and did their bidding, each a facet of the power of Nature, the Law of the
Jungle, the ultimate expression of Dark power.
“…and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit,” Jason D’Arte paused, as he always did at
this point, hoping to infuse his speech with a little more meaning, a little more
relevance. “Be with you all, now and evermore. Amen.”
0.1.2
Description of Hell
The dying sun glowered its sullen red on the winter horizon. Aerial reptiles the size
of two-seater aeroplanes beat leathery wings against the dry stillness, spiralling
languidly to gain height above their cavernous cliff-top aeries. Below, the desert world
cracked, blood-coloured rocks and crimson sand. The twisted, distorted gravity of the
bloated, ancient star tore at the core of the planet; lava flowed, mountains erupted and
spewed their dark entrails across the sky. Fire spat from the ground as it cracked and
shifted, roaring its tectonic agony at the empty heavens.
The freezing, starless night was swiftly being replaced by the scorching, blinding
day. As the temperature seared, ice and iron alike melted, their bizarre shapes flowing
into formless contours, the metal running to fill new cracks in the tortured ground, the
minimal, precious water steaming off into the atmosphere to await the new night’s
microscopic condensation.
Alone in its solar system, the tormented planet arced its ancient orbit about its
doomed master. Once other planets had existed, but the violence of the old star’s death
had torn to shreds the outer gas giants, and simply consumed the inner rock planets as
it swelled to millions of times its original size. Only forces of gargantuan potency,
guarded by arcane technologies, kept the planet from being ripped to bare rock in a
matter of hours, to asteroids in days, to dust in weeks.
The air-borne reptiles barked their cries to each other, flying in complex patterns,
too high to cast shadows on the scarlet earth. The flock was maybe two dozen strong,
circling each other, soaring, gliding, diving and flapping, the sound of their flight and
language roaring across the desert.
Shimmering and insubstantial, the haunting hints of the Other world danced
tantalisingly beneath them. Buildings, trees, cities, wavering insubstantial in the air,
only marginally more real than the mirages that danced in the heat towards the horizon.
Among them flew the ghosts of feathered fliers, small and light and impossibly gentle,
gliding and swooping, borne on kind drafts of cooler air that had nothing to do with the
oven-born furnace blasts which tore at the leathered wings of the flying reptiles.
Sometimes an illusive phantasm would gain something approaching substance, become
harder, lose transparency, almost look as if it may leave a footprint on the desert
sands, but then it would be gone.
And hanging in the hazy sky, a tear darker than the night that had just vanished, a
fathomless rent hanging in the hazy sky, The Gate taunted the tortured inhabitants of
this doomed planet. It had brought destruction and devastation to a world which
thought that no more could possibly exist, slavery and torment at the hands of the
White Ones. They had fought and they had died in their millions, on battlefields
scattered throughout this Universe and others, and they could do no more than fight on
to the end.
On a kinder, greener world, where the phantasms were real and the soaring reptiles
a thing of barely remembered legend, the final battle was already known. The blissfully
ignorant beings that carelessly squandered their glorious resources even had a name
and a place for its joining.
They also thought they knew the outcome.
“So let it be!” the priest intoned, as the last Name died away into the still darkness.
The bell in his hand chimed once. “Amen.”
They were right.
Page 5 of 137
1
Book One
“I’ve done a lot, God knows I’ve tried
To find the truth – I’ve even lied –
And all I know is down inside
I’m bleeding.”
- Richard O’Brien, “Superheroes”, The Rocky Horror Picture Show
1.1
1.1.1
Marduk
Marduk’s victory
At the head of his phalanx of troops, Marduk searched the dry and dusty plain ahead
of him. The red sun glowered, searing the dead earth. No wind had stirred this part of
the desert for hundreds of years – no dunes raised themselves above the endless
plateaux before him. As far as the eye could see in every direction, the plain stretched
flat and formless. The only feature lay directly ahead of him, the cloud of dust and sand
that rose like a misty pyre from the horizon.
He stood at the head of the central column and, turning, marvelled at the army
arrayed under his command. Fifty mighty armies stretched from horizon to horizon,
each at least a thousand men strong. In the centre of each hung the banner of their
Name, surrounded by countless gleaming spear-heads, flashing brilliant orange in the
sunlight.
Between them galloped the horsemen, communicating orders and messages
between the commanders of each phalanx. The order to halt and form up, given twenty
minutes ago, was only now reaching the outermost columns of men towards the
horizon.
The phalanx behind Marduk and the fifteen on either side consisted of infantry.
Alternating phalanxes were spearmen and swordsmen. To the rear of each, marching in
a separate phalanx, came the battalions of archers, more lightly armoured than the
forward infantrymen.
The left and right flanks were both cavalry. Ahead rode the light cavalry, armed with
swords and dressed in leather breastplates and bronze, plumed helmets. To the rear of
these, aligned with the inner archers, rose the heavy cavalry, their lances upright
against their saddles. They were slower, the horses heavier: brute beasts trained to
charge and stop only when reigned in. Astride them sat their masters, sweating
profusely in the heavy bronze armour which covered chests and legs. Behind the
extreme outer two flanks of light cavalry came mounted archers, their range better
suited to cover attempted outflanking.
In all the Three Ages of the Elder Gods, no such army had ever been assembled.
Represented in its ranks were the armies of every nation, until so terribly recently
locked in their own mortal feuds with each other. None had recognised the threat until it
was almost too late. It had taken weeks more for the ancient enemies to agree on the
leadership of this massive army. Only the intercession of the Elder Gods themselves,
choosing Marduk as their blessed heir, had decided the debate. Handing him the fifty
Names with which to conquer his enemies, Marduk now led the phalanx which held his
own Name. Forty-nine others carried the banners of the other Names, hanging limp with
no wind to disturb them. Distributed evenly among them were the kings and generals of
the nations he commanded.
Marduk removed his helmet and ran his forearm across his forehead to wipe away
the sweat that was burning his eyes. The entire eastward horizon seemed to be alive
with a wind he knew could not exist on these barren plains. He knew the other deserts
and would have sworn this to be an approaching sandstorm had he not known that such
a thing were impossible in this benighted wasteland.
Never had any man travelled this far. No king could rule the endless miles of
forsaken desert and not even legend told mankind what lay beyond the Forgotten
Lands. Twenty days’ journey behind them lay the last outpost of civilization, and only
the massed resources of every nation under the Gods had kept this army fed and
watered throughout that time. Still the losses had been heavy, hundreds had fallen and
hundreds more gone mad in this appalling nothingness. The nights froze the warriors’
hair to the ground as they slept and the days baked their bronze shields hot enough to
cook on and boiled the sweat from their bodies.
Now, after twenty days, the enemy was in sight. The entire horizon, from north to
south, seethed with the dust they left in their wake and Marduk knew with helpless
certainty that he was abundantly outnumbered. By morning he would be outflanked,
surrounded, cut off and decimated. He had to attack today, he had to take out their
centre, cleaving the flanks into two separate armies. He would be left fighting to his
rear or, worse still, fighting on two fronts both north and south, but his experience as
general and fighting king told him this was far better than fighting in every direction at
once.
But he also knew his enemy, whatever is was, would be utterly outside his
experience of soldiering. What divisions had they? What weaponry? What strategies? He
could fight swords and cavalry, bowmen and pikemen, but he knew not what awful
engines of war lay beyond the horizon, beneath the angry cloud that appeared to grow
with every passing heartbeat.
Marduk knelt and prayed and the entire phalanx behind him, seeing him kneel, knelt
also as no man could stand while Marduk knelt. He wrenched his sword from its
scabbard, held the double-handed hilt in both hands and buried the blade deep into the
desert sand. He stared across the sand, the hilt pressed against his forehead, at the
approaching cloud and he summoned every strength within his being as he called out to
the Elder Gods in deep, booming, resonant song. He hailed their strength, he applauded
their wisdom and he begged for their might to stand by him this day.
He stood and called the trumpeter from the front ranks to summon the messenger
horsemen, then again he knelt and awaited their arrival. The trumpet call was echoed
from phalanx to phalanx, summoning the aides-de-camp.
As each horseman arrived he dismounted and knelt twenty paces from the king,
holding the reins of his horse in both hands. It took twenty-five minutes for Marduk to
be surrounded by forty-nine empty horses and forty-nine kneeling horsemen, each
watching the Lord of Kings.
He stood and called the men to him. He issued instructions to each king and
general, to each battalion and therefore to each man stretched from horizon to horizon
Page 6 of 137
beneath his command. He detailed his strategy, drawing with his finger in the sand until
they all understood what was required of the men they would gallop towards. Then each
mounted their horse and fled into the dust. Time would be everything. None could be
wasted.
Marduk heaved his huge sword from the desert, heard the blade sing as it escaped
the sand and then watched, awed to silence, as the blade began to glow. It glowed a
dull orange first, seeming to reflect the sunlight overhead, then is seared through red
and violet towards a light, hot blue like the flames in the hottest furnaces of the swordmakers. The blue faded to a dazzling white and Marduk could feel the sword vibrate in
his hand. His eyes widened as he understood that the Elder Gods’ power was racing
through him to his sword, then they narrowed as doubt and fear crumbled in the face of
an unimaginable rage and he looked to the horizon to see the first dark shapes of his
enemy dance in the haze of the sun’s heat as they broached the horizon.
“Sound the march!” Marduk called over his shoulder and the boys, none of them
older than thirteen, at the centre of his phalanx began to pound at their drums. It was a
marching rhythm, a thunderous sound, that kept the phalanx marching as one and
spoke fire to the depths of each warrior’s heart. Boom! Boom! Boom-boom! Boomboom! Boomaboom-boomaboom! Boom! Boom!
The enemy were closer than an observer would have thought, but Marduk knew the
heat hid an enemy in its haze until it was far closer than the horizon, three miles away.
When he could see them march from the haze, he knew they were less than a mile from
him.
First came the Denizens, like apes with green scales and huge fangs. They galloped
clumsily on all-fours, but the crossed axes mounted on their backs which caught the
light as they approached suggested they would fight on two legs. They were clad in
chain mail armour, with articulated metal gauntlets on their front paws. Their
screeching battle-cry reached the front ranks, an insane cacophony like a mad desert
wind. At their flanks, almost beyond Marduk’s sight, came the Gyrotha, heaving beasts
like the Rhino Marduk had seen in his travels south many years before. The Gyrotha
were heavily armoured, grey with a huge horn on the front of their protruding snouts,
their heads rising and falling as their charged. Astride them rode the Knegal, huge and
hairy, naked but for a thick covering of hair and the mighty lances which, even now,
were coming down to bear on their enemy.
As instructed, after five hundred paces Marduk’s phalanx came to a halt, and the
archers in the rear continued to run through the forward phalanx, between men, to
form up around Marduk. To his left and right, all the infantry battalions were doing the
same, their swords sheathed and their spears pointed skywards so as not to injure the
archers that sprinted amongst them.
Marduk knew that each king and general would now be issuing his own orders and
he knew with frustration this point, reached in all battles, when overall command
became impossible and each phalanx became its own fighting unit under its own
commander. With hills or even a raised sand dune, Marduk could have kept overall
understanding of the progress of the battle, but no such vantage point existed in this
cursed wilderness. Instead, he now commanded only those able to hear him and the
sound of his trumpeter.
“Archers will form two ranks!” he yelled, and the command passed down the
approaching men. “Front row will fire, then kneel,” Marduk shouted. He knew it was
unnecessary, the men were highly trained, but it was not his nature to leave anything
to chance. “Rear row will fire and then front row will stand to fire again!”
He looked left and saw a hail of arrows flying from the adjoining phalanx. They had
formed up slightly faster. Marduk called to his men, “Draw” Pause. “ Loose!”
His shimmering white sword, raised above his head, arced down with the command
and the deadly rain of arrows soared into the air. Marduk called his orders to the rear
row, but kept his eyes on the range of the arrows. Most fell short of the approaching
Denizens, but not far short and he knew with satisfaction that he had read the speed of
his approaching enemy well.
The rear row fired, then the front, then the rear, and now the Denizens were
entering the slaughter zone as the arrows rained death from the skies. The shrieks
became higher pitched, scrambling monsters reared up, arching in pain, or fell
forwards, carried by the impetus of their charge, but more came behind them.
On the flanks, the archers had also run between the cavalry to deliver their cargo of
terror, but they fell back first, after the first twenty shots, and now the light cavalry
trotted into a gallop. Marduk would try and split the enemy flanks from their centre,
using his flanked archers to keep the enemy flanks at bay while he surrounded and
decimated the centre. Then he could turn to face the separated flanks. It was dreadfully
simple, almost childishly so, but on this open, barren nothingness there was little else
he could do and he knew his enemy knew it.
From the centre the arrows still flew and swarmed at the Denizens, as, to the right
and left, the light cavalry charged inwards towards the rear of the Denizens, out of the
range of the arrows, revealing the heavy cavalry who would charge down the Knegal
riding their Gyrotha and thereby protect the light cavalry’s rear.
“Archers will retire!” shouted Marduk and the trumpeter alongside him sounded two
repeated bars – the three ascending notes of the archers and then the four, short blasts
of the retreat. The trumpet continued to sound as the archers loosed their loaded bows
and then turned to head into the protection of their infantry.
The battleground ahead of Marduk was slick with the blood and carnage of an enemy
who had yet to reach out and strike his men. Marduk considered for a second the
amazing fact that the enemy appeared to have no archers or men throwing light spears
– for who would fire at the melee once both forces had engaged and thereby kill their
own troops? If the enemy had such weapons, they would have used them by now.
Marduk allowed dangerously little time for the archers to reach the rear of his
phalanx before shouting his command for his infantry to draw their swords. To his left
and right the phalanxes carried their pikes, twice as tall as a man, and the front rows
lowered theirs as they began their slow forward march. The sword phalanxes would
drive ahead of the pikemen then split at the centre of the battlefield, slaughtering and
pushing their enemy towards the arrayed spikes of the adjoining infantry. Once again
Marduk was using classic, school-boy strategy, one his enemy had to know he would
use. Yet as he ran ahead of his surging troops, the Denizens ran at the swordsmen in
shrieking hordes, forcing their comrades to continue forward and sideways towards the
waiting pikes.
He searched the front ranks of his enemy. Whomever led this hell-spawned army did
not do so from the front.
Marduk saw a Denizen hurtling through the clouds of sand directly at him, and he
was astounded at the speed of the beast. He dropped on his front foot and brought his
small, round shield up to cover his left shoulder as the screaming grotesque hurled itself
at him. As it hit with bone-crunching ferocity, Marduk lifted his shield off the sand and
there was a horrid, gurgling yelp as his sword slashed up under the shield and caught
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the Denizen’s underbelly below the chain mail. Marduk stood, the first ranks of troops
now streaming past him in full and deafening battle cry, and twisted the sword to
release it from the body of his first victim. Marduk was only mildly surprised to see that
his shimmering blade dealt an awful death to his enemies, as the body of the Denizen
shrank in on its skeleton as if it were drying out in a matter of seconds before the whole
corpse ignited in a bright, heatless blue flame and shrivelled to a brown ash almost
instantly.
Now the huge clash of swords and armour, the war-cries of the men, the shrieks of
the demons and the screams of the dead and dying rose to drown the desert in such
sound as it had not heard for centuries. The square phalanxes of swordsmen flattened
so each man could use his sword on an enemy, while the pikemen held the squareshaped phalanx and pushed on as one.
Marduk hacked another Denizen out of his way, saw the two halves he had slashed
apart burst in cold flame, and then stabbed at a third who leapt from the back of a
wounded infantryman’s head. The madness was on him now, the pure rage and
omnipotent joy of battle. He slashed and hacked, his lips pulled back to reveal the wild
grin that he saw mirrored in the troops alongside him. For the moments before the
battle, fear was their greatest enemy, stealing their strength and mocking their bravery,
but that was over now in the thundering insanity of a hundred thousand swords and
axes and shields. The blood spattered their faces, coated their sandal boots and ran
down their legs and their minds shrieked at the glory and the monumental fury that was
war. The sickly sweet smell of thick red blood filled their nostrils, the inhuman screams
of their unholy enemy rang in their ears and all served to drive them forwards,
unstoppable, without past or future, hope or despair, in the noblest and most awful of
all the aspects of man: the battle-mad warrior.
The sun grew suddenly dark and, as Marduk looked up, he understood in an awful
instant why his enemy had had no arrows. He did not need them. He had the Moratau.
Immense beasts on leathered wings, like huge bats with scaly faces, soared in a
flock of grey-red chaos above the chaos below. They swooped over the fighting and
dove towards the lines of men running into the fray. One day, in a future Marduk could
not possibly imagine, these beasts would be all that remained, the memory of a legend,
the shadow of a myth of the awful fiends that now rained death from the skies at his
troops. Perhaps it would be the fear that would ring down through the aeons of beasts
who had no lord but their own, mercenaries, owing allegiance to none, not even to the
Dreadlord who commanded the enemy on this battlefield. They would be feared,
worshipped, slain only by the bravest of noble men before shrinking from advancing
technology to the Blasted Lands of their ancestors. Of all the ancient and grotesque
monstrosities that were arrayed together before Marduk this day, legend would
preserve only one:
Dragons.
Marduk cursed and turned, lurching back towards his rear and leaving his men to
fight on against the Denizens. Legend had told him, too, of the Moratau and he knew
their weapon was fire. They would not bring their fire to the centre of the field, just as a
human enemy would not intentionally rain arrows on his own men. They would outflank
Marduk, not to left or right, but by going straight over his head to attack the reserves
and the troops that ran at the back of the phalanx, thinning the advancing armies
hideously. He cursed his way past his own advancing men and stared wildly, trying to
find the archers who would not see the approaching Moratau in the dusty cloud until the
rear of every phalanx was decimated. “Archers!” he called in desperation and the young
lad who had followed in his wake into the battle now ran behind, trumpet to his lips,
sounding the three ascending notes of the archers’ call. Both Marduk’s voice and the call
of the trumpets were drowned by the drums as they thundered to war. He could not be
heard! He screamed fury at the immense noise and ran on, trumpeter stumbling behind,
past the drums and into the relative peace of the rear ranks. Overhead, overtaking him,
flew the Moratau.
Now they stopped, hovered on flapping wings and opened their cavernous, gaping
jaws. Beneath them ran their enemy, unable to touch them, and they breathed fire into
the charging ranks. It came from them almost silently, like a gravelled sigh or the
sliding of heavy stones across each other, and the phalanx rear seethed with spreading
flame and erupted with the shrieks of dying men.
Marduk sped on, unaware of the flame that engulfed his young trumpeter not ten
paces behind him. “Retreat!” he shouted at each man, knowing he was cutting off his
infantry at the front but lacking any other sane choice. Retreat to the dubious safety of
the archers! “Retreat!”
Few heard him. Those who did did not recognise the blood-stained coward who ran
from the battle. Marduk stumbled, fell, stood and charged on knowing he was far too
late but hurtling blindly onwards anyway. The odds he had raised by decimating the
Denizens were now being reversed as his own men were cut down in a hail of fire.
Wetness splashed against his shoulders and for a second he ignored what must be
blood splattering him. Then he realised it was cold, icy cold, as nothing could be under
the forsaken midday sun of this land and he looked up as he ran, realising with
unutterable bafflement that the Moratau were not the only things which blocked the
sun. He stumbled to a halt as the impossible thundered across the sky with a gathering
darkness of omnipotent speed. In this land of eternal sunlight and moonlight, where no
wind blew and no cloud gathered, he saw that the Moratau had themselves been
outflanked from the sky.
Above him, gathering in seconds that should be hours, a huge cloud billowed from
nowhere, lightening flashing across its bulbous innards, and, for the first time since the
Curse, rain dribbled, then poured and then deluged the Forsaken Lands.
An hysterical laugh escaped Marduk’s lips. Rain? He stared in fascination, somehow
instantly removed from the battle that raged around him, and then he saw the wisdom
of the Gods. He could not know that the flame of the Moratau came as dead-dry air was
sucked through gill-like openings behind their heads to be ignited within their throats
and that the rain, pouring down onto the creatures, not only hindered their flight but
also all but extinguished their flames. He simply understood that water quenched fire
and he saw that now above his charging men. He stood an instant longer, making sure
he was seeing what he thought he saw, and then he sprinted onwards, again shouting
for his archers. Kindly as the Elder Gods seemed, he did not trust the longevity of their
grace.
It was a few minutes before he reached the archers, and it took an eternity for them
to jog, in formation, towards the rear of the phalanx that was now mopping up what
remained of the Denizens. Above them the Moratau screeched their impotent fury, and
some dove low enough to attack the infantry directly. Within range of swords and
spikes, the flying monsters’ wings were easily ripped and torn, and the beasts
descended to be hacked to pieces by their enemy.
The archers again raced past the infantry, and this time there would be no neat lines
and regimented firing. They knelt as soon as they saw their targets and fired slowly and
accurately, coldly decimating the Moratau. Each archer knew that a missed shot could
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descend to injure their own men, and so they fired methodically, carefully and with
awful precision.
The rain subdued the dust and sand and Marduk could see across to the other
phalanxes where archers were also being brought up to slaughter the fireless Moratau,
and then he looked further to the light cavalry that advanced to the rear of the
remaining Denizens. In the distance he could make out the heavy cavalry and the
Knegal, involved in their own private battles on the edges of the field.
He turned to look north, and the heavy cavalry on that flank, unseen through the
downpour, having engaged the enemy, now turned in feigned disarray and began their
retreat towards the rear centre of the field. This was Marduk’s one gamble, his single
deception, and he prayed as he had prayed before that the rear of the enemy centre
was not well reinforced. The heavy cavalry to the south had fought the Knegal back and
north, concentrating them towards the centre, and now the north, Marduk’s left, would
retreat, wheeling the flanks around and forcing the enemy to advance in a more
southerly direction, rather than westerly. As the day ran on and the battle continued,
Marduk would have his enemy attacking into the sun, although the miraculous rain had
blunted this advantage. His centre and the south flank would form two separate flanks
to attack the enemy centre and south flank in a wide encirclement, while the north flank
withdrew and drew the enemy’s north flank towards the waiting archers. The archers
knew their position, and would soon withdraw from the centre infantry, once the
Moratau had been dealt with, to line up and face their “retreating” northern heavy
cavalry.
Marduk and the central phalanxes found themselves temporarily without an enemy.
The Denizens were crushed and the few hundred who remained had retreated from the
storm back towards the east. Marduk, his central phalanxes and the supernatural storm
were now the hub of a gigantic wheel about which, if Marduk’s plan was working, the
entire miraculously rain-sodden battle should be rotating very slowly anti-clockwise.
“Phalanxes will form square!” he shouted, running towards where the battle had
been raging as the Moratau retreated east above the Denizens, freeing the archers to
return to their position behind the centre. “Get me a trumpeter!” he shouted at a
centurion as he passed. “Phalanxes will form square!”
It took a while, but the centre now had time to form up. A half-hour passed as men
joined their phalanxes and the trumpeters sounded their orders. Then the noises of
battle started to sound from the southeast, and Marduk knew the heavy cavalry were
pushing the retreating Knegal towards his spikes. The pikeman infantry to Marduk’s
right formed tight square, a bristling box of walking blades, and marched slowly in this
formation towards the retreating Knegal. Marduk had put his best-trained pikemen on
his right for just this reason. He knew that a well-formed, well-disciplined pike square
could not be run-down by advancing cavalry. Horses would always shy away from the
spikes at the last minute, weaving around the square before allowing themselves to be
impaled on the spikes. As they turned, the horses offered their (and their riders’)
broadsides as larger targets for the archers concealed within the squares. He hoped the
same held true for Gyrotha. It was essentially a defensive position, but not if the heavy
cavalry had managed to outflank the retreating Knegal and thereby force them onto the
spikes. In the centre of each pike square lurked archers, also Marduk’s best and most
accurate, to fire out from within the defensive formation.
To the left, the archers had retreated well behind the centre, and now the cavalry
came hurtling in “retreat” between the archers to the west and the left of Marduk’s
centre to the east. The heavy cavalry continued their headlong dash until the archers
loosed their first volley, then they turned and rallied. Unable to stop or turn in time, the
front ranks of the advancing Gyrotha were massacred as they ran headlong onto the
spikes of the waiting cavalry, their right was decimated by the hail of arrows and the
remainder veered left, their numbers cut down, to run on to the left of Marduk’s centre
columns. Marduk himself and his central phalanx were not needed, but horsemen
arrived every few minutes, bringing news of the collapse of the enemy right flank.
From the west the light cavalry trotted towards Marduk’s centre, having seen little of
the conflict since the infantry had largely destroyed the Denizens before the light
cavalry could encircle. Not knowing what lay behind the enemy’s centre, the light
cavalry were ordered not to press the enemy retreat, but instead to return to the
centre. Their outriders greeted Marduk, who ordered them off to the southeast to
reinforce the heavy cavalry and spike squares and cut down the southern enemy flank.
The day dragged on, the storm abated and the heat returned, drying uniforms stiff
with blood and slowly the stench of the dead scattered in their thousands throughout
the centre of the battlefield pervaded the air. Marduk’s ancient culture had no concept
of burying their dead. The souls of the dead left their bodies to await their
reincarnation, and the bodies, useless now, were left where they fell. In cities, bodies
were burnt in huge pits outside the walls, usually down of the prevailing wind, but on
the battlefield the survivors and the wounded remembered fondly their fallen comrades
but did not associate their empty bodies with them. The wounded retreated, under light
escort, towards the southwest where the baggage trains and lines of communication
with civilisation’s southern-most boundaries began.
To Marduk’s right, the Knegal on their Gyrotha had been crushed on three sides by
archers, heavy cavalry and infantry. To his left, the Knegal had been run onto the
waiting pikes of the infantry and stragglers had been rounded up and slaughtered by
the light cavalry, eager to engage their enemy after a day spent riding around them.
The enemy centre had been decimated during the first hour of battle, leaving hope to
their Moratau air force which had arrived too late and had been smashed by the Gods
themselves.
But Marduk knew the battle was not yet won. To the east lay the remainder of his
enemy’s forces. To the east lay victory. And to the east lurked the nameless Dreadlord
who had challenged the Elder Gods and their children, mankind, to the battle that was
to wipe the plague of men from the face of the planet.
His sword burned bright against the dusk and he plunged it back into his scabbard
and began issuing orders to the horsemen to prepare for the evening. Tomorrow would
bring victory. Tomorrow would bring peace.
Tomorrow the Dreadlord would fall.
1.1.2
Marduk’s defeat
Perhaps it was the supernatural storm that made the fallen night even colder on the
open plain. It descended like a physical thing, draining in minutes the searing heat of
the day and chilling beneath the wolf’s fur coat Marduk wrapped around himself.
The army had closed in around the centre as the sun descended into the west and
the cold gripped the plain. The infantry losses had been appalling, hundreds in each
battalion cut down by the Moratau fire. The heavy cavalry had lost nearly a third of their
men but the light cavalry and archers remained largely intact. Infantry units had been
sent to the perimeter of the makeshift camp and Marduk had instructed the light cavalry
to patrol three miles around the encampment. He now stood beneath a fiery torch, its
stand embedded in the desert floor. On any other campaign he would now be poring
over maps and studying terrain, deciding his tactics for the coming day. No maps
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existed of this forsaken land and none were necessary – a blank parchment would do
just as well.
On any other campaign he would also not have camped on the battlefield, with its
disease and death, but he chose to remain where he was rather than go through the
laborious task of marching this vast army in any direction in the dark. He also lacked
any landmarks. He could use the stars’ direction, but he could also lose his enemy, and
the stars were strangely inverted this far south of civilised astrology: not a good omen.
He looked east but could not see the light of burning fires he would expect an enemy to
prepare. Without cloud, no lights reflected from beyond the horizon. He acknowledged,
as close as he could come to humour this night, that having a Moratau on hand would
rather simplify the lighting of camp fires.
He was bone tired. He forced himself to stand straight upright, knowing he was
watched by hundreds of eyes as the men bivouacked around him under the stars and
beside their dead. Shortly, the kings and generals would join him and he would begin to
build a clearer picture of the aftermath of this battle. He would also try and form
something of a strategy for the morning.
Proud men, their armour and coats littered with gold and fine linens, gem encrusted
scabbards and diamond-studded helmets, joined him in ones and twos. These were the
great men of the nations under his command. Kings who had, until a few months ago,
been his sworn enemies now came to seek his counsel for the morning’s battle.
Generals who had pitched their skills against his on the battlefield – few victorious,
most defeated – dismounted and removed their helmets as respect to the Lord of Kings.
Marduk’s eyes dropped to his sheathed sword. He wondered if it still glowed within its
scabbard.
They gathered beneath the upright torches and each reported on the strength and
adventures of his army. Marduk listened intently, trying to calculate losses, decide on
how to reform the battalions, discern what strategies remained open and what were
impossible with his reduced forces. It was undoubted that today had seen a great
victory for the forces he commanded, but as the kings and generals reported, Marduk
began to realise the terrible price he had paid. An army of over seventy-five thousand
men now numbered less than forty-five thousand. The Moratau fire, the Denizen axes
and the Knegal lances, now broken and scattered for miles around, had taken with them
an awful Lamanth. The Death Price. The cost the Gods demanded for rebirth.
He hoped it would be less than the God of these creatures demanded. Let not an
army of such evil ever be reborn. Let their souls pay for the rebirth of my warriors, he
thought, and not the other way around.
The camp was noisy with the shouts and cheers of the victorious army. There was
little wine to be had, but the men were drunk on the victory they had won, honouring
the sacrifice of their comrades and celebrating with meagre rations around few, small
fires. He knew that some would be burning the wagons used to bring supplies, and
while those wagons should have returned, empty for new loads, he would not punish his
men this cold night. They had earned the comfort of a little warmth.
A light cavalryman galloped between the fires, shouting at the kings and generals
arrayed around Marduk. The rider drove straight through the gathered men and reigned
in directly above where Marduk stood. He dismounted and fell on his face before the
Lord of Kings.
“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he blurted as he lay with his face in the sand. “Forgive
my rudeness to disturb your Highness and the Men of Deeds. Forgive your unworthy
servant this interruption, my King. Forgive –“
“What is it?” Marduk interrupted, allowing his impatience to show. That a mere
cavalry officer should ride among the assembled nobles unannounced, kicking dust in
their faces and soiling their clothing, was an offence easily worthy of a lingering death.
“The enemy, my Lord,” the cavalryman still did not dare look up. “The winged firebreathers and the crawling axe-beasts. They are attacking the western guard, sire. They
are many, sire. Thousands. I beg your forgiveness, my Lord, but my King would not
forgive his humble servant if I did not rush this information to you, sire.”
Marduk cursed. He had searched the horizon in the fading sun, seeking out his
enemy in the fading light, knowing he could see further without the misty haze caused
by the desert heat despite the sinking sun. He had seen nothing. That had been less
than an hour ago. And these beasts that had attacked out of the east only hours before
had now come from the west!
“On your feet!” Marduk heard a clatter behind him and looked around to where a
second cavalryman, wearing the crest of his nation whom Marduk knew to be camped to
the south, had halted outside the ring of Marduk’s council, choosing to wait and be
permitted entrance rather than risk the wrath of these great men. “There is no fault,”
Marduk said, turning back to the man who lay prostrate on the sand before him. “Rise,
join your king,” he nodded to a grey-bearded, gold-crowned man to his left, recognising
the symbol on the cavalryman’s helmet. “You will take your horsemen to reinforce the
west,” he now spoke to the king. “Allow a retreat towards me, and send your horsemen
to tell those about you what is happening. They are to remain where they are and
outflank this attack, then close in and crush it. Go!”
The cavalryman and his king returned to their horses, mounted and fled into the
night. “You,” Marduk turned to the second cavalryman who had dismounted and
awaited audience. “They attack the south?”
“Yes, Lord of Kings,” the man knelt to report. “The cavalry beasts, sire, with the firebreathers above.”
“On my way, Lord,” a young general stepped forward from the ring and stared
earnestly into Marduk’s eyes. “The same orders you gave my lord, the king?”
“Yes. Go! The rest of you,” Marduk turned, ignoring the mounting cavalryman and
general. “Send out riders. Recall the patrols. I want reports! Where are they coming
from? How many? Can we hold them? If you encounter them, retreat and try to outflank
them. If today’s attack is anything to go by, they appear to charge with strength but
without cunning. Remember the archers! Use them but defend them. They alone can
reach the fire beasts. Go! All of you! I want reports! I want them now!”
Marduk drew his sword, knowing he would not use it but wishing to encourage his
men with the fire in his blade.
There was none.
“Go,” shouted Marduk again, planting the sword in the desert floor as he had done
before and kneeling to pray.
Already red and orange glowed to the western horizon and he knew the Moratau
would be sighing death at his troops. He tried to concentrate on the power he held
within, on the might of the Elder Gods, and he closed his eyes tightly against the
concentration.
Now and again he opened them, but the sword reflected only the light of the stars
and the angry red of the far-off Moratau.
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Horsemen approached from different directions, and now he rose to give them
orders. He sheathed his sword, hoping few would see that it no longer glowed with the
power of the Elder Gods. He hesitated to reinforce those already under attack, waiting
to find out if he was surrounded. Breathless horsemen arrived on horses whose flanks
were white with sweat and Marduk began to realise that, somehow, in the brief time
since the sunset, he had indeed been outflanked on all sides. His orders changed.
“To me!” he shouted as each horse arrived and departed with the fresh order.
“Retreat and tighten up, do not allow gaps the form in our perimeter. Do not try and
outflank them. Form pike lines, shield walls and move towards the centre. Retreat
inwards towards me.” Too many cavalrymen had brought the news of attempted
flanking columns themselves being surrounded, cut off and decimated beyond the help
of their protective perimeter.
he challenged him in the foulest and most bestial manner that the darkest reaches of
his soul could muster. He howled his rage, bellowed until the pain pounded in his
temples, but nothing came. No-one answered. The moans began to fade and silence
descended and Marduk fell to his knees next to his lightless sword and wept for he knew
he was alone as no man had ever been.
He slept where he fell. A cursed man in a cursed wilderness, beyond exhaustion,
victory utterly ripped from his grasp in a few short hours. He dreamed of monsters,
blood and death, of legions of ghosts, the unreborn, marching for eternity on the barren
plain with nothing to pay their Lamanth, cursed to tread forever the path of the dead
because none could pay for his rebirth.
1.1.3
Marduk banishes Kutulu
Marduk could not know it, could not see the awful mathematical precision with which
the Gods shattered his numbers: for each man that fought, a beast was raised up. For
each man that fell, a beast was cut down. They fought and they died in exactly equal
numbers, and the perimeter shrank in an almost perfect circle around him. First he
heard the screams and shrieks, then he heard the clash of armour and sword, helmet
and pike and finally, illuminated by firelight below and the Moratau above, he could see
the perimeter shrinking about him. He buried his sword in the sand and prayed until he
swore he would sweat blood, but the blade remained just a blade, cold and dark. The
sky remained open, the stars as clear as ever, and the Moratau, Knegal, Gyrotha and
Denizens fought on, falling and shrieking as his men fell and shrieked.
The heat of the sun woke Marduk. The stench of the battlefield immediately assailed
his senses and he clenched his eyes shut against the blasphemy he knew surrounded
him on all sides. It was more than a stench – it was a physical presence, eroding his
lungs, searing his eyes and burning his nostrils. A holocaust of defeat stretched from
horizon to horizon and he hated his soul for not flying from his body in the night.
He ripped his sword from the desert floor and ran towards the closest troops, his
helmet forgotten behind him. With an awful cry, bellowing madness at the heavens, he
barged his way through the seething mass of retreating men and advancing monsters
and began to hack and scythe, feeling the madness again, roaring at his troops to hold,
fighting like a man possessed.
Before forcing his eyes open, he hunted around his for his sword. He found the
blade, after first finding rotten putrescence that ran between his fingers, then breathed
as deep as he could in the stench and allowed the sight of his surroundings to invade
his mind. He hung his head, looking down, avoiding for as long as possible the sight he
knew would greet him and punched his sword into the sand as a support to push
himself upright.
His line held, but behind him and on all sides the men retreated towards him, fewer
and fewer, the sound now softer and softer. Fewer blades, fewer shrieks, the moans
and cries of the wounded and dying now clearly audible above the receding sounds of
an ever-smaller battle. Behind him a man fell, his throat gaping like a second,
grotesquely grinning mouth, he eyes staring, disbelieving and soulless. Then to his left
and he saw how few men and how few beasts remained. He hacked again, a Denizen
falling in a helpless yelp at his feet, then turned to slice across himself at the Knegal,
without its Gyrotha, its lance broken in its hands, and dark red blood fountained as he
sliced upwards, taking the left shoulder and head from the Knegal’s body.
He whipped around and stared at emptiness. Left, right, he spun, seeking out his
enemy, but none came to confront him. He stood alone for long minutes. Then he let his
sword tip drop to the sand. He fell to his knees and knew absolute despair.
He stood to stare about him, walking among the dead and dying. No enemy stood to
fight him. No friend stood to defend him. The moans and cries of the dying formed a
grotesque and discordant cacophony, a horrid chorus of the damned, and Marduk
walked, then ran from man to man, pulling back hair and lifting up helmets, but at his
approach they breathed their last. Around him was nothing but death, above him the
stars and the pitiless Gods, below him the sand and plain of thousands upon thousands
of mutilated warriors and ruptured beasts.
Marduk’s head fell back, his sword fell from his hand and he roared his anger at the
sky. He cursed the Elder Gods and he called out to the Dreadlord who commanded this
dead army to stand before him, to show himself. He called him a coward, a whore’s son,
He knew with a terrible certainty that the courage his soul lacked would be replaced
by the final determination of his body. His mind, wrenched and distorted by his terrible
dreams, hung somewhere in Oblivion’s darkest corner between accursed sleep and
grotesque wakefulness, knew only one fate.
He wobbled to his feet and slowly raised his head. The carnage, rotting and
disintegrating under the terrible heat, was infinitely worse than any battlefield he had
ever seen. It was not that it stretched so far or encompassed so many, although it was
by many multiples the largest field of dead he had ever seen. It was not the twisted
figures of the inhuman enemy creatures, unseen and unknown before this day. It was
not even the fact that this place had been dead for all eternity and that the living had
somehow desecrated it for the brief time they had been permitted invasion. Now death
returned and, with it, forgetfulness and sleep and the wiping from all history of this
bleak and fated campaign.
It was the utter blasphemy that Marduk lived that was an offence to all heaven and
hell. And Marduk knew that, somewhere, unknown or unknowable, the being that had
overseen this unholy slaughter lived also. They both lived in a place ruled by death.
Marduk knew with what approached relief that death would claim him in this land of the
dead. But first he must bring it to his enemy.
Marduk squinted at the sun, gained his bearings and ripped his sword from the sand
to turn east towards his destiny. He raised the sword in front of him to place it in his
scabbard and then faltered. It glowed white as it had done during his first victory. This
time Marduk ground his teeth and cursed. He had no wish for the blessing of Gods who
were so fickle with their affections and he sheathed his sword with angry disdain.
His lips cracked and his head spun in the merciless dry heat. He stumbled towards
what instinct told him was the east, tripping over bodies and slipping on wet carcasses.
The flies that descended on every battlefield following the slaughter were entirely
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absent, unknown to these desolate wastes, and their absence seemed unnatural to a
man so accustomed to death. His sword weighed heavy in his scabbard and his throat
seared with the pain of thirst, his skin burned red and his feet bled with the sand that
rubbed inside his sandal boots. But he staggered eastward and the sun sank behind
him.
And as the sunset blazed crimson at his back and the merciful coolness of evening
sank swiftly to icy cold, he saw, standing only a few hundred yards away, two men.
He was still on the outer reaches of the battleground, surrounded now by as many
horses as men, Gyrotha and Knegal. Here the cavalries had fought and won in the
glorious victory that had been so cruelly ripped from him. He stumbled clumsily then
tried to run towards the men who stood patiently, awaiting his arrival. He tripped, fell,
stood and ran on, coughing painfully against his thirst, half-blinded by swollen eyes.
He fell again within a few yards of the men, then forced himself upright. His vision
blurred and he shook his head to clear it, his eyesight exploding in a kaleidoscope of
pain.
“Marduk,” the word was said with some disdain. “You seek the Dreadlord of your
enemy.” It was a question, but phrased as a statement.
Marduk mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to form words with his parched and swollen
mouth.
“I am he,” said the man. “I am Tiamut. I am your enemy.”
Marduk could narrow his eyes no more without closing them, yet the question still
framed itself on his face. He licked dry lips with a dry tongue and this time he managed
to croak through the dryness. “You are a man.”
Tiamut looked down at himself, smiling. “I appear to be.”
Marduk could not find the strength to word a challenge at this strangest of all
enemies. He stepped backwards, breathed hard and rallied what strength remained. His
hand found the sword at his side and he wrenched it from its scabbard, clasping it with
both hands, and a desolate howl escaped his lips as the blade burned white against the
darkening sky and what remained of his sanity sought solace in the madness of anger
and rage and terror and hate.
Marduk would never be able to properly remember what followed. A roar – perhaps
from his own mouth – a blinding light, a searing pain, thunder, colour, madness, blood.
The sword swung to and fro and all he could see through the madness that consumed
him was the whiteness of the blade scything again and again.
As sanity settled unwelcome and as the desert cold returned to waken him from his
hatred’s madness, he saw that many more than just two now stood about him. At his
feet lay Tiamut, dead, severed at the waist, cut in two, his blood oozing obscenely into
the desert sand. Tiamut’s companion stood beside him, looking down with what seemed
to be mild interest. About Marduk stood creatures even stranger than he had seen on
the battlefield the previous day.
Most were dressed in white, almost blinding despite the dim last light of evening.
These were almost human in their shape, yet somehow taller and stronger, healthier
and better. Among them were creatures, some standing, some flying, some appearing
to hover in mid-air with no visible means of support. Marduk fell to his knees for he
realised that utter insanity had finally claimed him.
Their voices called together, and Marduk did not hear them as much as sense them
within his mind. It was hearing inside himself, a million voices in unison speaking
directly to his mind.
“We are God,” they seemed to say, whispering in softness and kindness to his soul.
“We are One. Stand, Marduk, and face your enemy.”
Marduk stood. With the blithe acceptance of a man beyond sanity he stared around
him and simply allowed his mind to acknowledge what he saw. Understanding could not
possibly be achieved, and so it was abandoned.
“You have slain the armies of Tiamut and you have slain Tiamut himself. The enemy
of God lies dead at your feet and your enemy stands before you.”
“What God are you?” asked Marduk aloud.
“We are One,” came the reply. “The Lord your God is One God.”
Marduk ignored the insanity of it and turned in his wallowing nightmare to face the
man who stood beside Tiamut’s cleaved body. He was young, his blonde hair tied back
in a ponytail.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Kutulu.”
“Yet you’re a man?”
“As Tiamut was,” came the inscrutable reply.
“Are you a God?”
“Yes. I suppose,” Kutulu looked down at the broken remains of Tiamut, “that I am
now Lord of Gods.”
“But they say they are God,” said Marduk, gesturing around him. “Or Gods.”
“They are not the same –“ Kutulu paused, seemed to consider the words he chose “Gods as I. They come from a different place.”
“Yesterday they gave me victory.”
“Last night they gave you defeat.”
“You gave me that.”
Kutulu was silent. Marduk turned to the nearest creature to him and spoke aloud.
“This man in my enemy,” he said, pointing at Kutulu with his glowing sword. “But I have
killed his king. I will not murder him, for this place has enough death. You,” he gestured
wildly with his sword. “You will hold him, bind him. Make sure he is held fast for all
eternity. Make sure he is held in a place from which he cannot escape.”
“He is lord of this arid land,” replied the voices in Marduk’s head. “Lord of air and
fire and earth. He reigns here because he commands those three. It is in water that he
will be held. He will be held and he will lie as if dead for all eternity as you ask. And the
Lord of the Water will guard him. And mankind will be safe to worship me.”
The convoys that had been cut off from the army during the night found the
battlefield three days later. The king of every land, the generals of every army and the
fighting men of every family lay scattered and broken. Empires would fragment,
governments topple, nations divide, civilisation shatter. It would be many centuries
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before that decline could be halted, many more before clans once again sought alliances
as cities, cities as nations, nations as empires. Wiped from human memory would be
the battle that plunged mankind into its first Dark Age, the endless desert ruled by
Tiamut would grow and flourish once more and be lost to even the legend of mankind.
Marduk was found, alone and quite insane, wandering the ruined and decaying
armies, his scabbard empty. He was brought home to die. He never recovered from the
madness and the fever took him only days later. From his babblings, only a day’s
victory, a night’s defeat, the slaying of Tiamut and the imprisonment of Kutulu could be
discerned. With Marduk’s death came the Dark Age as civilisation crumbled into
forgetful ruin.
History swiftly faded from legend to myth and painfully few would hand it on.
Tiamut, the dark warrior, cut in two, his halved body summoned by mighty Marduk, half
to create the sky, half to create the earth. Kutulu, the foulest of demon lords,
imprisoned in the deepest abyss, dead but dreaming.
No memory remained, for none was created, of a young, blonde man with a gentle
smile, a kind voice and eyes like the starless night.
1.2
1.2.1
Rune Travels to Cape Town
Rune’s meeting at Xenix London
Rune Killian stared at the plaque on the North bank of Westminster Bridge where Big
Ben had once stood. For centuries the English had irritated tourists and each other alike
by pointing out that Big Ben was, in fact, the name of the bell, and the plaque was at
pains to continue this fine tradition. Alongside the three-dimensional, holographic image
of the old clock tower, the plaque noted that the tower itself had had no name as such,
but that the name of the bell had come to refer to the entire tower.
Rune looked up from the plaque, shifted the PHUD projection lens away from his left
retina, stared up into London’s blue-grey haze and tried to imagine what the tower, and
the gothic houses of parliament alongside, must have looked like. It was clear that
political compromise had been raised to new heights – literally and figuratively – when
the new buildings had been built shortly after the blast of April 2007 that had levelled
both structures. Somehow the architect, clearly instructed to capture the mood of both
twenty-first century, European Britain and the glories of Empire, had managed to come
up with something that just avoided capturing either. It was an eyesore. It also no
longer housed parliament.
It housed the offices of Xenix, and Rune had arrived early for an interview with chief
programmer Phillip Barnes. Leaving the plaque and the ever-present halo of tourists
that surrounded it, Rune walked down a pathway which led alongside Westminster
bridge and turned right along the Thames bank to the rear entrance of Parliament
House. Having been built in an age of ever-present terrorism, the new houses of
parliament had been built with two entrances, both of which could seal instantly,
dropping three-ton, two foot thick carbon-composite doors to seal danger out and the
government in. The functionality remained and was regularly tested, but it was also
convenient to have two entrances to a single building which housed in excess of fifteen
hundred employees and over five hundred visitors every day.
Rune had been here before, knew the quieter entrance, and walked purposefully into
the cavernous, marble-tiled reception hall. Cool air conditioning refreshed as the
automatic doors slid shut behind him, sealing out London’s groggy humidity.
“Welcome, Rune Killian,” said a soft, female voice in Rune’s ear. He smiled.
Somehow the voice in his ear-piece sounded at once the essence of business
professionalism and the heart of husky sexuality. He wondered idly whether the
controlling routine always used this voice, or whether it chose different voices to greet
guests depending on their age, gender and sexual orientation. Such a thing would be
illegally discriminatory and highly probable. “Please take a seat in the tea and coffee
area to your right. Mister Barnes has been notified that you are here and will be down
to see you shortly. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Rune’s smile broadened. All Europe was effectively one country, no single nation had
any autonomy except when it came to local taxes and minor budgetary issues and yet
the British remained so bloody British. “Cup of tea,” indeed!
“Coffee,” Rune said aloud. “Milk. Two sugars. Fleegle floogy, wobble-frat.”
“Your coffee will be ready for you at the counter,” responded the sultry voice.
“Please repeat your final sentence. I am sorry, but I could not understand it.”
“Don’t worry,” muttered Rune as he sauntered over to the self-conscious little group
of leather chairs and small, round coffee tables that nestled in the far corner of the
entrance hall alongside a window made of three stories of solid glass. He knew it was
childish to try to confuse the building’s processor, but given that this was the centre of
Xenix’s European operation, he wondered whether the program would be capable of
discerning the gibberish as gibberish, or try and find the closest English phonetic
equivalent. The fact that it had discerned gibberish as gibberish impressed him.
By now, most modern buildings – indeed most modern structures – had processors
built into them which interfaced with the PHUD technology Rune wore. A PHUD
(Personal Heads-Up Display, usually pronounced “fud”) was worn using a frame not
dissimilar to half a pair of spectacles. It wrapped around the ear as the leg of a
spectacle frame would do, with a semi-solid coil that looped a tiny speaker into the ear
and a leg that wrapped closely around the temple and ended in what could best be
described as a monocle just far enough away from the eye to allow it to blink. In fact, it
was a transparent visual display. Built into the leg was a microphone. The unit was
secured to the head by a single clip which held tightly, but not painfully, to the earlobe.
Each PHUD had an onboard processor programmed to recognise the voice of the
wearer. They were personalised, each processor learning over time to better interpret
the voice of its wearer, the idea also being that they could not be used by others if
stolen. Given that such items were virtually free to any who wanted them, though,
meant that few – although more than would possibly be expected – were actually
stolen. Also built into the PHUD was the wireless network adaptor which allowed it to
interact with nearby processors. This usually amounted to simply announcing the
presence and, if requested by the correct authority, identity of the wearer who had
come into proximity of the processor. In Rune’s case, Xenix London’s central processor
had been alerted to his presence within the building and had responded as
programmed.
In less than a decade, the PHUD had all but replaced keyboards, screens and mice.
Well before then, towards the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century,
personal computers had been gradually phased out. As network speeds overtook disk
access speeds, the move away from mainframe computing of the 1970’s and 1980’s had
been completely reversed. Everybody had had a personal dumb terminal, just a screen
and keyboard. All the information required was located on secure servers somewhere in
the world-wide web and the cheap, peripheral, interactive equipment was all the end-
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user needed to purchase to get started. Now even those items had been done away
with, replaced by the PHUD.
Short by Western standards, Rune stood a little over five-foot-eight with a stocky
build. Narrow, light blue eyes which became dazzlingly sky-blue in bright light were
spaced intelligently far apart beneath short-cropped, sandy-blonde hair. A square chin
and small, expressionlessly horizontal mouth with high cheek-bones and small ears
completed a look somewhere between boyish charm and manly good looks. Although
the resting expression of his face was almost angry, the deep crow’s feet beside the
eyes – well-established for Rune’s youth – suggested a ready smile and love of
laughter.
Half-way through his coffee, Rune heard his name called by a human voice. Doctor
Phillip Barnes, head of data security for Xenix Europe, was walking towards him with an
easy smile and an outstretched arm.
“Killian,” he beamed as they shook hands. “Very good to see you. Thank you for
coming over. How was Singapore?”
“Hot,” replied Rune after swallowing the remains of his coffee.
“And the Sentosa project?” They started walking towards the elevators, across the
lobby from the coffee bar.
“It’s fine.” Rune had spent the last two months upgrading the processor interface for
the resort on Sentosa Island off Singapore. It was not yet finished, but the data security
installations had been completed and Rune had been ordered back to London. “Tight
and neat. The boys did a good job.”
“That’s version 9.2?” asked Barnes.
“Yah. Neuro-capable. We tested it with the implants we’d been given and it seemed
to work fine. Barry’s got a set now and he could talk to it pretty much like we could.”
“Barry’s got a set? Five, please,” said Barnes as he entered the elevator.
“He volunteered. Hasn’t got any complaints that he mentioned to me.”
“He shouldn’t have! We spent a bloody fortune testing those things – he’s got a
good few hundred thousand Euros plugged into his head there.”
Rune nodded. Over the past five years, Xenix had been testing the development of
neurological implants to replace the PHUD technology. They interacted directly with the
optic, audio and cognitive nerve centres within the brain, doing exactly what the PHUD
did, only without having to use the eyes, ears and mouth. Instructions were issued and
messages received directly from the respective nerve centres of the brain. Best of all, it
required no surgery.
The remainder of the elevator journey and walk to Barnes’ office was done in
amiable silence. At the door to his office, Barnes turned to offer Rune another cup of
coffee, called out the order to a receptionist sitting across the corridor and ushered
Rune into a large, glass-walled corner office. Rune was shown a seat at the small
meeting table across from Barnes’ desk, and Barnes sat down opposite him, explaining
that ordering coffee by PHUD only worked on the ground floor – they didn’t get
deliveries “up here”.
“So Singapore’s in the bag?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not finished,” said Rune, “but you have got my report on the data security
aspect. The interface and wireless network stuff is done. It’s mostly the uploading that’s
taking time to complete.”
“Can’t decide what to put into the tourist information section?” Rune nodded his
reply. It was in the report anyway. “So I can safely assign you elsewhere?” Again Rune
nodded.
“Okay, the reason you’ve come to see me and not Peter,” said Barnes, referring to
Rune’s immediate manager, “is because I’m offering you a promotion. I’ve chatted to
Peter and he’s happy with it so long as I give him some other Data Security Manager to
replace you. How do you feel about going home?”
“Home?”
“I want to send you to Cape Town. The Martian team are looking for a Senior Data
Security Manager to look after their networks. It’s a full-time post – not this project shit
you’ve been doing up to now. The guy who was working down there is moving to
pastures new. We need a replacement. You know the city. I figured you’d be ideal.”
Rune smiled broadly, not bothering to hide his genuine surprised pleasure at the
offer. He had been born in Cape Town thirty-two years ago and had come over to the
UK at the age of twenty-five. The romantic attachment which had brought him over had
not lasted more than a year, but by then Rune had found success with Xenix as a
Systems Programmer and chose to remain. In the seven years he had worked for Xenix
he had been promoted four times to become a team leader of data security – essentially
building software systems that kept hackers and viruses out of Xenix-supported
networks and, where possible, tracked them back to their source.
He enjoyed his work. Despite the stereotype of programmers which remained from
1970’s – largely because they still deserved it – Rune was neither a recluse nor socially
awkward. A natural leader, eloquent and outgoing, he found the challenges of
leadership and management as enjoyable as the programming. He had travelled
extensively for Xenix, especially in the past two years, and he had not really had any
particular plans to go back to Cape Town at any point in the near future. Still, he had
family there and would certainly not argue with a posting back home.
1.2.2
Rune’s journey to Cape Town
The supersonic passenger aeroliner thundered above Africa on her four-hour journey
from Heathrow. Rune sat in Business Class, reviewing the files he had been sent by
Barnes concerning the Martian operation out of Cape Town. He had inserted the
stereoscopic extension onto the monocle of his PHUD so that both eyes could view the
information – in three dimensions where necessary – that he was expected to digest.
The basics were known by all. Martian satellites and space craft utilised nuclear
propulsion, but their internal systems relied on solar power for their energy, especially
during the majority of the journey during which the nuclear reactors were switched off
following initial acceleration and the vehicle coasted through interplanetary space.
Similarly, technology in orbit about the red planet required no acceleration, and
therefore utilised solar energy stored during the daylight half of their cycle to run their
equipment.
Each vehicle used a system which was essentially common to all – a vast reflective
dish which focussed the rays of the sun onto the hemisphere of silicon cells housed at
the apex, where the receiver/transmitter would be on a communications dish. The dish,
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anything from five to fifty metres in diameter, was coated in a fine layer of solid gold to
ensure maximum reflectivity.
Only a vociferous few ranted about similarities with 1930s Germany. They, too, were
studiously ignored.
And that was what brought Xenix to South Africa. Gold. Gold in plentiful supply
thousands of feet beneath the dry outer suburbs of Johannesburg. Gold that was not
tied up in the economy of any of the world’s primary financial blocs. Gold that brought
with it an exceptionally cheap labour force in a country which uniquely managed to
combine both first world and third world characteristics socially, politically and
economically.
South Africa was not included in any of these blocs and was therefore outside many
treaties and economic agreements which hindered the unique requirements of Xenix’s
Martian ambitions. Having no space program, the country lacked any specific legislation
concerning it and Xenix was able to work from a clean slate. The nation welcomed the
investment and Xenix welcomed the freedom. The relationship worked outstandingly
well from day one.
The twenty-first century had not been kind to Africa. The cure for AIDS had come far
too late to save the majority of a dying continent. Governmental mismanagement,
desperate poverty, disease, non-existent education and massive over-harvesting of
minimal resources meant that the Sahara desert now reached from the Mediterranean
coast to central Zimbabwe, from the Ivory Coast to Ethiopia. The West was no longer
interested in pouring endless financial resources into thankless, corrupt nations and
ignored the ravings of tribal dictators about reparations for colonial oppression and
inclusion in markets in which they had no hope of competing. Essentially, the world
forgot about Africa in the mayhem that engulfed first the Middle East and then East
Asia. In humanity’s race to outrun Earth’s resources, Africa, the cradle of life, had won.
While the mining operation was centred on the gold reef running under
Johannesburg, Xenix had chosen the arid semi-desert of the Northern Cape, further
West, to construct the launch sites. By now, Martian expeditions were no longer
launched from terrestrial launch pads but from stations in high orbit above the planet,
but these stations still required resources which had to be ferried up from the planet
below. An almost continuous stream of shuttles took off from and landed on strips halfway between the towns of Kimberly and Upington, serving the orbiting space stations.
South Africa was one of perhaps three or four nations to have survived, thus far,
with something resembling a government and social order, although these things have
always been relative in Africa. It suffered from similar mismanagement as other African
nations, but the first world economic backbone, the single noble legacy of the Apartheid
era, had prevented complete collapse. Rural South Africa had suffered very badly, as
had the inner cities, but enough remained in the way of investment and economic
willpower to ensure that sufficient order remained.
In addition to the presence of gold and cheap labour, which made South Africa
attractive but certainly not unique, the primary attraction for Xenix’s investment was
that South Africa lay outside the four major blocs that had developed during the first
half of the century. North America retained its status as a power and effectively
dominated its unruly southern neighbours, although one of the primary sources of
income of South American nations remained narcotics. Europe, now effectively a single
nation governed from alternate capitals, formed the second bloc (Britain had finally
made the decision – the correct decision, as history was now proving – of throwing in its
lot with Europe and not the United States) and was emerging as the most powerful bloc
on the planet as resources ebbed and the US became increasingly reliant on import to
sustain its population.
The Middle East had united from Egypt to Pakistan in a loose alliance of Arab
nations, now more closely allied with Europe and the US, having been effectively beaten
into submission by successive wars. Israel had retained some independence of this
alliance, allied more with the US, but the political geography of this unique nation had
altered drastically over fifty years and something approaching peaceful co-operation
now existed between it and its Arab neighbours.
Lastly, the most hostile bloc of the four was ruled by the increasingly restless
Chinese. They remained Communist, populous and secretive, but their foreign policy
had become troublingly aggressive in recent years. Chinese leaders had recognised the
fading power of North America, the resource exhaustion of the Middle East and the
petty squabbling of Europe and had finally begun to take advantage of their enormous
strength in their region. Thus far the annexing of a few small, previously Soviet Asian
republics had been studiously ignored by the West, as had their political strangle-hold
over Hong Kong and Taiwan and the signing of defensive treaties with North Korea.
Xenix had chosen Cape Town as the centre for its information technology. With
satellite communications, this location could arguably have been anywhere on (or off)
the planet, but Xenix chose to remain within the borders of South Africa for this
operation and Cape Town, easily linked via undersea broadband cabling to the rest of
the planet with clear satellite links from the top of Table Mountain, was as good a
location as any.
The aeroliner had now dropped to subsonic speeds as it returned from what could
arguably be called inner space – a height of some 100 000 feet – and headed towards
Cape Town airport to the north of the city. Rune was still reviewing the information he
needed on the network architecture that underpinned the South African operation.
It was utterly staggering – a network of a size and complexity that could not
possibly be completely understood by any one individual. Fortunately this was not
necessary. Semi-sentient Artificial Intelligence programs monitored the entire network
on a constant basis, digesting streams of information, the vast majority of which did not
require the attention of a human. The human role was analysis of that data which did
require intervention, the production of ever more complex programs and AI algorithms
to deal with it and, in Rune’s case, similar algorithms to keep it secure.
Because the Martian project was relatively recent and because South Africa lagged
well behind the first world in information technology, Xenix had the unique opportunity
of designing a nation-wide network almost entirely from scratch. The result was a work
of incomparable genius, a single technological organism of stupendous capability. This
was Xenix’s showpiece – how a network should be run in the middle of the twenty-first
century. Indeed, it was as if, from an information technology perspective, South Africa
had never entered the twenty-first century. She had skipped straight from the twentieth
to the twenty-second.
It was blatantly obvious from the information dancing in front of Rune’s retinas that
the network security employed an effective ring of firewall processors completely
encircling the network. This ring of defence would be his responsibility. He reviewed the
systems with which he was familiar and was mildly dismayed at the number of systems
with which he wasn’t, although the overall strategy was easily understood. Triple
redundancy was built in everywhere, each security processor had a backup and that
backup had a backup. Xenix knew this network would be the ultimate challenge for
hackers, a prize even greater than the US National Security network and that of the
Pentagon, and they had responded accordingly.
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When viewed in terms of functionality, rather than physical layout, Rune’s security
ring enclosed the entire South African network, which was made up of separate,
interconnected networks serving the different parts of the Xenix Operation in South
Africa, from Administration and Accounts to Launch Operations and Satellite Control.
With its triple redundancy and AI-guided security, Rune’s wall guarded what had come
to be known as Armageddon: the site of the final battle. Only once the entire Xenix
Network had been defeated could this inner network be assaulted. It was impregnable.
The engineer placed a small, antiseptic plaster over the minute processor block at
the base of Rune’s neck and then transmitted a few more instructions to the processor
on the table. “I’ll see you in a week.”
It was argued – quite correctly – that the two forces which drove the advancement
of the Internet more than any others were gambling and pornography. It was hacker
technology, however, which not only drove data security technology, but also the
advance of Artificial Intelligence. Computers had to be taught to learn, to recognise
weaknesses and respond to them, to remember the weaknesses and not allow them to
be repeated, to defend against attack and then to respond with offence of their own,
and all this within milliseconds. Computers had to think for themselves, and think
quickly. It was Rune’s job to teach them how.
Rune finished tucking in his shirt and rubbed the back of his neck. “Suppose so.
What happens now?”
1.2.3
Rune receives his implants
Stripped to his waist, Rune lay face down on the padded table, his nose and mouth
aligned with a hole through which he could breath. The engineer standing beside him in
a white coat opened a sealed container on the table in front of him and removed a tiny
metallic spider with a pair of tweezers.
“This may feel a little weird,” he said, turning to Rune. “It won’t hurt.”
Rune clenched his teeth anyway. The room looked too much like a dentist’s surgery
for such assurances to mean terribly much.
The engineer placed the tiny mechanoid at the base of Rune’s skull, where a small
patch had been shaved away from his hair. He stepped back and frowned slightly,
issuing instructions to the processor block on the table using his own neural implants.
The legs of the spider twitched, moved to find their correct placement and then
anchored themselves to follicles. From its body, microscopic filaments protruded and
entered Rune’s skin with a slight pricking sensation.
“Please remain as still as you can,” said the engineer. “The strands are penetrating.”
Pause. “There. They’ve found the spinal column. Please wait a second.”
The cellular filaments, guided by their DNA programming, grew with massive
acceleration as they headed up Rune’s spinal column and headed for the base of his
brain. The processor on the table emitted a small beep and the engineer cocked his
head to one side, examining the information he was receiving from the processor.
“Please clench your right hand.” Rune obeyed. “Now your left. Flex our right ankle.”
The engineer ran through a test of Rune’s nervous responses and appeared satisfied at
the result. “You’ll feel a little pricking,” and the spider’s legs shot the organic anchoring
tendrils into Rune’s skin. He flinched slightly at the sharp pain which faded instantly.
The minute legs were dipped in their own anaesthetic.
The engineer waited another minute then asked Rune to sit up. “That’s it. Complete.
It will take another few days for the filaments to embed themselves into your nervous
tissue and I’ll need to run some diagnostics on the processor before activating it, but
you should feel nothing further.”
Rune stepped out of the room, pulling on his shirt. Janice Workman, Rune’s manager
and head of Cape Town’s data security, stood as he approached.
“Okay?”
“Nothing,” Janice replied, turning to lead Rune out of the waiting room. “It’ll take a
few days, but you won’t feel anything else. When you come back to have the processor
activated – that’s when things will really get weird. It’s like having an extra pair of eyes
and ears, but they’re inside your head. You’ll get used to it quickly enough. We all
have.”
As if that was sufficient answer for a man whose brain had just been invaded by
genetic technology. The neural implants were perfectly safe, by now many thousands of
people across the globe were using them to communicate with processors in place of
their PHUDs. The technology remained expensive, however, and it would be a good few
years before neural implants began to make PHUDs redundant.
“Phoenix-dot-JMPH tried again last night,” Rune reported to Janice’s back, still
rubbing the base of his neck. “They dropped Daffy primary for about three hours. Nils
and Jeanette are working on how they managed it.”
“Daffy PBS held?” asked Janice without turning around.
“Yah, but only by terminating its outer port. Impressive, though. It made that
decision within a fifth-of-a-second of coming on line. It knew it was beaten.”
“What AI is running there?”
“Charlene version 5.1. She’s good.”
The AI programs were given names corresponding to letters of the alphabet. There
were four basic programs, worked on by four independent teams of programmers. Alice,
Betty, Charlene and Debbie (presently still under development) operated on different
firewall servers as the primary decision-making software behind the network’s defence.
The servers themselves had been named after cartoon characters, for no reason Rune
could fathom. Each server had two backups, Primary Backup Server and Secondary
Backup Server, which all shared the name. Daffy, Daffy PBS and Daffy SBS, with
Charlene AI software, guarded one of three outer links between the satellite control
network and the outside world – Daffy, Bart and Snoopy. Triple redundancy covering
triple redundancy.
“We had an attack from a new address yesterday morning as well – ow!” Rune
pulled his hand away from behind his neck.
“Stop playing with it.” Janice didn’t turn around.
“Not very successful,” Rune turned his head from side to side as if trying to relieve
stiffness. “But the security encryption was good. No source DNS, a well hidden, multiple
and truncated re-trace route… not even a reliable IP address. Just a single identifier.
‘Kachoo’ or something. But that was only two in the past forty-eight hours.” Attempted
attacks came every few seconds, twenty-four hours a day. Only those which managed
to breach outer security were regarded as worth noting.
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“I have your report?”
“Uh-huh.”
Having reached the elevator, Janice pressed the button and turned to face Rune.
“How are we – leave that alone! How are we doing on tracing Phoenix?”
Janice, Rune had realised previously, was quite dazzlingly beautiful, although not in
any classic sense. There was an energy about her that was infectious – an energy that
fed those about her and made them want to be near her. She stood barely five-footthree inches tall and everything about her seemed compact; except her hair. Fiery red
hair, naturally curly and impossibly tangled, fountained off her head despite her best
efforts to control it. The result, however, was not untidy. Her small face had something
of the pixy about it – perhaps the red hair conspiring with her height to suggest a bit of
leprechaun. High cheek bones crowded beneath large, green eyes and were scattered
with freckles. A big mouth above a tiny chin was constantly set in, at least, a
comfortable smile – usually a broad grin. Her ears were not pointy, but they might as
well have been.
Despite her little-people look and ready smile, though, Janice held about her a
definite air of authority and command, which somehow – at least for Rune – appeared
to enhance her beauty. Personality seemed to make up for size, although not in an
overpowering sense. You could never be unaware of Janice’s presence in a room, but it
was never overwhelming.
Rune considered Janice’s beautiful face for a brief second before scolding himself for
allowing his mind to wander.
operating systems now distributed world-wide with almost no competitor, the Internet
was simply a means to an end as far as business was concerned. It was the traffic and
the data storage which was the primary business concern.
For this reason, Xenix had chosen to completely subsidise the hardware and
software used by the customer, instead choosing to charge a minute percentage on the
business conducted over its networks. As this was measured in billions of Dollars per
day, the profit more than covered the distribution of keyboard/screen interfaces and,
later, PHUDs.
The company as a whole retained this concept of providing, for a small charge, the
basic raw material utilised by every industry in every sector – information connectivity.
From this unique perspective, Xenix saw another opportunity of which, as the world’s
single largest corporation, it was uniquely placed to take advantage.
The wars of the early twenty-first century were almost entirely between the Western
Axis of the UK, US and their co-stars and individual nations which presented a threat of
one kind or another to their stability. Most of these nations were in the Middle East.
Most of them controlled a vastly disproportionate quantity of oil relative to their size
populations. As these wars dragged on, the toll on the resources of both blocs began to
show.
In short, as had been expected for many years, the planet’s natural wealth was
running out.
“The attacks come from servers not physically connected to each other except via
this location,” Rune explained. “Unless they’ve found a way to bounce off our own
firewalls without detection, they’re moving.”
Also during the first decade of the century, unmanned exploratory missions to Mars
had revealed huge amounts of frozen water beneath the polar ice caps. Only slightly
less expected had been the discovery of basic, sub-cellular life in the strata of Martian
soil between the frozen ice and the equally frozen surface. Somewhere between viral
and cellular, these life forms digested the minute carbon compounds found in the soil
and metabolised sufficient heat to melt minute quantities of the polar ice, feeding their
life-cycle. Their position was exceptionally precarious, but lacking anything resembling
biotic enemies, it appeared that these organisms had existed for millennia, lacking the
energy and resources to expand or develop but also lacking any physical threat to their
existence, except the cold to which they had learnt to adapt. They simply existed, each
generation releasing just enough resources to feed the next. An evolutionary stalemate.
“Excellent,” Janice looked down, biting her lip. “Work towards identifying the
programmers, not the route. We can trace travel records through Interpol. Nice work.”
They weren’t little green men, but they were extra-terrestrial life. The effect of this
news on Earth’s population was staggering.
“Working on it,” Rune forced his hands to stay at his sides rather than reach for his
neck. “They seem to be moving location, though. I mean physically moving, not just rerouting their attacks.”
“You can tell that?”
“Thanks.”
1.2.4
Explanation of Xenix
Taken as a whole, the software supergiant that was the Xenix Corporation was by
far the largest company on Earth. During the first decade of the twenty-first century, as
the globe settled into the daily use of the Internet as a platform for doing every kind of
business, it was swiftly realised that the internet itself, and the technology which ran it,
was far more valuable for what it did than what it was. With amazing swiftness, the
world’s economy had come to rely utterly on this global network for its livelihood. The
daily traffic, billions of dollars, relied entirely on the security and functionality of what,
up to this point, had been essentially a loose connection of computers of every shape
and size, joined together by everything from high-speed broadband satellite links to the
telephonic equivalent of two paper cups and a piece of string.
Xenix saw the opportunity to formalise this network – at least as much of it as was
under its direct or indirect control. Experience had taught Xenix that, as with its
On Earth, wars begat wars. China began to take advantage of the weakened
Western and Middle Eastern powers by expanding its own influence in the East. A cold
war was heating up. Martian exploration was quietly shelved.
Simultaneously, Xenix saw an opportunity for a logical extension of their control of
the world wide web. They provided the raw materials of information technology for the
planet. Could they not likewise provide the natural resources to underpin that
technology?
Buying out vast swathes of the technology controlled by NASA and the governmental
space agencies of Europe, Xenix embarked on the most ambitious project yet
undertaken by man. They would perform a geological survey of Mars with the intention
of mining the resources they may find.
Key to the long-term sustainability of the operation were the sub-cellular Martians at
the poles. These needed to be fed and mutated, grown and cultured. Xenix was going to
kick-start their stalled evolution, using the latest genetic modification technology to help
these creatures onto the first rungs on the ladder of life. Xenix had no interest in
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cultivating ETs – they wanted the oxygen released by these microbes if genetic
technology could persuade them to photosynthesise.
Initial experiments were successful and the Martian project started to take shape. It
was effectively divided into two parts: the geologists surveying the planet’s depths and
the biologists farming the planet’s population. Earth lay violated and sullied. The rape of
Mars had begun.
1.3
1.3.1
Underwood and D’Arte
Underwood investigates Micky Jackson abortive summoning: OUT OF
SEQUENCE (See 1.4.1, 1.4.2 and 1.4.4)
Micky Jackson had been disembowelled. He appeared to have done it himself.
In the strobe flashing of camera bulbs, the forensic detective traced a line around
the corpse, as he had done for the other seventeen. Were it not for the grotesque
nature of their injuries and the twisted, tortured expression on each face, he would
have found the situation quite amusing. The pentagram chalked on the ground, the
black candles, the inverted cross, all in their picturesque dungeon-like basement
surrounding looked like something out of a horror comic book. Summoning the
Creatures of the Deep, he thought, only the amusement he felt was extremely shortlived. That appeared to be exactly what these people had been up to until something
had gone very badly wrong.
If it were not for the positioning of Micky’s body, the detective could have believed
that a small bomb – perhaps a hand grenade – had gone off at the very centre of the
pentagram. Bodies were flung randomly outwards from this blast, smashed into walls,
twisted against pillars, one hanging five foot in the air, impaled on a wall-mounted fire
torch which her blood had extinguished. Although, he considered, even if Micky’s body
had not been found pitched forward, towards and close to the pentagram instead of
away from it, an explosion would have left burn marks on the floor and shrapnel lying
about. There was none.
Having traced the position of Micky’s corpse and allowing it to be photographed, the
detective gently rolled it onto its back. He winced and instinctively pulled his hand away
from the stiff shoulder.
“Jesus sufferin’ fuck,” drawled a whispered voice behind him. The Glaswegian
sergeant stared over the detective’s shoulder in fascinated horror. He could find no
other words.
Two empty and bloody sockets stared vacantly back at the policemen, cheeks
hidden by caked blood. Micky’s mouth gaped obscenely, unnaturally wide, his broken
jaw releasing the chin to fall against his throat, his tongue extended to almost reach the
bottom of the chin. Dried blood had congealed in the mouth and dried where it had run
down his chin and onto the slippery stone floor. His hands were clawed deep inside what
remained of his torso, disappearing into a red-black cavity which he seemed to have
ripped open beneath his rib cage. The contents of his torso were spread down his lap
and along his legs, lying haphazard on the floor, burst to expose their grim contents.
“That’s impossible,” the sergeant found his voice. “Isn’t it, sir?”
The detective said nothing. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette – his third in the
last fifteen minutes. He lit and sucked deeply, trying to govern his nausea. “Jesus,” he
shook his head. “Jesus. Dear God Jesus.”
“How long, sir?”
“Maybe two days,” the detective guessed, trying to discern how the flesh had sunk
onto the bone in the half-dark. He sucked again on his cigarette and blew the smoke
out in a heavy sigh. “He looks young – maybe twenty-five to thirty.” He was trying to
distract himself with his own professionalism from what lay in front of him. “Six, maybe
six-one. Caucasian. Unidentifiable eye colour.” The sergeant smiled grimly at what the
detective had not intended as a joke. “Strange that his hair should already be
completely grey.”
The photograph flashes had paused momentarily as whomever manned the camera
also took in the sight of the gnarled corpse. The strobe resumed, slower, and the
detective frowned as the light illuminated something obscured by the shadows cast
within the cavern of Micky’s stomach.
Securing the cigarette between his teeth, he leant forward to remove the corpse’s
hand from within. He had to force it with both hands and the rigor mortis fought his
efforts. The muscles suddenly gave and the detective stumbled backwards with the
forearm clasped in his hand. His cigarette fell to burn his trousers, but he hardly
noticed.
Between the stiff, dead fingers, crushed to a messy pulp, was Micky’s heart.
1.3.2
Underwood gets occult information from D’Arte
Pastor Jason D’Arte knelt silently at the coffee table in his study. His Bible lay open
in front of him, but his eyes were closed and his hands, fingers interlaced, lay on the
open book. It was mid-morning, but the room was in half-darkness, the curtains closed.
To his left was his desk and behind that a bookshelf which spanned the entire wall.
He had knelt for half-an-hour already, and the familiar dull ache in his shins made
him shift his weight every now and again. His shoes lay neatly alongside each other in
the doorway. It was D’Artes private act of acknowledgement – he always removed his
shoes before he prayed. To him it made sense, acknowledging the presence of God by
removing his shoes as Moses had done, reminding himself that, because of the presence
of God, the place upon which he knelt was holy ground.
D’Arte knew with a righteous certainty that he was a warrior, fighting for his people,
God’s people, the diminishing few who formed his flock and were therefore his
responsibility. His prayer may have been whispered or entirely silent, but he clasped his
hands together firmly, knuckles white, occasionally pounding the Bible before him to
emphasise the strength of conviction with which he interceded for his congregation.
His prayer-life had formed its own ritual. The Bible told him to “enter His gates with
thanksgiving in my heart and his courts with praise” and the first minutes of his prayer
life were therefore spent directly praising God – literally telling his maker (and, he
supposed, although he disliked the concept, his boss) how wonderful he was. He may
sing a chorus or two to himself, perhaps read a psalm (or recite one from memory) or
simply tell God how wonderful he was. He freely acknowledged that this sounded daft to
most people – to many Christians too – but Jason took praise seriously, in terms of his
interpretation of scripture, and it formed an integral part of his prayer life. If nothing
else, the pastor knew that focussing on God in this way helped calm his thoughts and
direct them towards the Object and Recipient of his prayers.
Beside his Bible lay a notebook and pen. It was forever the case that, as soon as
one sat and calmed one’s mind, forgotten chores and other thoughts, suppressed by the
busy-ness of daily thought, would come to the surface. They could be distracting,
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especially when he realised he would forget the thoughts again, and so he kept a
notepad to jot down those thoughts which interrupted his prayers. Once noted, they
could be safely forgotten.
ecumenical insight, independent of the Church of England. It was ordinarily vague,
cases requiring Biblical clarification or an explanation of the more ethereal, apocalyptic
aspects of D’Arte’s faith. D’Arte had not heard of a Liam Underwood, though.
Jason followed his praise with prayer for his daughter. Kayleigh was, he
acknowledged sadly, relatively typical of children born to those in the full-time service
of God. Part of her natural teenage rebellion had included a rejection of all things
Christian. Jason loved his daughter with the ferocity of a single parent – his prayers
never failed to remind him of his wife, Carol, who had died of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma
when Kayleigh was four years old.
“Pastor, I am calling because I need some information. Actually, I need a little help
with my investigation into a multiple homicide.” That got D’Arte’s attention!
Following an unremarkable school life, Kayleigh had chosen to travel to the UK for a
year or two as was so popular among her friends. She remained in regular contact with
her father, who stayed at home and fretted as any loving parent would do. Jason knew
Kayleigh to have some relatively strange spiritual ideas, but put them down to the
rebellious phase he hoped she was now leaving behind her. His primary concern was
that she would find whatever it was her young mind sought overseas and come back in
something approaching one piece. Daily he prayed for his daughter’s physical and
spiritual safety so far from home.
Right now, following his regular opening prayers, D’Arte prayed for Logan, the young
leader of the dozen or so teenagers who formed the Young Adults Bible Study which
would meet this evening in D’Artes lounge. Logan was a good lad, full of the fire and
enthusiasm his youth granted. D’Arte knew Logan meant well and didn’t doubt the
young man’s faith, but sometimes Logan lacked the peace and wisdom needed by a
Godly leader, and D’Arte prayed that his leadership would be tempered with Godly
understanding.
On his desk, his PHUD sounded a soft tone and D’Artes head jerked slightly at the
sound. He was mildly annoyed at the interruption of his devotion, and completed the
sentence in his head before standing slowly, stretching constricted limbs, and reached
for the head-set. He placed it over his ear, rubbed his eyes into focus and then snapped
the monocle into place in front of his right eye.
He was mildly surprised that the call identifier was from Scotland Yard, but
instructed his PHUD to acknowledge and answer the call.
“This is Pastor Jason D’Arte,” he lent forward onto his desk, covering his left eye
with his hand. Like many, he found the single lens of the PHUD difficult to use with only
one eye, but had not bothered with the additional monocle which made the PHUD
stereoscopic. The semi-transparent image of a man seated at an untidy desk, also
wearing a PHUD, appeared on the lens.
“Pastor, my name is Liam Underwood, Detective Chief Inspector for Scotland Yard. I
wonder if I could ask you a few questions. Have I called at a good time?”
D’Arte said that it was alright, apologising that his transmission was purely audio
since he had not wanted a Telecam installed in his private study, and asked with badly
disguised disinterest what could he do for the Detective Chief Inspector?
Seven years previously, on sabbatical in Britain, D’Arte had assisted a junior
detective inspector with his investigations into the disappearance of pets from a local
parish. The case had been closed – it had been explained to the zealous, evangelical
and fundamentalist parishioners that an outbreak of feline enteritis, and not devilworshipping animal-sacrificing Satanists, had been responsible. The relationship had
remained and once or twice a year friends made at Scotland Yard would contact the
Cape Town based pastor for assistance or advice which required an evangelical
“A what?”
Underwood recognised the tone of concern in D’Arte’s voice. “I’m sorry, Pastor – this
does not involve any member of your congregation. I need to ask you some questions
in the – ah – abstract. I’m afraid I shall be a little less than forthcoming with details of
my investigation, but I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
Relieved but intrigued, D’Arte sat back in the leather chair behind his desk, propped
his left elbow on his right fist to support the hand that covered his left eye and took a
breath. “Glad to help, Liam. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry if this sounds a bit fanciful, Pastor D’Arte –“ he pronounced the name
dart, rather than duh-artay “- but I need to ask you what you know about devil
worship.”
D’Arte sighed. Every now and again he had a call like this. Somebody had found
their cat tied to a tree or a five-sided star graffiti painted in red paint on their garden
wall and now they saw hooded warlocks summoning Beelzebub and sacrificing infants
behind every bush. He continued to marvel at the superstition that pervaded the
thinking of twenty-first century man.
“I’m not sure I can be that much help to you, Inspector,” D’Arte began tactfully.
“Satanism, or devil worship as you call it, is not, in my experience, as much of a reality
as many people might think.” Then he stopped short and recalled that Underwood had
used the term homicide. “Multiple homicide” in fact. “Are you investigating a murder
you think is ritual?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question, Pastor. Not because I need to hide the
information from you, but because I’m afraid I don’t understand enough of this stuff to
make that judgement. Please understand, Pastor, that I have dealt with cases of ritual
crime before. I’m sure this is not the first call you have received about this type of thing
either. I can tell you, though, that this is… well, it’s bigger, Pastor. I have eighteen
corpses in my mortuary downstairs.” He paused to let that sink in. “We found them in a
cellar below an abandoned warehouse. There were the usual paintings on the floor and
up-side-down crosses and stuff. Pastor, I need to ask you to please keep this
conversation to yourself for the time being if that’s alright?”
He received no immediate answer. D’Arte was digesting what he had just heard.
“Eighteen? Um, yes, of course I can keep this to myself. I am used to holding other
people’s secrets. Eighteen? What happened?”
“We don’t know,” Underwood admitted with a sigh. “I was hoping you could help us.
What is Satanism, Pastor, or devil worship or whatever it is? How does it work?”
D’Arte opened his left eye and looked across his shelves. Hidden in blank leather
covers were those books he had bought and read because he felt he had needed the
information to understand his enemy. He eyed them and forced himself to recall part of
their contents.
“It depends, Inspector,” he scratched the back of his head, “whom you read.
Satanism is like any other religion – it has denominations and different teachings.
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You’ve got Anton LaVey, you’ve got Alistair Crowley… then there’s Wicca and Voodoo
and Druidism and… well, to be honest, Inspector, it can be hard to define Satanism as a
single philosophy. Some protestants think the Catholic Church is Satanic.”
“Eh?”
“Yah, I know. History is full of people painting their enemies as devil worshippers. As
a result, there’s very little in the way of agreed dogma. I can tell you what I know,
Mister Underwood, but I’m not sure how helpful I can be. Maybe you could tell me what
you found.”
“Apart from eighteen dead – I might say quite gruesomely dead – people dressed in
hooded black cloaks, there was just the normal stuff. A star etched on the floor. Done
quite nicely, actually – it had been carved into the floor with some care. A table against
one wall, an upside-down cross hanging from the ceiling by chains.”
“What was on the table?”
“Um, a sword, a bell, a – er – a phallus, Pastor, a metal dildo, if you’ll forgive me.
And a silver cup.”
“The pentagram,” continued D’Arte. “The star. It was encircled? Was there a circle
drawn around it?”
“Yes.”
“One or two circles?”
“Two. It had what looked like Hebrew writing in between the rings.”
“Inspector, unfortunately I have no camera built into my PHUD, but I have a
reasonable idea I can guess at the lettering. Could you show it to me?”
Underwood issued some instructions to his PHUD and a photograph of the floor of
the cellar appeared in D’Arte’s monocle. The Pastor tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore the
brown-red stain across a third of the circle. “The Sigil of Baphomet,” he muttered, half
to himself. “The letters around the outside, starting from the base and working anticlockwise, are Resh, Lamed, Heth, Yod and Waw. They spell ‘Leviathan’.”
“What?”
“Leviathan. It’s a sea creature of some kind – a very big sea creature. The Bible has
the word in two places, twice in Job – supposedly the oldest book in the Bible – and
twice in Psalms.”
“I thought Genesis was the oldest book.”
D’Arte smiled indulgently. “Genesis was written by Moses, Inspector, during the
forty years he spent leading Israel through the wilderness on their way to the Promised
Land. It tells of the beginning of the world, but it is not the oldest book. Scholars reckon
Job may be the oldest, based on the writing style and the content. I can go into more
detail if you think it’s relevant.”
“Not yet, Pastor, thank you.” Underwood was scribbling furiously on a pad in front of
him, despite the fact that he must surely also be recording the conversation.
“Have you heard of the Kabala, Inspector?”
“No.”
“Hebrew mysticism. It’s effectively a cult based on Judaism, like Jehovah’s
Witnesses are to Christianity. Actually, that’s a bad example, but it is an offshoot of
Judaism. It’s supposed to date back to the sixth century or so –“
“A.D.?”
“Yes, A.D. Unless you would find it helpful, I shan’t go into too much detail there
either. Besides, I would suggest you speak to a teacher of Kabala rather than a
Christian Pastor.” D’Arte smiled to himself. He was warming to his theme. D’Arte
considered himself something of an expert on ancient heresies, both Christian and
Jewish. “The Kabala teachings refer to Leviathan as a serpent of the watery abyss. He’s
associated with Satan.”
D’Arte paused to allow Underwood to finish writing. “You said it was the symbol of
Bafflement?” asked Underwood, looking up.
“Baphomet,” repeated D’Arte. He spelt it out. “It’s the inverted five-sided star. The
upright, five-sided star, like you see on the American Flag, for example, with one point
upwards and two down, has been used for centuries in various religions.”
“Like the Star of David?”
“No. The Star of David has six points – it is two overlapping triangles. No, the fivesided star is used because all the points join to each other. You can see how you could
draw it on paper without lifting your pencil. For that reason, it’s supposed to represent
eternity, as are the circles that surround it. Now the Sigil – or seal – of Baphomet has
inverted the star, like they invert the cross. In this way it fits the head of a goat, its
horns filling the upper two points, its ears the lower two and its bearded chin the
bottom one. Exactly as in your photograph.”
Underwood was scribbling furiously, but understanding less and less. Upside-down
stars, sea monsters, Jewish mystics and now goats! Was this Pastor taking the piss?
“Goat, Pastor?”
“It’s a symbol used in Satanism. It’s one of the few things they actually take from
the Bible. You’ve heard of a scapegoat?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s it. The Hebrews used to take a goat and symbolically place all their sins on
its head. The goat would then be chased away into the desert to die on their behalf,
paying for their sins. It’s actually a bit funny, really. The goat represents what Christ
would one day do for us, yet the Satanists have taken it as the ultimate Biblical symbol
of evil and used it as their image. Funny, don’t you think?”
Underwood chose not to try and phrase politely his opinion that the entire
conversation was fucking hysterical, not to mention completely insane. Instead he tried
to steer the Pastor back towards his original question.
“Does this symbol of – “ he consulted his notes, “- Baphomet tell you anything about
the type of, um, ritual or beliefs there people might have had?”
“Yes,” D’Arte was reaching up to his shelf to remove two books, bound in
anonymous black leather. “LaVey. Anton Szandor LaVey.”
“Can you spell that?”
D’Arte did, consulting the inside cover of The Satanic Bible in front of him. Not many
of his congregation would understand why he kept a copy of this, and its sister work
Page 20 of 137
The Satanic Rituals. He kept them because he needed to know his enemy. At least he
had thought he needed to know his enemy. He had read the books years before and
while their contents offended him, he found their teachings puerile and the whole
concept just plain silly. The books lay on an upper shelf, ignored for years until this
conversation. D’Arte now preferred to learn of his enemy from the Bible.
“I would suggest, Inspector, that you get yourself a copy of the books he has
written.” He reeled off the titles and publisher while Underwood continued to scribble.
Again he wondered that the inspector should not be simply recording the conversation.
Perhaps he just preferred what D’Arte supposed they would call “old fashioned detective
work”.
“Can you give me a synopsis?” asked Underwood.
“Inspector, I have to remind you that I am a Christian Pastor. I could not be further
removed from a Satanist if I tried. I must tell you that I consider the contents of these
books to be absolute rubbish. I wouldn’t even go so far as to say they are dangerously
evil. I wouldn’t elevate them to that level. They are rubbish, the ravings of a deluded
man. They do not represent Satan as the Bible does and I fear they are simply a
diversion from the real works of the enemy of God.”
Underwood breathed deeply, choosing his words. “I understand, Pastor, that you
could hardly be pleased that I should call you about Satanism rather than Christianity.
Christian rituals hardly call for ritual slaughter, though.”
“No,” replied D’Arte. “In his book, LaVey, I think he was trying to be mystic and use
the four elements of the ancient Greeks. You know: earth, air, fire and water? He
divided his book into four parts. I forget which was which, but Leviathan was the title of
the water part of the book. I think he used it because, in Hebrew, it has five letters to
stick at the five corners of his star and the Kabala vaguely associates it with evil,
because it literally means ‘twisted’ or ‘coiled’, like a serpent, although it is associated
with the sea. Some translations of the Bible render ‘Leviathan’ as ‘whale’ or ‘big fish’.
That’s probably more accurate.”
“And it’s not a symbol of this Kabala? They wouldn’t be practising Kabala, or
whatever you do, would they?”
“No. The word happens to be used in Kabalistic teaching. No, they’re petty
Satanists, Inspector, impressed with their petty evils. I would suggest there’s probably
a very ordinary explanation – probably a gang- or drug-related explanation – for the
corpses in your mortuary.”
“I’m sure there is, Pastor.” Underwood consulted his notes again. “They don’t
sacrifice goats, then?”
“No. Nor cats, dogs, sheep, babies, virgins or anything else. At least not according
to LaVey. They just use it as a symbol.”
“Like their symbols, don’t they.”
“Uh-huh.”
It occurred to D’Arte that that was exactly what the early Christian’s had been
accused of before being fed to lions: deliberately the enemies of Christianity had taken
the communion service literally and Christians had been accused of cannibalism. He
smiled at the odd thought.
“That seems to be all,” said Underwood, still searching his notes. “Thank you for
your time, Pastor. Would you mind if I contact you again if I have any further
questions?”
“Of course, Inspector. It is probably somewhat easier for you to talk to me than to
track down some Satanic high priest.”
“Not at all. You’re also more than welcome to attend my Sunday service to see how
the truth about these things really works. It might change your life, Inspector.”
“Indeed,” said Underwood, somewhat drily.
But it won’t tell me how seventeen people got their hearts burnt to a crisp, will it,
Pastor? “That you again, Pastor. Have a good day. Goodbye.”
“LaVey’s books are contradictory. On the one hand he lists demonic names, satanic
laws and even has a section which is supposed to be Satan’s answer to the Bible. It’s
even divided into chapters and verses. On the other hand, though, he insists that Satan
is not an actual being as such, but rather represents a sort of ‘Law of the Jungle’, if you
like. Survival of the strongest, death to the weak. The Satanist himself is supposed to
be his own highest God, yet in the rituals they’re supposed to worship this being that
they say doesn’t exist. I’m sorry, Inspector, but you can see why I consider it drivel. He
does specify the basic rituals in his first book, which he adds to in his second. The
details of those may be helpful to you, although none of them specify even animal
sacrifice, let alone human sacrifice. Frankly, if you’re looking for blood-drenched orgies,
Inspector, you will be disappointed.”
The connection was dropped but the image remained in D’Arte’s mind. Not of
Underwood seated at a small, cheap and untidy desk, but of an etched pentagram
surrounded by black candles and a cobbled floor, stained with blood. Yes, thought
D’Arte, feeling a strange chill grip his heart, it is amazing how superstitious twenty-first
century man can be.
Underwood realised absently that he was vaguely disappointed, but allowed D’Arte
to continue.
1.4.1
“They use the articles you mentioned – the ones you said were on the table. Bells,
gongs, swords, phalluses, black candles. I am sure you’re dealing with LaVey Satanists,
Inspector, although I’m not sure how that will help you. As I said, their teachings are
disappointingly garbled and harmless. I suppose someone like me should be thankful for
that.”
Underwood frowned, looking over his notes. “So what does this Leviathan have to do
with anything?” he muttered, half to himself. “Do they worship it?”
“Goodbye, Inspector.”
1.4
Vivian, Kyrell and Micky’s Fate
Vivian’s gunfight
Laser-guided machinegun fire pounded explosively into the supportive column, chips
of plaster and brick flying past the periphery of Vivian’s vision. She hugged her
shoulders in tighter, flicked the empty magazine from the grip of the Uzi and unclipped
a new one from her belt. Over a century since Al Capone and gangsters were still
fighting with essentially the same ballistic technology.
To her left, Vivian saw Hal crouching beneath the battered remains of a marble
reception counter. He, too, was reloading. His greasy, mousy-brown hair was escaping
Page 21 of 137
from his ponytail and he kept brushing it aside with brisk, nervous movements, tucking
it behind his ears. Vivian waited until Hal had reloaded and cocked his weapon, then she
signalled to him that he should cover her as she came to join him behind the desk. Hal
nodded.
She slapped the long, 32-round magazine home into the grip of the machine pistol,
jerked back on the bolt, held the grip barrel-up in front of her with both hands and
waited. Another short blast of machinegun fire splintered the column and Hal replied,
rolling onto his right side out from behind his cover to spray short bursts at the columns
behind which their attackers crouched. Vivian crossed the gap between her column and
the desk in two strides, firing over her left shoulder as she ran, skipped over Hal and
dropped behind the desk. Hal released another two sharp bursts of fire, hitting nothing
but plaster, then rolled back behind desk, his magazine empty.
“Where’s Garth?” Vivian whispered as Hal hurriedly reloaded his weapon.
“Dead,” muttered Hal, not looking up from his work. “Somewhere over there.” He
gestured vaguely in the direction of the incoming fire. His pistol once again functional,
he looked up at Vivian with his bloodshot eyes and held the pistol across his chest.
“What now?”
“Shit.” Garth was useful in a fire fight. Better than the smack head who was, even
now, unable to lift his eyes from her chest.
She thought her way around the lobby. The room was perhaps thirty feet square,
with a colonnade of pillars forming an inner square twenty feet across. The shattered
glass door was to their right and not easily gained as the desk behind which they now
crouched was rounded to meet the wall on the right. She could hear scraping and
scratching, movement towards the door across the glass to cover their exit. Directly
across from them were the elevators, doors hanging bent and buckled, useless except
as cover. To their left were large windows, from the ceiling to the sill only a foot off the
ground. A good twenty feet away.
She judged there to be only the three of them from the direction and consistency of
their fire. Micky had an automatic pistol and the other two sub machineguns. Like her,
they were using the columns as cover, firing to cover each other as they crept from one
to the next.
They’d started with four, including Vivian. The drop was in the abandoned
warehouse just outside Gravesend near London. They’d met here in the reception room
and Micky, his jet-black hair in a neat parting, had handed over the laser disk in
exchange for the powder as agreed. She had stood behind Shamus, watched the
exchange. Shamus had inserted the disk into a portable processor block while Micky cut
a small hole in the bag with a penknife and rubbed the cocaine against his gums. Vivian
had ignored a strange crackle in the earpiece of her PHUD.
Shamus had stiffened as information from the processor block registered across the
lens of his PHUD. Smiling patronisingly, Micky stepped back behind his two companions
who had raised their machine guns. Garth and Vivian tried to raise their weapons in
reply, but there had been a deafening roar as the two machine pistols went off
simultaneously and Shamus disintegrated, blood flying from sudden craters in his back,
the processor block blown to pieces, taking his hands with it. The back of his head
simply disappeared in a cloud of grey-red gore.
Garth and Vivian had reacted too slowly, and now spun away from Shamus’ body as
it fell backwards, seeking the cover of the columns. Hal, to Vivian’s left, had already
been partially hidden by a column and Vivian was vaguely aware of him running across
and behind her for the safety of the desk, trailing gunfire.
From behind their columns, Vivian and Garth had fired at the retreating men, but
each dived clear, one into an abandoned elevator, the other two behind columns of their
own. Vivian and Garth had exchanged looks and pointed back towards the better cover
of the reception desk. That was forty seconds ago.
Hal was still staring at her tits through narrow, bloodshot eyes. High as a fucking
kite, she thought angrily.
“Run,” she whispered, pointing her Uzi over Hal’s shoulder at the windows twenty
feet away. She could see appalled understanding dawning on Hal’s face and knew she
could not give him time to realise how suicidal that was. “Cover me,” in an urgent
whisper and then she dived past where he knelt, rolled and came up in a crouched
sprint, firing right to cover her own advance until Hal regained his wits and then a short
blast forward to shatter the window. She heard Hal curse and then copy her, firing at
the columns as he dashed after her.
Plaster exploded from the columns to her right and the wall to her left – she seemed
to be running through a tunnel of flying dust and debris, all so desperately slow. She
could hear the buzzing, like angry bees, as bullets and brickwork hurtled past her. The
window ahead slowly fell like a dirty waterfall but she could not hear the shattering
above the assault. She fired right again and the Uzi died in her hand, ammunition
exhausted. She considered dropping it, but knew she’d need it so sprinted on, trying to
detach a magazine from her belt while pressing the grip to drop the empty.
The magazine came away from her belt and she slid it into the grip as she ran.
Pulling the bolt in a single, fluid movement, she extended her right arm and fired
without looking. She could feel, rather that hear, Hal’s fire behind her, coming in one
long blast instead of shorter, more accurate bursts. Dickhead! she cursed as she
covered the last few feet before the window. Bringing her right arm in again she dived
through the still falling glass, rolled on the gravel that grazed the skin from her
shoulders and knees, spun as she came up and spat the contents of her Uzi back
through the window to cover Hal’s escape. Another burst of gunfire as Hal misjudged his
jump caught him and spun him bodily into the glass-encrusted frame. His face smacked
into it and pulled backwards, a mess of blood, while still more rounds pummelled into
his back. The Uzi fell from his hands as his body jerked with each impact, then fell
sideways to crumple on the gravel next to Vivian.
She grabbed the collar of his jacket and dragged him against the wall, covering the
window with her pistol. Rummaging through the bloody mess that was Hal’s chest, she
found the keys to the Volvo parked around the other side of the building. She
abandoned the corpse and ran.
1.4.2
Vivian confronts Helmsford and Kyrell
“What the fuck was that all about?” Vivian demanded coldly, striding across the terra
cotta stonework towards Regan Helmsford who lay on a sun lounger alongside the pool.
He formed the perfectly stereotypical image of opulent wealth, straw hat shading his
face, sunglasses hiding his eyes, cocktail in one hand, cigarette in the other. He raised
his head slightly as the tall, athletic woman strode purposefully towards him, long dark
hair blown backwards behind her.
“The exchange didn’t go as planned then?” Regan feigned innocence, lifting the
cocktail to his mouth in a deliberately languid gesture. He allowed his head to tip
forward so that Vivian could see his eyes move slowly down her body. Her slender neck
Page 22 of 137
was set on broad shoulders from which hung muscular, though not manly arms. Her
taught torso spoke of exceptional fitness, large, full breasts held at rigid attention
against her chest. A narrow waist led down long and muscular legs to delicate ankles.
Regan filled his look with as much lechery as he could, enjoying the theatre and the fact
that both knew him to be quite definitely homosexual.
Vivian stopped abruptly alongside him and glared down at her reflection in his
sunglasses. She breathed slowly in and out before answering.
“Shamus is dead,” she began, counting corpses on her fingers. “Garth is dead. That
little prick Hal is dead. Whatever was on that disk is gone, as is a small fortune in
cocaine, and I am thoroughly pissed off. What the fuck happened?”
“Better than being pissed on,” muttered Regan, but he sat up, swung his legs
around and looked up at Vivian over the tops of his sunglasses. “I know what
happened,” he was all business now, his tone lower and serious. “It was a fucking
shambles and I am more than a tad annoyed with Micky Jackson. I truly am not sure
what he thinks he’s playing at and I lost three good people in that senseless gunfight.
Hal most of all. He might not have been much use with an Uzi in his hand, but stick a
PHUD on his head and that little bastard could work miracles. I needed him.”
Vivian relaxed, turned around, found a chair, dragged it up to Regan’s sun lounger
and sat down opposite him. “You needed what was on that disk.”
“Indeed,” Regan signalled to a man standing at the other end of the pool, dressed in
black shorts and a black T-shirt, trainers and sunglasses with an Uzi strapped over his
shoulder. “Rum and coke, please, Andre,” Regan instructed, pointing at Vivian. The man
nodded and headed for the house.
“Where is he?” asked Vivian, once the guard had disappeared.
“Kyrell? Downstairs.”
“He won’t be happy.”
“No, but he’ll deal with it. We have other sources.”
“You still believe it exists?”
“Kyrell does, although how it could ever have been transcribed to EF is a mystery to
me. We probably have the most complete occult library on the planet, and we hadn’t
even heard of it before he came along. Rumours, yes, but nothing outside fiction.
Lovecroft and all that.”
Vivian nodded absently, noticing that the guard was returning, awkwardly balancing
a single drink on a tray. Behind him walked a tall man, long blonde hair neatly tied up in
a ponytail. His tall, arrogant walk held an almost aristocratic natural authority and lithe,
malevolent purposefulness. Colourless green-grey eyes pierced with unnatural intensity
from beneath heavy, sandy eyebrows; a high, intelligent forehead contradicted a
muscular, athletic body. His chin was half-hidden behind a small, manicured goatee
beard. As he walked across behind the guard, he adjusted the PHUD he had clearly just
placed over his right ear, looked up beyond the guard to Vivian and Regan and smiled.
“You made it?” His tone suggested absolute disinterest in the fact.
“I know what Micky did,” said Kyrell evenly. He faced Vivian and cocked his head
slightly to one side, slowly taking in the form of her body with a long look. “I was
expecting no less,” he continued as his eyes roamed back up to meet hers. “Shamus did
get a chance to insert the disk into the block before he died, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Vivian, her frown and inflection turning the word into a question.
“Then may I have access to your PHUD, please?” Kyrell produced a processor block
he was holding in his hand and placed it on the table. “Please transmit the recording of
what happened.”
“Access event record,” Vivian instructed her PHUD. A menu appeared on her
monocle. “Entry seven. Transmission menu. Local receivers. Two,” she said, selecting
the processor block on the table. “Transmit. Code Three X-Ray Indigo. Transmit.”
A second later the processor on the table beeped, and Kyrell began issuing
instructions to his PHUD. He sat with one eye shut, watching information on his monocle
and smiled. “Well done.”
Understanding dawned on Vivian’s face, swiftly followed by a sharp look at Kyrell. “It
recorded Shamus’ processor block?”
“Indeed,” smiled Kyrell.
“And Micky brought the correct disk?”
Kyrell paused, reading. “Seems like it.” Vivian frowned again, framing the silent
question.
“Micky had his instructions, too,” Kyrell explained. “He is now doing precisely what
you’re doing, playing back his recording of events to somebody. Clearly, he destroyed
the processor and killed everybody but you. You escaped with the same record,
accurately recording your failure.”
“Except, of course, she didn’t fail,” said Regan, an edge to his voice. “Please
enlighten me as to why this charade has cost me a shit load of coke, two damn fine
men and my best programmer.”
“The coke was the agreed price,” said Kyrell, removing his PHUD, “So don’t whine
about that. The men are replaceable and Hal was the one who programmed the
processor to override the PHUDs and ensure the transmission of the disk’s contents – to
every PHUD in the room, incidentally. He had to be present to ensure it went as
planned. I assure you, though, that he is also replaceable.”
“As am I,” said Vivian. Kyrell smiled an answer. “What about the other PHUDs?”
“Micky destroyed them.”
Anger was giving way as Regan began to realise that they now had the ancient
manuscript in their hands. “It’s all there?”
“Seems like it. The transmission is complete.”
“And now?”
“Call them,” said Kyrell. “All of them. Here. Saturday.” It was Monday.
“Hello, Kyrell,” said Vivian, rising to take her drink from the tray offered to her. “By
the skin of my teeth. I don’t have the disk, though. Nor do I have Shamus, Garth or
Hal. Micky –“
Page 23 of 137
1.4.3
Kyrell searches
Kyrell appeared asleep. He lay on a richly padded couch in the semi-darkness of one
of Helmsford’s manor’s guest rooms. A processor block, smaller than the one he had
asked Vivian to copy her recording to, lay on a coffee table in the centre of the room.
This block interacted directly with his neural implants, which meant he did not need the
PHUD. Kyrell had copied what he needed from Vivian’s recording and now lay reviewing
the files.
Every now and again he would smile slightly, or furrow his brow as he concentrated
on the information which appeared to form inside the lids of his closed eyes.
The information completed, but Kyrell stayed motionless in the darkness. He was
thinking, searching. It wasn’t incomplete, but something was missing. It danced lightly
at the edges of his consciousness, an instinct, a feeling. Something was hidden or
removed.
He shifted to lie more comfortably, then started to formulate query routines in his
brain to run against the information he had been given.
1.4.4
Kyrell and Vivian learn of Micky’s fate
“What, all of them?” It was rare that Kyrell should show any particular emotion –
especially when speaking to a junior acolyte – but now his eyebrows came down and his
eyes narrowed in disbelief. Vivian lounged next to him in demure silence.
“Aye, sir. According to the autopsy reports, sir.”
“So what happened to them?”
“Well, I told you about Micky, sir. He still had his, although he appeared to have
crushed it in his own hand. Unholy bloody mess, sir, I can tell you. Coroner still
reckoned he died from blood loss rather than heart failure, but there you go. The
others… it was like they’d been burnt – like when they take out a tumour with lasers;
you know how they focus the things to burn the tumour and not the stuff around it, sir?
Like that.”
“Their hearts were burnt in their chests…” It wasn’t a question. Kyrell was thinking.
“Aye, sir. But none of the flesh around the heart was burnt.”
“I want copies of these autopsy reports.”
“That may be a little –“ The Glaswegian sergeant trailed off to silence in response to
the expression on Kyrell’s face. “Aye, sir. I’ll get ‘em.”
“And what has the long arm of the law made of things so far?”
“They’re baffled, sir, an’ no mistake. And I don’t mind tellin’ you, so am I.
Something scattered seventeen people like they were so many rag dolls, burnt out their
hearts and then convinced a hardened criminal to rip out his own guts with nought but
his fingernails, grab his own heart and squeeze. Jesus, sir, you should ha’ seen the
mess. With all the ritual…” he paused, searching for the word, “paraphernalia about the
place, the imagination does run a wee bit riot, if you understand my meanin’, sir.”
“So what are their theories? Do they have any theories?”
“Some explosive, possibly set off my Micky himself, who entered the room after?”
He made it sound like a question. “They’re struggling without burn marks or any
damage to anything but the victims, but it’s the best they’ve got. As for Micky, it was
done for him and then he was laid out to make it appear otherwise. That or he had gone
completely mad. No fingerprints, mind, sir. No footprints, door locked from the inside…
no evidence that anybody got out after the – er – incident. And there’s nobody can tell
what happened to burn their hearts. Sir.”
“Who’s leading the investigation?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Underwood, sir. Liam Underwood. A London man. He’s
good, sir. Plenty of experience. Been in the force for over twenty years, sir. With the
Yard for fifteen. He’s good.”
“Yes,” Kyrell’s face was once again its usual mask, but he was pleased. The more
experienced and therefore less fanciful the investigator, the better. “Get me those
autopsy reports and continue to give Detective Chief Inspector Liam Underwood your
every support. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“Sir.”
The stubby little sergeant turned and waddled from the room. Vivian watched him
go.
“That’s pretty gruesome,” she turned to face Kyrell who was watching the door.
“Who do we have to thank?”
Kyrell continued to stare ahead. “Nobody.”
Vivian frowned, her finger now twisting the end of Kyrell’s pony tail. “Nobody?”
“I didn’t order it,” Kyrell turned to look at Vivian. “”Didn’t know anything about it.
Micky and I are not the mortal enemies we pretend to be.”
“Were not,” corrected Vivian playfully. “And I should know – I had three good people
gunned down on me last Sunday thanks to your little secret friendship. I just thought
that, since you have what you’re looking for –“
Kyrell smiled and lowered his face towards hers. “And just what do you know about
what I am looking for, Miss Lancaster?”
She kissed him swiftly on the lips before saying, “Nothing. What are you looking
for?”
“Right now?” Another kiss. Kyrell tugged on the shoulder of Vivian’s leotard top.
“The contents of this gym suit.”
1.4.5
Kyrell’s search routines return
Kyrell awoke. He had constructed his search routines and had left them at work,
searching the net for what he could not quite name. He knew where to look. He knew
what he had. He didn’t know what was missing, but he knew enough to find it.
Now the probing lines of computer code had completed their searches and returned
to advise him of their result. They activated the neural implants within Kyrell’s brain.
The effect was not unpleasant; the interruption of an alarm clock. His neural pathways
came alive and he simply awoke.
His eyes remained shut and he reviewed the searches as they appeared to form on
the inside of his eyelids. As expected, their references were, at the very least, obscure.
Some he failed to recognise utterly, although others were familiar.
Page 24 of 137
He smiled as he knew he had found what he sought. Slowly his eyes opened and he
looked from his bed to the window where dawn streamed in through half-drawn
curtains.
It was Saturday morning.
1.5
1.5.1
Kayleigh Escapes Helmsford
Kayleigh wakes
Alone in the dark, subterranean room a huddled, naked figure lay unconscious.
Long, white-blonde hair splayed out against the cobbled floor. Her pretty face, small,
blue eyes, delicate mouth and tiny, neat white teeth, battered and ruined, lay hidden
beneath a hand that, even in semi-coma, seemed raised in self-protection. Slender
body, tight buttocks and slim legs were covered in purple-yellow bruises. Dried blood,
black darkness deeper than the dark stones, outlined several parts of her body. She’d
been left where she fell. She’d been left to die.
She had always thought that consciousness was an absolute – that you were either
awake or asleep. She was sure there had always been a definite line between the two,
with the possible exception of that languid feeling when you woke up on a Saturday
morning with nothing to do for a few hours and hovered pleasantly above reality,
dreams still clear so long as you didn’t think about them too hard. A minor thing,
perhaps, but the undermining of such a basic concept as the line between wakefulness
and unconsciousness, however insignificant it may seem, can be as devastating as any
life-changing experience.
Like, say, rape.
And attempted murder. A damn good attempt, actually, however secondary it may
have been.
Now her mind floated in a sea of pain as if shipwrecked a billion miles from a shore
of doubtful existence and it watched in idle agony as the flotsam of her senses, the
shattered ship that once transported her life, drifted nonsensically by in broken shards.
It was impossible to judge what came from her conscious mind and what was the
product simply of the pain nightmares – the difference was insubstantial and, in just
about every real sense, irrelevant. It didn’t matter. Perhaps she had not known before,
but as the immense, down narcotic cocoon disappeared like morning mist and the pain
surrounded her – defined her – she came to realise with a certain degree of stupid
resignation, happiness’ retarded kid brother, that she was dying. As expected, this was
not unwelcome news.
Among the floating and insubstantial wreckage of her thoughts and memory, her
own consciousness bobbed alongside, sometimes breaching the surface, mostly
submerged yet just visible beneath. She rolled about her sea of pain, breathing more
water than air, as the drowning do, catching fleeting glimpses of it between the waves.
Most was void, a black nothingness to which she could gladly surrender were it not for
the agony, unconnected to anything except itself, but every now and again a thought
would flash, like a distant candle in smoky night.
She wasn’t dead. The pain told her that. It engulfed her, tore at her, surrounded her
and drowned her without killing her. It was a cold pain, freezing and somehow
simultaneously solid and liquid – solidly renting her flesh and liquidly flowing into every
part of her being. It blinded her senses, mangled her thoughts, raked icy fire across
every
– cold floor. Proper darkness. A darkness she could see. Blinding wet pain between
her legs –
inch of her skin. An unholy wailing, distant and incorporeal, a shrieking whisper,
floated past her, came and left, gasping for breath above the torrent, gurgling and
failing to hold itself together. It sucked down the iron-tasting flood and coughed
– warm liquid filling her mouth. Spat weakly down her chin and cheek. For a
moment the coughing tearing at her lungs held the real darkness in place, the cold floor
burning into her temple –
and gasped at the bitter air before sinking below the surface to drown in
unfathomable depths.
Time was also supposed to be constant. Sleep and dope should have taught her
otherwise, but she was young and had retained the basic idea that time was an
objective concept and passed at a standard pace. It’s not that she realised she was
wrong in any cognitive sense any more than she had given serious philosophical
consideration to the idea that consciousness and the lack thereof were separated by a
definite divide. This was an emotional realisation, a dawning without any real sense of
having thought about it. Time meant nothing. It wasn’t passing, it wasn’t stopping. It
simply wasn’t. Agony beyond delirium somehow made her entire existence an eternal
now.
– not completely dark. A wavering, orange light, maybe a few feet from her.
Fresh pain, white hot pieces of broken glass flailing her head and abdomen, and she
clenched her eyes tightly against the onslaught. Two things happened simultaneously.
She realised the far-off gurgling wail was actually coming from her own mouth and the
kaleidoscope of pain and terror that filled her brain as her eyes tried to shut out the
ripping, tearing, gouging sucked her from her eternal black sea and for an instant time
existed, she existed, thought existed and pain, by becoming part of her and not
surrounding her, blinded her with consciousness and awareness as it sliced across her
with new intensity. It was in her. In her stomach and in her head and between her legs.
It existed within a frame of reference instead of engulfing everything in a nebulous hell.
There was no way of telling how she knew, and certainly no mental energy left to
consider it, but she knew with every part of her simultaneously that this terrifying
reality had to be clung to. With horrifying voraciousness the dark sea of non-oblivion
and floating thoughts and liquid-solid pain flooded her and tried again to drown her, but
the colours behind her eyes that cart wheeled and exploded and stabbed Technicolor
knives through her brain were real and she clung to them as if holding onto a ladder of
fire lest she fall into a sea of brimstone. She had to hold it, she had to hold onto the
colours which, by their whirling and firework detonations, marked the passage of Time
and Time meant life and life was what she wanted and she had no idea why.
She thought of the little light, the orange one she had just seen, and by a
tremendous effort of will she forced her eyes open. Some of the swirling colours of pain
remained, as if she had been staring at a moving light bulb which had suddenly gone
out, but mostly the darkness returned and hovering before her, blearily holding out
against the cold dark, she saw the tiny flame and gave everything to holding it there in
front of her.
Although it was at least passing, time remained illusive and definitely not objective.
But the pain was easing. This, too, was a very relative thing, but the sea of it was gone
and now it started to divide itself among parts of her body and she could feel
differences – different pains in different parts. She could also tell what was simply
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unpleasant: the taste in her mouth, the cold against her temple. These were no longer
pain – they were just there and could be ignored or –
She shifted her weight. Her abdomen and head shrieked their protest, but she could
move the position of her head on the floor and this helped with the cold. Well, it moved
the cold to somewhere else while her numb temple could start to warm up again. The
things which were just there and not pain could be made to go away.
Again time dawdled and raced together like an old movie that has broken its
sprockets. Sometimes she closed her eyes, and each time she did the flashing lights
seemed to cause less pain. Her Universe continued to be defined by the pain in her
body, but the disembodied pain that surrounded her and filled her head was slowly
reaching manageable limits. When she opened her eyes, the lights remained to a lesser
and lesser extent, until she found she could open them and see only the hovering flame
in the darkness.
Consciousness did not remain constant. By the time the flame was gutted by the
wind of an opening door and firm, rough hands grabbed her wrists and ankles, Kayleigh
D’Arte had found the comforting oblivion she had sought. Somewhere between sleep
and coma, for eternity and no time at all, her mind had found happy, painless
nothingness. She would still have been better off dead, but now she may have found
the strength to contest the point.
1.5.2
Kayleigh begins her escape
This time consciousness did not swim up in liquid pain – it smashed solidly into all
her senses simultaneously. From blissful oblivion Kayleigh was suddenly wide awake.
Bright light tore at her retinas even beneath closed eyes. Pain seared her temples, her
crotch and her abdomen. The sharp smell of chlorine assaulted her nostrils. The acrid
and metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. And, what had doubtless awoken her, a
claxon alarm made cacophonic nonsense of her thoughts.
She squinted against it all, trying to interpret what her five senses were shouting at
her. She covered her face with her hands, trying to cover both eyes and ears together
and, by pressing her head against the strangely soft floor, having some success.
Abruptly the claxon was silenced and above the ring in her ears, Kayleigh could hear
voices. Some of the conversation was audible.
“A what?”
“Security alert. Perimeter…”
“…what the fuck it sounds in here for, I really don’t…”
Electric voices – voices on a radio receiver – sounded urgent but Kayleigh could not
make them out.
“On our way.”
Silence. She listened, but could hear no further voices.
Slowly, Kayleigh opened her eyes. At first she squinted against the harsh light and
closed them tightly again, and then, even more slowly, she allowed them to open as the
tiniest slits she was capable of. Everything seemed to shine bright white about her such
that she found comfort in focussing on the pink of her hands, the only colour she could
make out.
The room pulsed slowly into focus and the majority of it was very white. Above her
hung a naked halogen bulb. She tried to squint at that for no reason and then allowed
her gaze to wander about the room.
As she took in the white tiles, white cupboards, white walls and white door, memory
began to return. The chamber. The violence, crowding around her, penetrating,
tearing…
Oh, Jesus! She felt the bile rise in her and her body lurched slightly as the memory
collided with her consciousness like a white-hot steam train. She could not remember
how many, just a blur of angry faces and black hoods and pain, pain, pain. She looked
down at herself, naked on the soft white floor, and saw the caked blood on her thighs.
As if looking focussed the pain, she felt anew the tearing and bruising and swollen,
angry torment that beat with its own pulse between her legs. She moaned softly, then
coughed as the dried blood caught the back of her throat. The coughing hurt – it hurt
her head most of all – but somehow it forced greater awareness into her consciousness.
She waited for the pinpricks of colour in her vision, brought by the coughing, to fade
and started to think at least relatively clearly. Most of what ran through her head was
more closely related to emotion – at best, instinct – but it was better than the absence
of thought and it did at least introduce one very important concept:
Kayleigh was in very serious danger.
Kayleigh was also very hung over from an almost terminal intake of drugs, although
this was not so clear to her thoughts. Neither her body nor her mind seemed to work
properly, which was about as coherent as that concept got to her. Still, she was in
danger, she had to get out of here – wherever “here” may be – and it was starting to
dawn at a cognitive level that the absent voices represented about the best opportunity
she was going to get of achieving this goal.
Doing her best to force this cognitive part of her brain to remain focussed, Kayleigh
looked at her surroundings with slightly more intellect and realised she was lying on a
table, not a floor at all. With the bright light and the white surfaces, the concept
“hospital” started to register at some level, but it felt wrong. This wasn’t a hospital. It
smelt too strongly of disinfectant for one thing. Again, the thought was instinctive – a
comparison of present circumstance with memories labelled “hospital”. Little of this
happened at any conscious level. No bedside table, no little glass of water, too many
white metal cabinets. And that smell.
She forced herself into a sitting position, which caused its own pain between her
legs. Again on a level that wasn’t quite conscious, Kayleigh realised that she could not
allow herself to feel every little pain in her body and allow it to dominate her thoughts.
She was in danger and the pain would have to wait. With an effort of will, instinct
uniting with conscious effort, Kayleigh blanked the pain from her mind. It was
important, but not important enough. Not now.
Her eyes had become accustomed to this strong not-hospital room, and she looked
around. The room was bare except for white metal cupboards lining the white walls, the
bed itself and a white door with a small window, maybe the size of her fist. Kayleigh
stood slowly, taking stock of her body, some part of her noting every pain as it
presented itself, documenting its presence for later reference and then blocking it from
her mind. She took a tentative step, again experimenting with her somehow new and
rather less than fully functional body – seeing what would happen when she did so. She
didn’t fall, although “upright” wasn’t as definite a concept as she was used to. Balance
was off. She focussed hard on the little window in the door and this seemed to assist
her ears in determining which way was up. Then she took another step. Then another.
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The door was five steps away. She reached it and stopped, putting her hand out to
touch the silver handle. It was cold in her palm. Before trying to depress the handle,
Kayleigh raised herself on tip toes to see through the little window into the next room.
It wasn’t a room. It was a corridor. A strange corridor – high ceiling, deeply coloured
walls and the side of a painting with lavish frame. Indeed no hospital.
counter her panic, she turned and pushed the door closed as softly as she could
manage.
1.5.3
Kayleigh escapes Helmsford
By pressing her cheeks against the door on either side of the little window, Kayleigh
could see down most of the corridor in each direction. It was deserted. Kayleigh also got
her first fix on what time of day it was – the sun shone directly through huge windows
on the opposite wall of the corridor. The tired colours told Kayleigh’s subconscious that
it was nearing the end of the afternoon.
As her eyes became accustomed to the comparative dimness of the room she had
entered, Kayleigh realised she may have made a huge mistake. The room she had left
had clearly been converted for use as some sort of sterile storage chamber. This was
the habitat of a reasonably senior member of the security staff. Her mind threatened to
sink beneath the pain and her body wanted desperately to fall where it stood, but she
forced herself upright.
Kayleigh pushed down lightly on the handle. It moved down as it should. Kayleigh
then tried to push the door. Nothing. She pushed harder. Again nothing. Panic started
to rise. She pushed harder, and felt the door beat against the frame. She let the handle
rise and looked back around the room, this time with definite intent. A window. Another
door. Keys would perhaps be a little too optimistic. Nothing.
The room was in the relative chaos one would expect from a single man living alone
in the lap of luxury. The bed was unmade and clothes lay strewn about the floor. Two
days’ worth by the looks of it. Kayleigh realised that there must be some system of
domestic servitude – people must exist who cleared up after the senior members of the
mansion staff; do their washing, ironing, tidy the rooms, that sort of thing.
Again she depressed the handle and pushed. Still the door remained firm. She
cursed softly under her breath and then a thought occurred to her. She pulled.
Hoping it was the maid’s day off and narrowing her odds still further by hoping that
this room’s tenant was not among those whose footsteps she’s heard on the gravel
driveway, Kayleigh allowed two separate priorities to fight in her head for dominance.
She needed to hide. She also needed clothes.
Silently the door swung open.
She opened it only far enough to fit her head and then peaked down the corridor. It
remained deserted in both directions, and now Kayleigh could see the lush green carpet
and heavy, velvet curtains. The Manor. Helmsford Manor. The name bubbled up from
her subconscious. She knew this corridor. She’d been here… when? A day ago? A week
ago? It was a recent memory. Just before she’d woken up chained to a table in a
candle-lit hell.
Footsteps, loud as gunshots, crunched across the gravel beneath the window and
Kayleigh froze. Instantly her instinct admonished her – do something. Anything. Move!
Naked she ran silently along the carpeted corridor. She was heading towards the
double staircase that wound down into the marble-floored reception room. Wrong way.
Wrong way! They’ll come this way.
Footsteps. Lots of them. Voices.
Kayleigh turned and ran back up the corridor, and now it made more sense. She’d
come this way when she’d arrived. She passed the open door she’d just come through
and realised she must have passed this room on her arrival. An instant flash of
inspiration made her stop and pull the door closed before hurtling along the corridor,
just another two doors, towards the room she’d been shown as a guest.
She turned the handle – this was a circular knob, not a handle as the other room
had had – and bruising pain thumped down her spine as she threw her shoulder into the
door only to find it locked. She turned the handle again, this time pushing and pulling
against the door, but it wouldn’t move. Kayleigh cursed desperately under her breath –
the footsteps appeared to have stopped immediately outside the corridor and voices
seemed to indicate some sort of impromptu meeting. Somebody was giving orders.
Others were grunting responses.
Next door. She reached it and turned, pushed, pulled. As locked as the first. Beyond
was a bend in the corridor – it turned left. As quickly as caution allowed, Kayleigh
reached the corner of the wall and peered around. Empty! She ran for the first door,
turned the handle and pushed. It gave and she stumbled into semi-darkness. Trying to
Swiftly her brain reported on the outcome: the cupboard would contain both clothing
and a hiding place should anybody come in.
The cupboard was to the right of the doorway, along the wall which joined the
corridor. At five foot nine, Kayleigh could hope that the clothing belonging to this room’s
occupant may fit her reasonably well. She absently acknowledged fate for giving her a
tall father (photographs told her that her mother was also not too short) and walked
briskly over to the large and old fashioned cupboard.
Opening the cupboard revealed that there was indeed some form of domestic
assistance with the rooms: it was far tidier than the rest of the room would suggest it
should be. The person who dropped dirty clothing on the floor was not the same person
as put the clean clothes in the cupboard.
Dominating the selection of clothing were the pairs of black jeans, sweatshirts, Tshirts and shorts which formed the uniforms of the security staff. There were items of
casual clothing as well, but this Kayleigh ignored. The few hours she had spent at
Helmsford not tied to a table had shown her that there were female as well as male
security staff. She had a chance of passing unnoticed if she dressed like them.
Kayleigh removed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, socks and trainers and placed
these on the unmade bed. She considered making do without underwear, but then
realised the jeans would chafe too painfully against her tender loins should she need to
run. Oversized men’s underwear would at least form a layer of protection for her, so she
took a pair of these also.
Voices in the corridor! Kayleigh grabbed the clothing she had laid aside and ran for
the en-suite bathroom. She shut the door swiftly but quietly, which shut the voices out
completely, and listened to see if they would enter the room. They didn’t, at least for
the thirty seconds she gave them before she started to dress.
The physical exertion was clearing her head. She still hurt terribly and her mind
simply refused to go anywhere near certain recent memories, but she was thinking
clearly and swiftly. She didn’t need the memories right now. She’d never need the
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memories. The jeans and sweatshirt fit okay and the shoes actually fit very well indeed.
Whomever occupied this room was not a tall man.
Then a different voice shouted another command from outside and the guard
stopped. “Will do,” he called and turned the corner out of Kayleigh’s sight.
Again she put her ear to the en-suite bathroom door and listened carefully for any
hint that somebody had entered the room. She heard nothing. She looked around the
small bathroom and realised she would have to risk being heard because she was
desperately thirsty. She twisted the tap with painful slowness until a small dribble
appeared and then lowered her head to drink.
Kayleigh continued down the stairs. She reached a small, carpeted entrance hall.
The door stood open and beyond was the same gravel as she had seen out the font of
the building. She realised she was now at the side entrance to the manor and recalled
seeing it from the car when she had arrived. She knew that she had about a ten yard
walk across open gravel before she would reach the relative safety of the neatly
arranged low hedges which surrounded the parking lot.
The first sip she spat out again. It ran red down the white porcelain of the sink. She
took another mouthful and more purposefully washed the water around the inside of her
mouth. This time, when she spat, she could see clots of congealed blood running in the
pink liquid. She rinsed her mouth a third time. The cool water was exceptionally
refreshing against her dry gums, and it felt wonderful to wash away the taste of blood.
Now she drank, deeply and long.
She washed away the traces of blood, turned off the tap and turned back to the
door. She first listened then opened the door fractionally. The room remained deserted.
She walked across it towards the outer door and listened again. This time she did hear
voices, although it was hard to tell if they came from down the corridor or outside the
window.
She took a deep breath, straightened her back, looked straight ahead of her and
walked. Her feet crunched noisily on the gravel and the sun seemed dazzling bright
even in the late afternoon. She had no cap or any way of obscuring her features and
allowed herself a sideways glance to judge how far away the nearest guard stood. She
saw a group of three men standing facing each other, clearly in conversation. One
looked up at her and then turned back to his colleagues. Apparently she resembled
somebody closely enough to go unrecognised at what must be about thirty yards.
She could not hear what was said and was still trying to make out the location of the
voices when the knob in the door turned sharply and the door burst open.
Kayleigh continued to walk as slowly as she could, upright and with apparent
purpose. She reached the low hedges, maybe five foot in height, and continued walking
upright towards the taller trees beyond. She knew she would have to circle around
towards the driveway which led to the gates of Helmsford Manor, for this was the only
way she knew back towards a civilisation she hoped remained outside this walled
insanity.
Kayleigh flung herself against the wall on the inside of the door and allowed the
opening door to cover her as a man walked into the room. He walked straight to a
bedside locker, opened it and withdrew something Kayleigh could not make out.
Kayleigh heard a call from outside the room.
She reached the relative safety of the grove of taller trees which obscured the
manor house from all but the most searching view the same instant she heard the shout
from somewhere near the drive. “She’s gone!” Kayleigh loped into a sloping run, trying
to ignore the pain that this added exercise caused.
“Coming,” the man called back without looking over his shoulder. “Do you mind if I
take a bloody leak?”
A branch whipped at her left arm and the sudden pain distracted her. She caught
her foot on a root and went tumbling headlong onto the soggy ground. She almost
screamed at the pain as her entire body protested at this abuse. She lay holding her
stomach for as long as she dared and then dragged herself to her feet again. She tried
to regain her bearings and then shambled on.
The answer sounded impatient, and the guard muttered a curse under his breath.
He then swung his Uzi off his shoulder and placed it on the bed before grumpily
knocking open the en-suite door.
For an instant Kayleigh considered taking the weapon, but she knew she would be
unable to fire it properly and its absence would alert the guard immediately. She also
realised she had a few seconds before he would return to face the doorway. She was
not sufficiently concealed and was in direct line of sight from the bathroom door. She
waited until she heard the telltale lengthy splash that told her the guard was unlikely to
move for a brief while, then moved to the doorway.
The corridor in both directions was empty. She heard another impatient order
barked from outside, heard the toilet within the room flush and turned to run.
Instinctively she turned left, away from the corridor’s bend and the entrance hallway
beyond. She would need to find a different escape route.
At the end of the corridor down which she ran was a staircase. Unwilling to stop in
the corridor in case she was seen as her clothing supplier left his room, she took the
first five or six steps down and then crouched. The action of crouching caused a sharp
pain in her lower abdomen, and she grimaced before mentally commanding it to go
away. The staircase was in semi-darkness, and Kayleigh peered around the wall to look
back down the corridor. As she had hoped, she saw her man walking away towards the
front entrance of the mansion, calling something to whomever was outside. His Uzi
slapped against his flank as he walked.
She ran in what she hoped was the right direction – somewhere towards the
driveway. She was trying to make a wide circle to the right, since she knew that was
where it should have been. It was her exceptionally good fortune that, thanks to her
fall, she misjudged her course. Instead of the road she found a small, newly trampled
clearing in front of what she could not have known was an electrified fence. She even
stopped briefly to look sideways at the hare that lay utterly dead a foot into the
clearing. The hare that had both tripped the alarm and shorted the fence she now
scaled.
1.5.4
Kayleigh phone home…
D’Arte had tried, since Kayleigh had left, to ensure that he ate properly. He did his
best not to eat too much junk food and to cook what Carol would have called “proper
food” at least two or three times a week. Despite great leaps in technology, nobody had
found a means of stopping a PHUD lens from getting steamed up when you stuck your
head in an oven to see how the pie was getting on. There was a time when the
technological prophets had foreseen the demise of the domestic oven thanks to the
onward march of microwave and other cooking methods. Fortunately, at least from the
point of view of those who still enjoyed good, fresh food, this was not the case.
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For this reason, Jason’s PHUD was on the dining room table when the alarm sounded
to alert Jason to an incoming call. During the days of mobile telephones, ring tones had
become increasingly complex and, frankly, daft. Now a simple chiming tone sufficed. It
was somehow at once quiet yet insistent.
Jason left the kitchen and picked up the PHUD from the dining room table. He wiped
his fingers on the sides of his jeans before picking up the interface and placing it on its
head.
The call identifier specified a public comms booth somewhere in South London.
“Answer,” said Jason into the microphone as he secured the unit to his head.
“Daddy,” Kayleigh’s voice was shaking. The visual showed her standing in a public
call box in what appeared to be filthy black overalls. Tear lines stained her dirty face
clean. “Daddy, can I come home?”
1.5.5
Kayleigh arrives in Cape Town
The uncaring economic climate which dragged Africa into the twenty-first century
had not been kind to the millions of homeless people who made up a vast fraction of the
citizens of South Africa. Of South Africa’s burgeoning population, over half now had no
formal place to stay. The so-called Shanty-towns, notorious during the Apartheid era,
had never come close to shrinking after Apartheid was abolished. Instead they grew like
living organisms, a culture in a Petri dish filmed at high speed.
Corrugated iron cancerous lesions of the disenfranchised, already present on the
outskirts of all South African towns and cities and studiously ignored by their more wellto-do occupants, grew with frightening voraciousness. It was inevitable that these
“informal settlements” should be the epicentres of South African crime. Filled to the
gunnels with the unemployed and desperately poor, crimes of desperation swiftly came
to be organised and controlled, so as repossessed wealth could percolate upwards.
There were other threats. Unsanitary water supplies spread disease with wicked
efficiency. Insufficient – indeed, often entirely absent – electricity supplies meant that
colder winters took a terrible toll. During the summer, structures made as much of
wood as corrugated iron became tinder-dry and fires could wipe out the homes of
thousands in a matter of hours. The informal nature of the shanty towns meant streets,
where they existed at all, were narrow and uneven. The fire-trucks found it difficult –
sometimes impossible – to access the fire; and they had to bring their own water, since
no services existed, much less fire hydrants. Even when access was possible they were
sometimes prevented from doing their duty by the criminal gang who had started the
fire as some form of revenge against opposition.
North-east of Cape Town central was the shanty town of Guguletu. Like Kayalitsha
to the South-east, Guguletu had grown to encompass what had originally been separate
settlements on the outskirts of other towns. Gugs, as it was called, now stretched from
the outskirts of Muizenberg in the South to Pinelands in the North and as far as
Stellenbosch and the Hottentots-Holland mountains in the east. A single mass of
stinking, wretched, crime-ridden humanity.
Cape Town airport had been built (as D F Malan airport) in an area that had been
quite remote and removed from Cape Town and its surrounding suburbs. That had been
over a hundred years ago. Now the shanty towns had encroached down the arterial
motorway that joined the airport to the city, bordered the airport itself and expanded
further. The airport was utterly surrounded and in no small way under siege from this
vast encampment of human detritus.
SATOUR, the South African Tourist Board, had for years fought a desperate war with
authorities to try and remove or, better yet, improve the state of Guguletu, at least as
seen from the airport and the motorway. The five-meter concrete fences which now
surrounded the airport and lined the road proclaimed their singular defeat. Guguletu
was, if anything, more wretched than it had ever been – and continued to deteriorate. It
could not be helped. But it could, at least, be kept from the searching gaze of arriving
tourists.
In an attempt to make something slightly attractive out of five-meter high concrete
walls, local schools and artists had been commissioned to paint them in vibrant and
attractive colours. On concrete under the African sun, their brightness lasted about a
year. They were repainted at irregular intervals, but the drive from the M3 “upper”
freeway at the foot of Devil’s Peak down through Pinelands, and out to the airport was
one of quite uniquely depressing vistas of faded smiling faces waving faded South
African flags.
It didn’t work anyway, thought Jason as he cleared the top of the bridge that
spanned the Black River which effectively marked the beginning of the Cape Flats when
approached from this direction. From his vantage point at the bridge’s apex he could
see the untold miles of tiny, vulnerable, dirty swellings that stretched all the way to the
horizon. Jason did not often come this far from the comfortable suburbs which huddled
beneath the mountains as if seeking protection from what lay beyond. Infrequent trips
to the airport were about the only errand that drew him away from his upper-middleclass world.
Jason was not a snob. Nor did he live in ignorance or even fear of what lay beyond
his financially re-enforced invisible boundaries. Well, perhaps some fear. Quite a bit, if
he was honest. But South Africa – indeed the world – was just like that. You stayed
where you felt safe and welcome. Jason felt a heartbeat of guilt as he surveyed this
barren army encamped around the city. Millions of souls who needed ministry, council,
help. They needed Jesus. He should bring Him to them. He knew he should. He also
knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
God understood.
Ordinarily the internal conflict within the pastor would have lasted longer, but today
he had little concern for such things. The conversation with his daughter had lasted
about two minutes before her credit ran out at the comms booth, and the little he had
heard – and the vast amount his imagination had filled in – left him weak with terror for
her safety and health.
The conversation had devastated Jason.
“Daddy, can I come home?”
“Kayleigh! Are you… Kayleigh. My girl, are you alright?”
“No.” Her eyes had been dead. It had been devastatingly clear that the effort to
maintain emotional composure was almost intolerable. “Daddy I need to come home.”
“I…” The briefest appraisal of Kayleigh’s appearance in his PHUD lens had meant he
had not needed to ask whether or not she had had the money to get on a plane. “Have
you got a PHUD or some way I can get hold of you?”
“No. I’ve got nothing.”
It had occurred to Jason to ask her where she was staying then, but he had decided
he had not wanted to know the answer.
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“Have you got enough money to get to the airport?”
“I think so.”
“Go there. I will arrange a ticket from this side. By the time you get there it should
be alright. Go to the information counter and ask them for your ticket. Get them to
phone me if there are any problems.”
Kayleigh had nodded. One of the great advantages of video communication (Jason
could see Kayleigh, although she could not see him as he had no camera in his dining
room) was the inclusion of body language. At this point it had said too much.
“Kayleightjie,” Jason has whispered tenderly. It was a nickname they had adopted
early on, when Carol had been alive, using the Afrikaans diminutive to end the word. It
sounded Kay-lee-key. “What happened?”
bleeped gently to advise them that they were running out of time. He had barely had a
chance to assure his daughter that he would see her soon before the line had gone
dead.
In something of a controlled panic, the supper forgotten in the oven, Jason had
called a travel agent and booked a ticket from London Heathrow Terminal Seven to
Cape Town. The earliest possible flight arrived in ten minutes time and was obviously
impossible. He had picked a direct flight which had left Heathrow two hours from the
time of the phone call. He had hoped Kayleigh would get to Heathrow in time, but had
left very specific instructions with the travel agent that, should Kayleigh D’Arte miss her
flight, another was to be booked and charged to his credit account.
He wasn’t sure he had sufficient funds in his credit account, but he could fight with
his bank about that later.
There had followed a long pause. Kayleigh had sat in the booth, her hands crossed
in her lap, her head bowed. Her eyes had avoided the camera lens, but they darted
around the cubicle. She had clearly been reliving some horror, her eyes seeing the
memories, not their present surroundings. A few times her mouth had opened as if to
speak, but she had lacked the vocabulary the describe whatever ordeal she had been
reliving.
Next he had contacted Monty Logon and cancelled the evening’s prayer meeting. On
Thursdays he hosted one of the adult prayer groups that met at the houses of various
church members throughout the area. Tomorrow he would not, and he needed Logan to
contact the other members of the group to arrange an alternative meeting.
“Kayleightjie,” he had whispered again, softer, almost a breath. “My darling, it’s
alright. I’m here. Daddy’s here. We’ll get you home.”
“I’m fine,” Jason had replied, truthfully enough. There was nothing wrong with him.
“I’m just fetching Kayleigh from the airport.”
Her eyes had become red and her focus had been lost behind welling tears that had
now streamed down the clean furrows on her dirty face. “They… it hurts, Daddy,”
through teeth clenched against fear and anger and pain. “Fuck, it hurts.” Her shoulders
had closed in and her hands had crossed unconsciously to cover her lower abdomen as
she had leant forward. “They – they hurt me, Daddy. Please, Daddy – I want to come
home.”
“You’re coming home,” Jason’s own tears had started to flow. And now, as he drove
down the bridge and followed the motorway towards the airport he said it to himself
again. “You’re coming home.” He clung too tightly to the steering wheel, his knuckles
white. He could feel his back teeth grinding on each other and he dragged a hand down
his face to clear his vision, wiping his nose between thumb and forefinger.
He knew he was speeding even though he was more than an hour early for the
flight. He couldn’t help it.
By the time he had parked his car, paid for and displayed the parking ticket and
found the arrivals lounge for international flight, he was only twenty-five minutes early.
He wondered aimlessly for the remaining time, unable to sit still and unable to refrain
from looking at his watch every two minutes.
It was Kayleigh’s appearance, more than what she had said, that had upset Jason.
The clothes were slightly too big for her, clearly not hers. The dirt had seemed days old.
He blonde hair had hung lank and lifeless on her shoulders in dirty, matted clumps. Her
face had been smeared with dirt and the pink rivulets that cut through it had only added
to the pathos.
“What’s wrong?” Logan had asked, having heard something new and a bit unnerving
in his senior pastor’s strained voice. “Are you alright?”
“She’s coming home? That’s excellent news!”
Despite everything, Jason had smiled weakly. The intensity of Logan’s affection for
his daughter was matched only by the extent to which it went utterly unrequited.
“Why so soon?” Logan had continued.
“She’s not well. I’d be grateful if you’d remember her in your prayers tonight.”
“Of course, Jason.”
After he had severed the connection on his PHUD he had forced himself to stop and
think. The ticket had been booked, Logan had been informed, tomorrow’s meeting
changed. What else? The flight would take nine hours, so he’d need to be at the airport
at about six tomorrow morning. He had enough fuel in his car. He’d missed something.
He had stood for a full three minutes before the siren from the smoke alarm above
his head had bolted the realisation through him that what he had forgotten was a now
carbon-black chicken pie.
For the twentieth time Jason checked his watch and then checked the arrivals board.
He was wearing his PHUD in case he needed to be contacted and could therefore easily
have accessed both sets of information and held them permanently before him on the
monocle display, but Jason preferred to check the board, walk away and then walk back
again. It gave him something to do.
There was also the way she had gripped her stomach, as if in physical pain. What
had happened to his little girl?
Preceding the announcements at Cape Town airport are three chimes which ring to
gain the attention of whomever is in the lounges. These three chimes had sung out the
beginning of announcements since the intercom system had first been installed more
than a century ago.
There had been little time for explanations, and she had seemed reluctant to make
them. Beyond a vague, “They hurt me,” Jason could discern nothing more from his
daughter in the few seconds of conversation that had remained. The comms line had
“Now arriving at gate fifteen,” said an impersonal, computer-generated, female
voice, “flight BA59 from Heathrow. Passengers will arrive through gate fifteen.” There
was a pause and the announcement was repeated in Afrikaans and Xhosa.
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Of course all that meant was that the flight had landed. Jason knew with terrible
frustration that Kayleigh would first have to go through emigration and then customs
before walking through the gate he had been haunting for the past half-hour.
Jason felt terribly alone. An awful kind of loneliness that he knew only came to those
who knew what it was like to truly be with somebody. He missed Carol so desperately it
felt like a lump of lead the size of his fist had was sitting on top of his stomach, under
his heart. Fifteen years ago He had watched his beautiful wife reduced to a wizened
crone three time her age before the cancer had finally taken her. He knew that
something in him had died along with her. Had it not been for her immense strength
and towering faith, he did not know whether he could have made it through to today
without rejecting a God who could give such an incredible gift and then rip it away so
cruelly.
But it had been Carol herself who had provided the strength to cope. Lovingly,
through twisted, weak and beautiful smiles, she had told him that she wanted to die, to
be with her Lord. Of course she had not wanted to leave Jason and little Kayleigh, who
would repeat her first year at school as a result of all the family went through that year.
By that stage, Jason had known that all the morphine she had been given, and to which
she was now hopelessly addicted, could not drown out all the pain and he knew she was
telling the truth when she said death would be a relief. There was something in her
absolute belief that this was right and correct that had helped Jason to accept her
death. He had not raged at God or deserted his faith. On the day she died he had
thanked God that she was painless.
A week later Kayleigh had asked why Mommy had gone. Jason had replied that God
needed a new angel. Somewhere deep inside he had believed it with all his heart.
But he needed her now. He needed that strength. This was new and horrible. His
imagination was playing terrible tricks on him and he needed to steady himself. The
moment Kayleigh came through that gate he would have to be strong and show the
courage he lacked utterly at the moment. He would have to be Daddy. Not in all the
time since Carol had first surprised him with the news of Kayleigh’s conception a year to
the day after their marriage had he felt so utterly incapable of fatherhood.
Oh, my Baby, he thought to himself, speaking within his mind to his wife as he often
did. Once he had spoken to a colleague about it and he had been berated for the sin of
praying to the dead. The colleague concerned had been a thirty-seven-year-old
bachelor. Obviously. I love you. Can I have a little of your strength today, please? Our
Kayleigh needs it.
The first passengers – obviously first class, judging by their attire and baggage –
were coming through the doors to be greeted by hugs, kisses, tears and laughter. Jason
watched their public privacy with envy. It had just been him and Kayleigh for so long.
Their love would outlast her rebellion and her travelling and her seeking whatever it was
she sought, but he missed her far more deeply than he would ever tell her. He realised
that some terribly selfish part of him was very glad she was coming hope.
He waited and paced and tormented himself for a further twenty minutes, watching
various strangers (and at least four girls, the top of whose heads looked exactly like
Kayleigh’s) arrive and be greeted with varying degrees of affection and leave, almost
always nattering cheerfully in varied responses to, “How was your flight?” It occurred to
Jason’s impatience-addled mind that there really was only one kind of flight: deathly
boring. Well, he supposed there were two, but you generally didn’t get asked, “How was
your flight” if you were lucky enough to alight from the other kind.
And then she was there. As always when waiting for somebody to arrive, you build
yourself up and up and up and suddenly they’re there in a wonderful anticlimax.
Kayleigh hadn’t changed her outfit, but she had managed to do something about her
face and the state of her clothing. Closer examination would reveal that she was
actually wearing her sweatshirt inside-out, but for now Jason was delighted by what
appeared to be an improvement in her appearance.
She stood out among the other passengers in that she had no luggage with her. She
held nothing. By the time she arrived the crowd of people around the gates was
relatively thin and Jason had no trouble reaching his daughter. She tried a smile, but it
fell off and she looked down at the floor instead. Jason didn’t say anything; he just
grabbed his daughter in his arms with strong gentleness and held her in silent, loving
solidarity.
Kayleigh’s body seemed so small and fragile. He was sure she had left with more
weight on her bones. Strange that he should think that, but that’s what occurred to him
as other people passed them in their separate universe. After a time of standing limp,
Kayleigh raised her arms inside his hug. Since she had been a child, she and her Daddy
had had a way of hugging for comfort. They had no name for it, but each knew when it
was needed. Instead of holding the other person, the one needing the hug held their
arms tightly against their chest so that their arms were included in the hug. There was
something cuddly-vulnerable about the posture – something that increased the comfort
of the hug. Once, a six-year-old Kayleigh had found her Daddy where he prayed, on his
knees in front of his desk, only he wasn’t praying, he was crying. Little Kayleigh had
known that Daddy was crying for Mommy and she had hugged her Daddy and he had
held his arms inside her hug like that and he had cried and she had comforted him with
the shooshing-cooing noises he made to comfort her. It was the last time she had held
her Daddy like that. But he had had plenty of opportunities to hold her as she cuddled
comfort from her father.
Jason released his daughter just enough for her arms to move up between their
chests, then he hugged her just a little bit tighter. Quietly she cried against his
shoulder, wonderfully helpless in his arms as she felt his warm comfort suffuse her pain.
He smiled a wobbly smile as he breathed in the scent of her hair and silently thanked
his wife for the strength he now knew he had.
1.6
1.6.1
Kyrell Summons Kutulu and Conversations
Kyrell begins the summoning
Regan Helmsford was terrified. A light sweat ran from the base of his neck behind
his hooded cloak to the base of his spine, but he forced himself to stand absolutely still,
clenching his jaws together against his chattering teeth. His cloak was embroidered with
deep scarlet, ribbing the hood and sleeves and forming a “V” beneath his throat below
which hung the pattern of the Symbol of Baphomet, as if a bloody chain hung against
his chest, denoting his status as Priest. Hands, hidden within the gaping sleeves, were
clasped together in front of his stomach and his head, beneath the cowl, was bowed.
He stood before the Table, upon which were neatly laid the Phallus, Sword, Bell and
Chalice, filled, unusually, with salt water. Behind the Table, and in front of the hanging,
inverted cross stood a large, orchestral gong. Regan turned his head and nodded slowly,
a signal to the naked woman who stood behind him and held the beater in her hand.
She swung and Regan felt his heart constrict as the low, meaningful resonance cleared
the air.
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Without a word, Regan stepped forward to stand in the centre of a circle which was
newly carved into the floor. It lay between the pentagram and the Table, in front of the
position he would normally occupy as priest. This was not a pentagram, it had no
adornment. It was a simple circle, perfectly round, etched into the rock.
He raised his head and faced the horse-shoe of acolytes. He could not see into
Kyrell’s hood, directly opposite him. Regan breathed deeply and turned to his right. The
Table, this time devoid of altar for none was needed, lay against the west wall of the
subterranean basement below the mansion and Regan turned to face north. He raised
his hands towards the metal plate with its carved rune that hung in the half-light
against this wall and then stretched them out sideways to form a crucifix with his body.
“I invoke thee, Silver Hunter from the sacred city of Ur!” he began, painfully aware
that the words were new to him and that he must remember them exactly, in order. He
was tired and bone-weary, sleep-deprived as he had lain awake learning the words he
now recited from the awful text handed him by Kyrell. “Thee I call forth to guard this
North Place of the Most Holy Mandal against the vicious warriors of Flame and from the
Principalities of Dra!”
He forced his arms to remain stationary as he continued to say the words. He called
in a loud, confident voice, born of absolute will and theatrical skill and reflecting none of
the terror he felt churning his stomach and twitching his anus. “Be thou most vigilant
against the Utukki of Tiamat, the oppressors of Ishigarrab and the Throne of AzagThoth!”
As he continued, the acolytes stood in silence around the room. This time, the
women were dressed as the men, their robes reaching the floor and their faces hidden
by their cowls. Only the woman who had struck the gong, being in the place of the altar
(although not acting as altar), was naked as befitted this position.
Kyrell stared straight ahead at the vacant space above the pentagram. This time,
instead of the five black candles, oil had been poured into the five letters that encircled
the star and had been lit so that the Hebrew word was etched in flame and the black
smoke circled lazily to the ceiling in the windless room. He concentrated, his eyebrows
furrowed at the effort, and stared intently, blinking at regular, well spaced intervals. His
initial annoyance at the absence of Vivian was long forgotten as his concentration
increased. Somehow he had the look of somebody who was waiting.
Regan reached the end of the invocation of the North Gate. “See our Lights and hear
our Heralds,” he called, “and do not forsake us. Spirit of the North, Remember!”
The last word was almost a shout, guttural. The phrase was echoed, whispered by
the shrouded group. “Spirit of the North, Remember!” The gong sounded, low and
explosive, like a wave crashing in the ocean, and Regan turned in his circle to face away
from the Table, staring at an indeterminate point behind Kyrell. His arms were
beginning to ache, but he held them firm, raised his head and began the Invocation of
the Eastern Gate.
“Thee I invoke, Mistress of the Rising Star, Queen of Magick, of the Mountains of
Mashu!” Had the smoke twisted suddenly? Kyrell saw the movement and then looked
briskly towards Regan. So had he. But then the columns of black smoke steadied and
again drifted towards the ceiling. It was the light rush of wind caused by Regan’s cloak
as he turned, nothing more.
“Thee I call forth this day to guard this Most Holy mandal against the Seven
Ensnarers, the Seven Liers-In-Wait, the evil Maskim, the Evil Lords!” Regan was
beginning to realise that his memory, trained for so many years in the art and science
of theatre, had not deserted him and, indeed, he was warming to his accustomed role of
priest. Ordinarily he thoroughly enjoyed the position, not for the sense of power but for
the feel of the grandeur of his words and performance, for the spectacle. There was a
sense of awe and wonder in what he called and said, and the arcane power behind the
words added to their potency. A smile would have crept across his face, but he allowed
none. Instead he reminded himself of the ceremony which he led, and he felt the
heaviness return to lead-line his stomach.
“Be watchful, Queen of the Eastern Ways,” he concluded his invocation, “and
Remember! Spirit of the East, Remember!”
“Spirit of the East, Remember!” they chanted back, the gong roared tonefully and
Regan turned to face south.
“Thee I invoke, Angel, Guardian against the Urulu, Dread City of Death, Gate of No
Return!” This time the smoke curled and the five pillars of smoke began to move and
Kyrell saw with satisfaction that they turned against the previous disturbance, caused
by Regan’s movement. Now they began to circle slowly, reaching perhaps half-way
around the pentagram in the time taken to leave the arc of the torchlight near the
ceiling. The twist was constant and slow, the smoke rising in what looked the opposite
of water draining from a full bath, only slowly, almost dreamily. The hint of a smile
touched the edges of Kyrell’s mouth. He drew his head backwards slightly, to hide
deeper within his cowl.
“In the Names of the most Mighty Hosts of Marduk and Enki, Lords of the Elder
Race, the Arra, do Thou stand firm behind me.” Regan, facing south with the table to
his right, hands held outwards and staring at the inscribed plate hanging against the
southern wall, did not notice the languid rotation of the smoke burning up from the
letters of the name of Leviathan behind him, but he knew that they should be doing so
as he drew to the end of the penultimate Invocation. “Be watchful, Spirit of the
Southern Ways and remember! Spirit of the South Remember!”
“Spirit of the South, Remember!” and the smoke seemed suddenly animated,
danced as the speed with which the spirally instantly increased. To Kyrell, Regan, as the
gong sounded and as he turned to face to west, was half-obscured by the single, hollow
barrel of smoke that was now being formed by the union of the five burning letters. He
felt no wind against his face, the front of his hood did not move in any way, yet the
smoke now formed a semi-solid, mathematically perfect whirlwind, obscuring its
contents and what lay beyond.
He could feel the silent energies either side of him. It was fear.
“Thee I invoke, Spirit of the Land of Mer Martu!” Regan now faced the Table and the
gong, and Kyrell drank in the silent terror, like an electric charge, buzzing between and
uniting the acolytes to his left and right. They knew. He’d made sure they’d known.
About Micky. About this summoning. They knew – down to the photographs given to
him in the autopsy reports – the consequences of this dark and powerful ritual. But they
didn’t know whether Micky had got it right or wrong. Had he succeeded and paid for his
success, or had his fate been the price of failure? A black joy pierced Kyrell’s heart, the
grotesque opposite of the flutter of happy recognition, and his lips parted to show even
white teeth as the grin spread across his face.
“From the Unknown Sorcery, protect Me!” called Regan, his arms burning with the
effort of holding them straight out from the sides of his body. “From the Waters of
Kutulu, protect me!” Nobody saw the wrinkles appear at the corners of Kyrell’s eyes and
the grin turn into a complete and hideous smile. “From the Baneful Look, the Baneful
Word, the Baneful Name, the Baneful Number, the Baneful Shape, protect me!”
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As he came to the end of his invocation, as the fourth Gate was called and sealed
and guarded and, he hoped with a terrible fervour, utterly defended against what lay
beyond, Regan raised his voice. “Be watchful, Spirit of the Western Ways and
Remember! Spirit of the West Gate, Remember!”
circle on the floor and then overflowed to run over the uneven stonework. The red inner
wall of wind turned slowly blue and began to fade, then the outer wall exploded
outwards – the exact image of a wave broken on a rocky shore – and dissipated
instantly into the air surrounding.
“Spirit of the West Gate, Remember!” The gong sounded and the rushing, liquid
explosion of sound was instantly drowned in sharp whip-crack of deafening thunder. A
bolt of red light seared down the centre of the swirling column which now spun far too
fast for the eye to see its movement. Kyrell’s view of Regan was blocked entirely by
what was now a solid, circular wall of insanely spinning shadow. Arcs of red and purple
energy, dark sparks, leapt within the depths of the wall and crackled and spat as the
initial explosion of charged sound died within. Still, the air around the swirling pyre did
not move, nothing was felt by the acolytes of the power which forged this insubstantial,
unholy barrier.
Stooping so its head did not touch the ceiling, eleven foot tall, a creature composed
entirely of water, translucent and churning, stood within the magical confines of the
protective pentagram. It turned. The insubstantial shape that must have been its head
rounded slowly and came to face Regan, suddenly tiny in his etched circle. Like the
bubbling effluent from an ancient drain, it growled.
Regan turned to face the Central Gate that had formed as the four Cardinal Gates
had been closed and guarded. This much he knew and expected, as indeed did
everyone present. Nothing so far was outside of their experience, nor would the
appearance of a spirit within the spinning cloud. It was the spirit summoned by the
words Regan would utter following the Invocation that may, quite literally, tear their
hearts from their chests in fear. And while the infernal column, still constituting itself
before them, was the same as that enchanted to summon many Others, the words
which Regan had so far called were new, their meaning unclear. The gods and demons
of this Invocation were unfamiliar, their names harsh in their guttural newness.
“Mer Sidi!” Regan called, beginning his final invocation, in the ancient language of
the Elder Race, to address all four Gates as one. “Mer Kurra! Mer Urulu!” He continued,
welcoming and binding the powers he wished to call forth or hold back. “Utuk xul, ta
Ardata! Kutulu, ta Attalakla!” As the final word was shouted in this fifth Invocation, the
red and purple arcing energies, crackling and swirling within the grey-black haze, seem
to join as one, linking together, uniting, spiralling faster and faster, their direction
opposite to that of the smoke, swirling, blinding, screeching with violence and bound
power as the light from the torches was outshone by the deep maroon smoulder of the
inner column.
Two ethereal walls, smoke and fire, spun against each other and the whirlwind, from
floor to ceiling, exactly following the outer circle of the pentagram on the floor, reached
an uneasy equilibrium. It hung in the air, inches off the floor, swirling dark dizziness.
The crackling was gone. For all the violence of its unholy splendour that glowed with the
energy of an imploding star, utter silence had returned to the room. Even the crackle
from the wall-mounted torches seemed subdued.
And this was where the book ended. This was where the guessing began. Regan
stared at the column, forcing himself not to imagine the eternal emptiness hidden in its
depths, forcing himself to know – to know more certainly than anything else – that
Kyrell had been right, had found the secret, and known what came next.
“Lord of the Waters!” He bellowed into the silence and thanked his theatrical training
that his voice did not crack at the terror of his words. “God of the Deep! Poseidon!
Neptune! Keeper of the Abyss and Master of the Deluge! I call to you, I summon you, I
command your presence!”
He breathed and hoped. “Leviathan! You surround the Unholy Circle! You encompass
Baphomet! Come forth!”
For a few seconds nothing happened. The silence returned. Then, with the slowness
of blood, water started to leak out the sides of the whirlwind. It filled the outer carved
Then it stepped, unbidden, outside the pentagram and Regan’s bowels voided.
It is an absolute, cardinal principal, throughout all magic, irrespective of origin,
pedigree or denomination, that the circle forms a protective ring about that which
stands within. It is an unquestioning essential that it be guarded with all the arcane skill
and knowledge of the mage that none within should be allowed to leave and none
without be given power to enter. It is not summoning of powers or beings for which the
warlock searches his restless life, but the knowledge of their containment and therefore
the warlock’s safety from what has been released.
As warm wetness slid down the inside of Regan’s thighs and the stench of his fear
suffused his nostrils, Regan knew with terrible impotence that Kyrell’s failure was his
doom. The watery behemoth that loomed above him and moved inexorably from what
should have been its captive encirclement and the image of Micky’s self-immolation
flooded Regan’s mind with an immaculate terror. He fell to his knees and choked on the
dry retching in his throat.
“Now!”
The shout came from Kyrell, but Regan hardly heard it. Paralysed within what he
now knew to be no more than a scratching on the ground, his head swum and darkness
threatened the periphery of his vision. His neck lacked all strength and his head swayed
from side to side, spittle running from the side of his mouth.
Leviathan stood above him. The Lord of the Waters, a God worshipped by countless
religions, a power beyond Regan’s comprehension, angered to be summoned from
whatever it did while the twenty-first century slid ignorantly past, focussed all its
ancient fury on this insolent mortal.
It did not see the last acolyte on each end of the horseshoe run towards the metal
panels hanging to represent the north and south gate. It did not see the naked woman
drop her gong-hammer and run to the similar panel that hung it the west. It did not see
Kyrell turn and walk confidently towards the symbol of the east.
It did not hear the words they muttered. It did not feel the gates’ power subside. It
did not see four mortals form a sign in the air, down and then across, the inverted
crucifix. It stared directly at Regan –
– as Kyrell kicked in the gates of Hell.
A point in the very centre of the room, immediately above the pentagram behind the
enraged deity, disappeared in infinite, voided blackness then exploded with the
brightness of ten million suns. The horseshoe of acolytes, already disrupted by the
desecration of the circle, shielded their eyes, blinded by the sudden brightness that
drove shadows from the room. A light that seemed to come from everywhere stole sight
from eyes accustomed to the half-darkness and an appalling roar deafened the room
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and shook the foundations of the mansion. It lasted the briefest second, and then
silence and darkness returned.
Leviathan was gone. In the light of the torches, in the centre of the pentagram,
stood a young man, blonde, naked and smiling. Only his eyes betrayed his inhumanity.
They were jet black.
1.6.2
Kyrell summons Kutulu
Kyrell turned from the desecrated Gate and walked slowly towards the young man at
the centre of the pentagram. He knelt two yards from the circle and looked up into his
eyes.
“Lord,” he said.
The young man had been staring down at the priest who cried quietly before him.
He turned to look down at Kyrell. Then he looked around the room, at the acolytes who
were slowly reforming the horseshoe around the pentagram. Lastly he looked down at
the symbol beneath him. He frowned.
“You summoned me?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“With this?”
“Lord?”
“This… symbol. This star. That brought me?”
“Yes, Lord. That and the Gates.”
“Oh.” The young man looked up, as if seeing the acolytes for the first time. He
gestured absently with his hand towards one, and the woman shrieked as she was
thrown backwards to hammer into the outer wall. She made a strange, gasping,
gurgling sound, almost an hysterical giggle, before blood drained from her eyes, ears,
nose and mouth and she slumped against the stone.
“Do you know who I am?” The young man turned back to Kyrell.
“Yes, Lord.”
He paused. “Well?”
“You are Kutulu, my Lord. You are the Ancient One.”
Kutulu smiled and acknowledgement, then turned to Regan. He cocked his head to
one side, a gesture that seemed to indicate mild curiosity, yet Regan was thrown up to
hang in mid air, the shape of a crucifix like he had held before when guarding the gates.
Kutulu blinked and Regan’s head spun right around to stare at the Table and the
inverted cross behind it. The dry snap sounded clearly around the chamber as Regan’s
neck broke. Kutulu turned back to Kyrell and the body slumped onto the floor.
“Lord,” began Kyrell gently.
Kutulu hummed an absent acknowledgement as another acolyte’s chest detonated
spraying those alongside with blood, ribs and gore.
“Lord,” said Kyrell again. “Do we displease you?”
The young man looked questioningly down where Kyrell still knelt. “Um, no. Not
really. Sorry,” he shook his head, as if clearing a distracting thought. “I must appear
most ungrateful.”
Kyrell almost laughed out loud. A polite demon in the shape of a boy! “Would you
permit me to stand, my Lord?”
“Of course.”
Kyrell stood, tugged back his cowl and stared into the black eyes of the Ancient One.
Kyrell shook his head. “Forgive me, my Lord, but this is honestly the last thing I
expected.”
“I can be big and reptilian and scary if you’d prefer,” offered Kutulu, congenially.
“I’m sure you can, my Lord,” replied Kyrell, once again fighting against the humour
of the absurdity of what stood in his ritual chamber.
“Normally,” said Kutulu, his tone remaining as conversational as ever, “you summon
something to do your bidding and then go back whence it came. Am I here for any
particular reason?”
“My Lord,” Kyrell began. “We knew you were held captive in the Abyss. ‘Dead but
dreaming’. We sought to free you.”
“Just as well, since that’s what you’ve achieved whether you wanted to or not. I’m
sorry, but I’m afraid I have to do this.”
Without the blood, without any grotesque demonstration of power, the remaining
acolytes fell where they stood. Kyrell forced himself to continue staring into Kutulu’s
eyes, although, beyond him, he could see the naked girl who had desecrated the west
Gate bash her head on the Table as she fell.
“They are, I’m afraid, quite dead, Kyrell,” Kutulu explained after a brief pause. “I
know your name because I can… well, I can read you. You have no proper word for
that, strangely, since you do posses the ability, but that’s the closest I can get. Please
do not concern yourself, I am not going to kill you and I apologise if you found yourself
particularly close to any of these people, I’d just prefer it if the death of Leviathan and
the raising of Kutulu remained as secret as possible. At least for the time being. You
understand, of course?”
Even Kyrell was shocked by the casual murder of so many people. “Of course,” he
managed to say.
“’Dead but dreaming’ indeed,” muttered Kutulu. “I have dreamt of your world. I
have a great many questions, Kyrell, and I think you have the answers. I am also
exceptionally hungry. Shall we go upstairs?”
Kutulu stepped carefully around the small puddle of salt water that lay between the
two magic circles and headed for the iron door that guarded the entrance to the
chamber.
1.6.3
Kyrell’s first conversation: implants, Mars and why did you summon
me
“How many people have these implants?” asked Kutulu with his mouth full. They
were sitting in what Kyrell supposed to be a drawing room in what Kyrell supposed was
now his mansion, since Regan was lying in the chamber downstairs staring blankly at
his own arse.
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“Not many, yet,” replied Kyrell. He had been instructed to ease off on calling Kutulu
“Lord” with every second sentence. “They are still rather expensive. But there are
probably many thousands and the numbers grow daily. The price will come down and
then they’ll be as common as PHUDs.”
“Personal Heads-Up Displays,” Kutulu used the full name for the acronym. “And
that’s what replaced your tactile interface, your keyboards and screens?”
“Yes.”
“And the whole lot is connected? All the computers on Earth connected to each other
and to keyboards, PHUDs and neural implants so you all share information?”
Kyrell smiled. “In an ideal world, yes. Obviously there are many computers not
connected to the Net and many networks within the network which are restricted or
protected in some way. It’s not like it has been set up in one go for one purpose. The
Net grew from a huge number of vastly different networks being joined together for
many different reasons. It’s kind of like humanity itself – it all does basically the same
thing, but in lots of different ways. There are different languages – human languages
and programming languages – there are lots of networks that need to be linked to the
Net without allowing people to access them.”
Kutulu nodded, drinking in the information. For the past three hours, Kyrell had
essentially been lecturing Kutulu on the history and technology of mankind. Kyrell was
exhausted, trying vainly to ignore the throbbing at his temples and rubbed his eyes to
try and focus. He thought again of what he was supposed to do with the bodies still
lying in the chamber beneath him and then dismissed the thought. He’d sort something
out.
Kutulu’s knowledge was exhaustive. There was little he did not already know. Kyrell
had asked how, trapped in what he assumed to be the deepest part of the ocean floor,
the demon lord had managed to remain abreast of human achievements, but the
answer had not enlightened Kyrell terribly much. “Dead but dreaming” was all Kutulu
would tell him. Dreaming of the human race.
“You’ve left your planet,” Kutulu suddenly changed conversational direction, as he
had done often over the course of the afternoon, and Kyrell frowned against his
headache to keep up. “You went to the Moon. Then you pissed about with wars for a
few decades and didn’t do much else except set up a system of satellites, largely in
support of those wars. Now this,” he paused for thought, “this Xenix is going to… What
do you call that planet?”
“Mars.”
“Yes, Mars. Further out from the sun than Earth. Colder and dead. Only it’s not
dead. There’s life there. And Xenix plan to exploit that life and reanimate Mars. Forgive
me the oversimplification, but that’s the general idea, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. They say Earth is running out of natural resources and they have
found a way of getting those resources somewhere else. It’ll be a long time before that
becomes a reality, though. They haven’t even begun the farming they need to get
oxygen into the atmosphere. As I understand it, they’re still trying to find a way of
getting the buggers to photosynthesise.”
“Photosynthesise? A natural process to create sugar using solar energy?” It was as if
Kutulu were consulting an encyclopaedia in his head and reciting the answers he found.
“Yes.”
“How do Xenix get to Mars?”
Jesus! For the umpteenth time, Kyrell accessed his neural implants and issued a
search command. The information took a few seconds to come back. “They don’t,” he
said, reading off his retinal display as he spoke. “Men haven’t gone there. Not yet. Too
expensive and unnecessary.” He spoke slowly, speaking a précis of what he read. To
Kutulu he appeared to be staring at an indeterminate position in space not far from his
nose.
“They send craft. They’re prefabricated on Earth then sent to satellite stations in
orbit above Earth. There they’re assembled and launched into a solar orbit that will
intersect with Mars. The time taken depends on the positions of Mars and Earth relative
to each other and there are periods during which it isn’t practical to send craft at all
because the planets are too far away from each other, on opposite sides of the sun.”
Kyrell was rubbing his temples, trying to relieve the headache which was only
getting worse. The conversation had stretched from Greek and Roman myths to the
Axis of Evil wars of the early twenty-first century, from the abacus to neural implants,
from farming wheat to farming Mars. Some of the information he could volunteer
himself, but most was sought on the Net using his implants. The effort was exhausting.
“Lord,” Kyrell looked up at the young man, seated comfortably opposite him on a
couch. “Please forgive my frailty, but I am truly tired. The last thing I expected after
summoning the greatest demon lord known to the occult was a deep discussion about
the history of my race. I need to sleep.”
“I need those implants,” Kutulu replied. “How do I get them?”
That, at least, was something Kyrell could answer without consulting the Net. He
turned off the neural display and relaxed back into the sensation of only looking at one
thing at a time. “I’ll sort that out for you. They place a small genetic probe at the base
of your skull and the filaments grow into your brain. It takes about two weeks to seat
itself properly.” Something occurred to Kyrell. “You aren’t human. I’m not sure it will
work on you.”
“My form is completely human,” Kutulu assured Kyrell. “I keep the eyes black
because I like it. The rest of this form is the same as yours, certainly as far as organs
and appearance go. I have one more question and then you can sleep.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you summon me?”
Kyrell had expected this question, in fact he was quite surprised it had taken this
long to be asked.
“To see if I could. To see if I was right.”
“Right?”
“I had a little theory. I wanted to check it out.”
“Explain.”
“Leviathan is the Lord of the Waters…”
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“Was.”
“Sorry, was the Lord of the Waters. So was Poseidon, Neptune and various other
Gods of mythology. So, supposedly, was Kutulu. You are all basically supposed to be
the same creature according to our mythology. People tried to summon Kutulu by
summoning Leviathan and got themselves rather badly killed as a result. But you,
Kutulu, are the only Water Demon who didn’t seem to be there of his own free will. You
were dead but dreaming, defeated by Marduk, held captive in the Abyss. That’s rather
different to being the Lord of it like the others were.”
“Indeed,” Kutulu was listening with the same mildly interested expression he had
held all afternoon. There was no way of discerning what he thought of the conversation.
“So I figured that you and Leviathan are – sorry, were two different beings. Two
different Gods or demons or maybe one of you was a God and the other a demon.
Something like that. Leviathan was the same as Neptune and Poseidon and the others,
but you, Kutulu – you were different. It was the full copy of the text of the
Necronomicon that gave me that idea.”
“In that book,” interrupted Kutulu, still retaining the conversational tone, “I am one
of the most evil entities ever encountered by man.”
“So are most of the beings I have summoned,” replied Kyrell. “Some are truly evil
and most, I have found, have simply received rather bad press through the ages.”
Kutulu smiled.
“So I figured you were being held captive by Leviathan-cum-Neptune, whatever you
want to call him,” continued Kyrell. “The occult had deliberately confused you two to
create a single being. Whenever Leviathan is summoned, he behaves very badly and
disciplines those who would raise you. You therefore remain unsummonable, if there is
such a word. I had to summon Leviathan, using the proper protection against the
Ancient Ones, and then release the Ancient Ones in time to defeat Leviathan and
thereby summon you.”
“I see. It still doesn’t explain why you dared summon something that could prove to
be as evil as the records say. There’s a room full of corpses downstairs that would argue
that you have done a rather silly thing.”
“Yes,” Kyrell agreed. He paused, the enormity of the thought seemed to bring his
headache thumping back into his temples.
“So why was I summoned?”
“Because I wanted to know if I was right. I wanted to see if it could be done.”
“Then you should have given the instructions to others rather than risk it yourself.
That was also silly. Why did you summon me?”
Kyrell stopped. He’d run out of reasons. “Because I wanted to.”
“Exactly,” smiled Kyrell. “Please feel free to get some sleep. We will continue this
conversation in the morning.
1.6.4
Kyrell’s second conversation: democracy and the government of Hell
The conversations between Kyrell and Kutulu had continued for over two weeks.
Proud of his intellect, Kyrell had nonetheless felt himself terribly inadequate in
answering many of the varied questions Kutulu had thrown at him – a feeling not at all
familiar. Kutulu’s thirst for knowledge was insatiable. They had discussed the past
eleven thousand years of human history in exceptional detail, human and animal
biology, computer technology, transportation technology, warfare, world economics,
aerospace technology, music. Anything and everything that gave Kutulu insight into the
human condition. PHUDs, and their access to the Net and therefore libraries of
information, were invariably essential.
Today, seated beside the pool on a warm if humid summer afternoon, waiting out
the week for Kutulu’s implants, inserted a few days previously, to properly imbed, the
conversation had turned to world politics.
“The planet’s landmasses are divided into countries,” Kyrell was explaining. He had
learnt to start with the very basic and work upwards. Kutulu displayed an incredibly
intimate knowledge of some aspects of human existence and a devastating ignorance of
others, and Kyrell had learnt it safer to assume the latter. Kutulu would patiently
explain his knowledge if Kyrell got it wrong, but disliked having to ask Kyrell to explain
when Kyrell assumed knowledge which was absent.
“Historically, countries were independent of each other. They governed themselves
according to whatever system they had come to adopt through historical circumstance.
Countries were separated by borders which were agreed by diplomacy or war and allied
themselves with other countries for the same reasons – and also trade. We’re in
England, which is probably the most complex example of how countries would ally with
one another or conquer one another.”
“England is also Britain.” Kutulu stated it as a fact.
Kyrell allowed himself a small smile. His ancestors had been Welsh. “Not exactly,
Lord, no.” He issued commands to his PHUD which was in direct link with Kutulu’s
PHUD. Kutulu was quite capable of using his PHUD by now, but, for the sake of these
discussions, Kyrell and Kutulu both allowed each other full access to both PHUDs so
they could share information. A map of Great Britain appeared in both their monocles.
“England is the lower country,” explained Kyrell, and, on their maps, England was
highlighted with the St. George’s Cross. “West is Wales. North is Scotland and, on that
island in the west, is Northern Ireland. Together they form Britain. The southern part of
Ireland is a separate country. The politics of that island are exceptionally complex and
probably irrelevant.”
Kutulu nodded.
“Historically, each of these were separate countries, but they banded together for
various reasons, diplomacy and war, and eventually emerged as one country with four
semi-independent provinces: England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales make up Britain.
Then, in 2018, a similar process happened across Europe, so you now have the
European Union made up of previously independent countries which is now, effectively,
one super-nation.”
“The United States is the same?”
“Yes,” replied Kyrell. “The states started out as independent countries and were then
united to form a single nation. Each state in the US has a certain amount of autonomy,
as we have in Europe, and they are united under a common umbrella government, a
common foreign policy and a single economy. It’s slightly more challenging in Europe
because we speak different languages.”
“Are there other super-nations?”
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“Not really. There used to be one which spanned most of Asia called the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics, but it broke apart towards the end of the last century. China
is a kind of a super-nation because it’s so big. It is also divided into provinces, but I
don’t think there’s that much autonomy there. The communist government of China is
heavily centralised.”
“Both the primary super-nations are democratic. Explain democracy.”
Again Kyrell smiled. “Jesus! Um, okay. The word ‘democracy’ means rule by the
people. Essentially, the people get to choose their leaders by voting for them. Each
citizen has one vote. At regular intervals, as many people as want to vote for a given
leader or group of leaders. That leader or group that gets the most votes get to lead for
the term agreed. When that time is up – it’s four years in the United States and six
years in Europe – there’s another election (that’s what it’s called when people vote) and
the whole lot starts all over again.”
Kutulu allowed the concept some silent examination for a few seconds. “That must
be a terrible mess,” he commented.
“Not a whole lot gets done in such a short time, no,” smiled Kyrell. “Governments
spend most of their time trying to please everybody, which is impossible, so they’ll get
elected again. Democracy is popular because of the illusion that the individual counts.
Obviously there’s little truth to that, since only two or three leadership groups exist in
each state and you have to vote for one of them or not vote at all. It seems to be a
useful tool in keeping the population happy, though, even though the vast majority
don’t vote anyway. It’s a useful foreign policy tool, also – all other governments can be
accused of oppression and the super-nations can go to war to ‘free’ those people.”
“My government wants your government’s resources, so I can go to war over it and
justify it by saying I’m bringing freedom to your people and my people will believe me
because they think they were free to choose me as their leader and want to impart that
privilege onto your people?”
“Yes.”
chamber. Kyrell knew he had crossed a line and fear threatened to turn his bowels to
water, but then the calm indifference returned and Kutulu breathed deeply. He seemed
to roll the question around his head for a further few seconds before replying.
“Involuntarily,” he said.
1.6.5
Kyrell’s third conversation: hacking. Kutulu fades, Vivian revealed
Do you not think, asked Kutulu, that it is something of a miracle your race
made it through the Twentieth Century?
Once again, Kyrell was forced to pull a mental U-turn as the conversation veered
recklessly in a new direction. The occultist and his lord lay in complete silence and
darkness in the bowels of the mansion. The neural implants Kutulu had had inserted
and activated were now used to continue the discussions Kutulu appeared to value so
highly, draining from Kyrell what seemed to be every ounce of knowledge the Satanist
had ever possessed.
Nuclear technology? asked Kyrell, hoping he was keeping up with Kutulu’s
thought.
Indeed.
To a certain extent, I suppose so. It is amazing that we did not have one
nuclear exchange except for the bombs dropped on Japan at the end of the
Second World War. I don’t think, though, that mankind would have knowingly
wiped himself out.
Correct, replied Kutulu, but the decision-making power regarding the use of
those weapons did not lie with “mankind” as you put it. The closest thing you
have to putting that power into the hands of “mankind” is democracy, and we
agreed that hardly achieves anything of the sort. In fact, that power lay with
some pretty gung-ho individual humans who wanted nothing more than to
prove that their side was better than the other by completely obliterating
them. A pity.
“And my people weren’t free to choose me, because, logically, somebody stands
behind all the parties to ensure that, whoever gets ‘elected’” – Kutulu had learnt the
annoying human habit of forming quotation marks in the air using his forefingers –
“follows the will of those who are really in charge: the ones with the money.”
In the darkness, Kyrell smiled at what he thought to be cynical humour at the
expense of the intellectually inferior masses of humankind. A pity either side didn’t at
least try.
Kyrell had swiftly learnt how quickly Kutulu grasped concepts like this – probably
combining them with the knowledge he had gained while dreaming of humankind.
“Yes,” he replied. “That’s why capitalism and democracy tend to coexist. Both are
considered to be freedom – freedom to make as much money as you like and freedom
to choose your leaders.”
Again the subject appeared to change abruptly. I have reviewed all the Net will
give me on Xenix’s Martian project. It seems they have a very extensive
satellite network in orbit above this planet and above Mars. It also seems that
this network of satellites is controlled from ground stations using computers
which are connected to the Net. In theory, I could access those satellites from
my neural implants.
“When in fact,” Kutulu completed the thought, “it’s no different to any other
historical model: those with money and power rule. They’ve just found a way of keeping
the masses quiet without force – they’ve created the illusion of individual
empowerment.”
Kyrell nodded.
“Very clever,” said the demonic lord. “I like democracy.”
“How are your nations governed?” asked Kyrell.
Instantly the smile disappeared from Kutulu’s face. A hardness appeared which had
not been in evidence even when Kutulu had murdered the celebrants in the ritual
In theory, Kyrell agreed. In practise, the control technology exists within
exceptionally secure areas of the Net.
It could be hacked.
Again, in theory, yes. The reality is that there are exceptionally bright
computer experts who spend their time doing little else apart from trying to
hack these parts of the Net. Members of our organisation are among those
doing just that, although I recently lost one of my most gifted programmers.
The technology that Xenix uses to secure its network is effectively
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impregnable. It utilises AI – Artificial Intelligence – to learn from attacks and
adjust defence strategy accordingly.
Hal was doing very well.
Yes, Hal. He did have some success.
He Managed to penetrate the second layer of security. He said there were
only three layers. The third stopped him, but he was two-thirds of the way
there. In theory, it could be done.
In theory. Why do it?
Why were you doing it?
I was looking for the complete Necronomicon in order to summon you. Part
of my search included the possibility that the manuscript had somehow made
it into electronic format. Initial searches had turned up nothing, but I needed
to search as widely as possible. That search included Xenix’s part of the Net.
Some of it we could hack. The remainder remained a challenge. I found the
Necronomicon elsewhere, although it was in electronic format. At that point it
was no longer necessary to continue to try and hack into Xenix’s networks –
the satellite control network included.
In the darkness, Kutulu smiled and turned to look across at where Kyrell lay with his
eyes closed. Of course you found it in electronic format. How else were we supposed to
get it to you? Royal Mail?
It is, perhaps, a pity that you saw fit to sacrifice Hal.
He was expendable… that doesn’t mean I lost him intentionally. I agree, he
was good and could have been useful, but I have others like him.
Do you? asked Kutulu. Somehow he managed to get the ironic inflection across
despite the use of implants.
Another sudden conversational tangent: I’ve been examining those satellites.
Satellites?
The ones Xenix send to Mars.
Yes?
They’re assembled in space. That’s interesting – quite a step forward for
your race from a technological standpoint – but it’s their propulsion systems
that interest me. While in orbit, whether around a planet or in free orbit
around the sun between planets, they use solar power for their internal
systems.
Ye-es? Kyrell couldn’t quite see, yet, where the demon was heading with this one.
But when they need to accelerate out of Earth orbit, or decelerate to enter
Martian orbit, they use nuclear technology. On board, they carry a significant
quantity of enriched Uranium and Plutonium.
Yes, they do, Kyrell caught up. That was one of the main reasons for reviving
the old Star Wars satellite defence program from the 1980s. The public needed
assurances that orbiting nuclear bombs wouldn’t drop on their heads.
Indeed. And an apt turn of phrase. Those craft carry enough radioactive
material to be classed as weapons. Very serious weapons. Not too different
from the missiles many of your nations insist they no longer have.
Weapons without detonators, replied Kyrell. The stuff may be radioactive, but
that doesn’t mean it’s going to explode for no reason. You need a detonator.
So you saw the news propaganda bulletins, too, did you? Kyrell disliked the
mockery, even in the monotone of mental communication. And just what do you
think planet fall would do to one of those craft?
It would –
Exactly! It would burn up on entry, wouldn’t it? Coming down anything
more than a very slight angle to the horizon, it would burn up at some quite
considerable temperatures.
A light went on somewhere in the back of Kyrell’s brain. Suddenly he united the
apparently haphazard shreds of the conversation. Nuclear war… hacking Xenix…
weapons-grade material on Xenix satellites. He smiled in the darkness. You could
hold the world to ransom!
That is one option, replied Kutulu. My concern is the security of Xenix’s data
and their satellites. We don’t know nearly enough about how they do what
they do.
The darkness around Kutulu wavered, shimmered like the air behind a jet engine.
Kyrell lay oblivious, his eyes shut. Black rivulets slid and squirmed over black air,
invisible ripples in the fabric of the space that surrounded Kutulu, whose eyes also
remained closed.
The network… Xeni… …-tion of the security… squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Kyrell jerked as the high-pitched squeal – like a microphone too close to a speaker –
sliced through his consciousness. In the darkness, beyond his sight, the air surrounding
Kutulu twisted and flowed, a black mirage distorting a blacker darkness. Like oil running
over more oil, liquid reality swirled sickeningly, obscuring the body of the demon Lord
within the inky dark.
Lord? Lord! LORD!
With a crack echoing inaudibly across timelessness, the darkness snapped back
together and Kutulu lay as he had done, hidden now only by the absence of light.
Abruptly, the squeal in Kyrell’s implants stopped.
Lord?
I am here, somehow the signal reaching Kyrell’s auditory nerve centre seemed to
come from an truly appalling distance which snapped closed like a released rubber
band. And that is enough. I will rest. Thank you, Kyrell, you may leave.
My lord?
Now.
Kyrell stood and fumbled for the door. An anaemic light passed through the doorway
as he slid out of the room, then darkness returned.
“Shit!” Kutulu cursed into the darkness, abandoning the neural interaction.
You are fading.
Page 38 of 137
“Obviously,” replied Kutulu without any attempt at hiding his annoyance.
We knew this could not be permanent. We’re still a century from the next
major alignment, and even that will be weak.
“I’ve been called out of time.”
Something like that.
“And now Kyrell knows something is wrong.”
In the darkness, Vivian reached out her hand and touched Kutulu’s arm. Light’s
absence being no hindrance to his sight, Kutulu was not alarmed by the touch. Kyrell
would have been. He had no idea the woman had been present at every meeting he had
thus far had with Kutulu.
He’ll think it’s to do with the implants, she said.
“We need to strengthen me.”
It won’t last.
“It won’t have to. We might not have to do it at all.”
Seen in the darkness, Vivian smiled evilly.
1.7
1.7.1
Rune Live Firing Exercise
Rune’s implants activated
Rune sat silently and forced his hands not to fidget it in his lap. He sat behind his
desk in his office, but, for once, his desk was clear of the processor blocks, plasma
screens, paper and files that usually piled in haphazard semi-chaos. The curtains behind
him were drawn. Opposite him, on the other side of the desk, sat the technician he had
visited two weeks before. There was no visible technology in the room, just the two
men sitting across a hastily tidied desk.
“I am going to issue the activate command,” the technician was explaining, “after a
count of five. You will not notice any immediate change. Please stay relaxed and breath
evenly. There is absolutely no danger to you, I assure you. Once the command has
been issued, I will run through a small battery of tests to ensure it is working properly.
Do you understand?”
Rune nodded briskly.
The technician counted slowly down from five. There was no particular reason why
he needed to do this. There was, in fact, no particular reason why he actually needed to
be anywhere near Rune at all in order to activate the neural implants, but nervous users
– especially with the level of security clearance Rune enjoyed – could do an awful lot of
damage in a very swift space of time if they were not eased into their use. As he
counted downwards, the technician reviewed, on the insides of closed retinas, the status
of the implants by issuing commands at them and analysing their response. They were
working as expected.
“One… now.” He didn’t move. The conscious thought of activating the neural
implants designated by the flashing icon inside his skull was simply given, as one may
instruct an arm to move or an eye to blink. Rune, his eyes tightly shut, noticed nothing.
“The commands are exactly the same as those you would give to your PHUD,
except, of course, that you no longer need to speak them aloud into a microphone.
Please call the primary menu into active mode.”
Rune thought the words, “Primary Menu”, his eyes remaining tightly shut, frowned
slightly in surprise and then muttered, “Good Lord.”
“Do you see the menu?”
“Clear as day.” It was as if his eyes were open inside a three-dimensional surround
display. The display did not move as Rune shifted his head slightly, and he felt a mild
disorientation, a slight nausea at this absence of movement where his mind expected
movement to be. He kept his head still and tried issuing a command to select a menu
item – to review his daily calendar.
The menu disappeared and, in its place, appeared the familiar display containing
daily appointments, tasks and mail. He selected an appointment at random and
reviewed its contents. He looked at the area of the display where he could speak
commands into a text field, and issued a short sentence in his mind. The text, “Testing,
testing, 1, 2, 3,” appeared exactly where he intended it to go.
He opened his eyes to look at the technician and then closed them immediately. He
was seeing two things at once, two images equally solid and yet equally transparent
and the nausea returned, stronger now, as his mind reeled in the attempt to resolve the
two images. He felt a mild headache starting at his temples.
“Do I have to keep my eyes shut for this?”
“No,” said the technician, “but it may prove useful to begin with. The brain swiftly
adapts to the idea of seeing two images simultaneously, but you may experience some
headaches and a little dizziness as you become accustomed to it. The fact that you’ve
used a PHUD helps. Think of it as being the same as a PHUD: you can see the image on
the lens and you can also see through the lens at the world around you. The brain soon
realises they are two separate images and they begin to flow in and out of focus like
with your PHUD. You can focus on one, leaving the other a blur, and then reverse the
process by focussing again on the display image. Think of it as an overlay.”
“I can turn it off?”
“Try it.”
“Ah.” The image disappeared and Rune opened his eyes to see the dimly lit office. It
was bizarre to experience a computer terminal responding to his thoughts. He closed his
eyes, thought of the display being on and was immediately returned to the display of his
appointment he had been reviewing. He deleted the text he had thought of, shut down
his diary and returned to the main menu. He did not realise he was smiling.
“That’s it?” he asked, turning off the display and opening his eyes.
“That’s it,” replied the technician.
1.7.2
Live Firing Exercise
Across the seven-foot high, twenty-foot wide plasma screen that dominated the
front wall of Xenix’s Cape Town Data Security Control Centre, two maps were projected.
To the left, a map of South Africa, to the right, a map of the world. Around each display
were smaller screens, some displaying graphical information, some with live camera
feeds from various locations on and off the planet, some with raw data streaming down
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them endlessly. Each could be magnified to fill the central two screens at the wish of the
Operations Controller.
communication with those using PHUDs, since their interface did not support all the
communications capabilities the neural implants possessed.
For today’s “Live Firing Exercise”, Rune was the Operations Controller. A “Live Firing
Exercise” was what Xenix Data Security employees called the security drills that ran at
random intervals, but at least once every fortnight. This was the second this week.
A few moments passed in silence. The teams worked while Rune and Julie stared at
the large screens on the front wall, at times alternating displays, gaining an
understanding of the scenario Liol and his team and given Betty to manage.
The room almost exactly resembled the space flight control centres of the 1970s,
except, of course, for the absence of keyboards and telephones. Data Security
engineers, programmers, network architects, software testers and other staff sat behind
banks of plasma screens. There were twenty-four team members seated in two rows of
twelve. In front of the large plasma screens at the front of the room, framed by her
shock of red hair, Janice Workman stood with her arms folded. Rune stood alongside
her, his modest height dwarfing her.
It’s the satellite control servers, Rune heard Jeanette transmit directly to his
implants. They’re after the satellites.
“I am dead,” she began, rehearsing this morning’s security breech scenario. “In the
raid on our offices above us, I was killed by gunfire. So were you, you and you,” she
pointed amongst the seated technicians, apparently at random. “And you,” she pointed
again, “didn’t make it down here before the secure doors shut. Please come and join me
at the front.” She paused, tapping her hand on her upper arm in thought. “You and
you,” again, random choices, “have had your implants scrambled. They are useless.”
Janice issued a silent instruction to her own implants and the two chosen victims
instantly fumbled beneath their desks to retrieve PHUDs as they lost all neural contact
with the Net.
“Bart is down, as are its PBS and SBS. The hack was timed to coincide with the
armed attack on our offices. By the time this exercise begins, secure information is
already pouring off our servers through Bart gateway, which remains operational.” Rune
noticed that those assembling at the front represented his complete secondary AI team,
and they grinned at him. Janice had clearly had them sharpening up Betty, their AI
software, to simulate this exercise.
“Liol,” she turned to the AI programming team leader standing with her. “Please
activate the scenario. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to hell!” It was her accustomed
introduction to security drills. She checked her watch and stood back.
Why? asked Rune. He changed to general transmission band, cursed his
forgetfulness and then said out loud, “They’re after the satellite control servers. Tell me
why!” Kevin, where are the other satellites?
Fucked if I – sorry, I don’t know. It’s like they’ve fallen out of the sky. Will
advise.
Profanity was generally discouraged amongst Rune’s staff, but he did not enforce the
rule too rigidly, especially during exercises such as this. The adrenalin was flowing.
Rune turned to Julie who stood next to him. Try and find out what is happening
upstairs. Are we safe down here? It was a usual routine. Instead of communicating
directly with security staff, however, as she would do in a live situation, she transmitted
her request direct to the controlling AI.
Betty, what’s the situation upstairs? No response. Betty? No response. She
looked at Rune. No response.
Okay, we assume they’re all dead. “They’re all dead upstairs,” he called across
the room. “No comms with the outside. Keep going.”
The room remained silent, except for commands whispered to PHUDs from the two
operators deprived of their neural implants.
Back-hack past Bart SBS and PBS, reported Nils from across the room.
Resurrecting Bart. Shit!
What?
Immediately, the icons on both maps disappeared, to be replaced by those dreamt
up by Betty. Rune stared at the map of South Africa for nearly ten seconds, sucking
from it, as fast as he could, the nature of the problem he’d been given. He turned to the
world map and stared at it also. Nobody moved and the silence held an enthusiastic
tension.
Bart has crashed. All three. We have no firewall! He declared into the general
band. Then aloud, “Bart has crashed! We have no firewall!”
Rune’s head jerked sideways at Lion, who grinned in return. “Bastard,” Rune
declared cheerfully.
“Because at least Bart was recording information lost. With a crashed drive it’s just a
conduit – a functioning network card. Everything goes past unrecorded and therefore
much faster.”
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I need three teams.” His mental arithmetic danced
ahead of him. He had twenty operators, two of whom were reduced to PHUDs. “Kevin,
five people. Not one of the PHUDs. Tell me why I only have six satellites giving me
information for the world map. Jeanette, seven, one PHUD. Identify the servers that are
being raided. Tell me what the info is that’s being downloaded. Nils, seven, one PHUD.
Back-hack. I want to know where the bastards are coming from. Julie, with me.”
It was strange to watch the entire room enliven with energy without any physical
appearance of springing into action. Some “Live Fire Exercises” were completely silent,
when Janice chose not to remove the neural capabilities of any of the staff. Almost all
information was exchanged electronically, with a few low mutters, curses and
exclamations all that was heard. This time, Rune was forced to use speech to share
Get somebody down there! Urged Rune from the front of the room.
Janice turned to Rune and whispered, “Bart was compromised anyway. Why –“
We can’t. No outside comms, remember? We’re locked in here.
Kill it! Kill it!
How? I can’t physically access the servers. The drive is down but the
network card remains –
Rune issued a stream of instructions to his neural implants. Re-check, Nils. Recheck.
Janice looked across at Rune, her implants informing her of the progress of the
exercise. She turned to Liol, whose grin had disappeared. Can he do that?
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Betty allowed it, Liol replied on the private band Janice had accessed. It must be
possible.
Liol shrugged. “Thought I’d raise the stakes. Oh, and the self-destructs have been
over-ridden, by the way. You can’t destroy them remotely.”
Bart’s gone! Information loss contained. The implant communication could not
transmit volume or inflection, but Nils stared his consternation across the room at Rune.
“Okay, everybody,” Rune called. “Thanks to our imaginative friend Liol here, we
have,” he turned to check the screen, “seventeen minutes before impact in Cape Town.
I’d like to find Table Mountain where I left it this morning – and I don’t want to see it
glowing – so please tell Star Wars to shoot the bastard out of the sky!”
Rune smiled. Yes. Continue back-hack through Daffy. Find out who this is.
Jeanette, double-check.
Nils looked considerably less than happy at the mysterious loss of a server, but he
turned to face his team and continued in silence. Around the room subtle changes to
facial expressions revealed individuals addressing their implants with grave
concentration.
Kevin, what’s up with those satellites? Rune asked impatiently across the room.
They’re still not there.
Realign sensors on the ones we have.
I did. They’re not there, man! It’s like they’ve been – Kevin interrupted his
own sentence and urgently queried his implants, issuing commands to it and those
around.
“We have sky fall!” he shouted across the room. Everybody looked up. “Repeat: We
have sky fall! They’re coming down, boys!” he sung happily.
“Get me trajectories!” Rune shouted back. “Jeanette, has the data outflow stopped?”
Yes. “Sorry, yes.”
“I want you with Kevin. Get trajectories. Get a two-man team onto Star Wars.
Anything headed for major civil areas I want shot down. Repeat: shot down! See if you
can establish communication with the others when you find out where they are. I want
to know,” he turned to face Liol, “how it’s possible to hack satellites.” The grin was back
on Liol’s face. Rune bowed his head in ironic acknowledgement of the new strategy.
Rune turned to the map behind him, chose a different one to fill the screen
alongside the world map. It, too, was a world map, but this one plotted satellite activity
above the ground, rather than network and data activity. It was an horrendously
complex mess of moving icons, but Rune issued instructions to it using his neural
implants. He cleared all satellites except the six remaining Xenix ones and those with
which they were capable of communicating. All other traffic disappeared. Kevin, I want
those satellites on this screen. I want velocity, trajectory, altitude, time to
impact, impact location and detonation altitude.
I’ll try, even in the emotionless medium of implants, the reply sounded timid.
And use the remaining satellites to establish a link with Star Wars. Nils, I
need that back-hack info. There’s no way they hacked the satellites just by
dropping Bart. They’re not even on this network. Christ, they’re not even on
this continent. Find them. Rune found the lack of inflection frustrating – he couldn’t
shout.
Icons were starting to flash on the second world map. The errant satellites were
appearing, one by one, as Kevin accessed ground-station information and data from the
satellites still in orbit. Rune saw the tip of Africa blinking a dull red. He chuckled.
“Cape Town?” he turned to face Liol. “One’s heading for Cape Town?”
Rune knew that the satellites, in fact fully operational space stations where the
Xenix craft were assembled and then launched towards Mars, would, in a real situation,
be occupied by astroengineers, but the standing orders had existed since their inception
that US global satellite defence – still retaining the nickname “Star Wars” from the
1980s – had to be informed should they fall out of orbit. The reason was simple: the
craft which were sent to Mars utilised nuclear power for acceleration and deceleration.
Between the two, when the craft coasted towards the red planet, the solar energy
provided by the sun and harnessed in the dishes lined with South African gold kept the
electrical systems running. The space stations held a rather large amount of radioactive
material and while every safety procedure was in place to secure it, the risk of its
dispersal when a satellite burned up on entry into the atmosphere was too great.
None of the satellites would ever reach the ground, and in theory – even if this were
a real-life situation – Cape Town was quite safe from impact. The threat was the release
of heavy chemicals into the upper atmosphere at detonation altitude – that point at
which heat caused by burn-up ignited containment of radioactive chemicals. For this
reason, they had to be shot down above a certain altitude.
It was possible for a satellite to reach the Earth’s surface in one piece, but this
required exceptionally precise re-entry angles and descent control. The chances of a
free-falling satellite achieving this were essentially zero.
Star Wars informed, Jeanette reported. Betty had simulated the use of older,
satellite-telephony technology to allow her to contact a simulated US military with the
network inoperative. Let’s hope Betty thinks the Yanks can fire straight.
Slowly more icons appeared on the screen as the team found more and more
satellites.
All satellites accounted for, Kevin transmitted.
Is the data with Star Wars?
It’s getting there. It’s slow on satellite telephone.
“Right, Nils stay with the back-hack. The rest of you, how are they controlling the
satellites? I want them stopped. I want to know how it’s possible to hack satellites.”
Again silence across the room. One by one icons disappeared from the orbital
display as virtual plummeting satellites were “shot down”. Three were still flashing an
urgent red – they were approaching the upper atmosphere and would start burning up.
Contact with Armageddon established, Nils reported. Unable to contact any
personnel, but I have network contact. This time Janice was shocked! Armageddon,
the name for the location of the computer technology which directly controlled the
satellites, situated deep in the heart of the mountain range neat Simonstown, south of
Cape Town. The network was entirely self-contained, utterly separate from the worldwide Net. It should not have been possible to contact this network, and Janice was
somewhat surprised that Nils had achieved the impossible but even more surprised that
Betty should allow for such a scenario.
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A siren sounded in the room, a recorded voice started announcing a security breach
and the screens behind Rune flashed off and then returned to their actual, “real”
display. The orbital map disappeared to be replaced by the map of South Africa, this
time magnified to focus on False Bay, south of Cape Town. Simonstown flashed an
urgent red.
Um… Nils? Rune looked across the room as the programmer looked up.
“Nils!” Janice shouted. “Abort! Abort you idiot!”
Nils issued a command into his implants and the siren stopped. The icon
disappeared from the map of Cape Town.
Now there was absolute silence in the room. Janice let it settle for a few seconds,
then, “Right. Everybody to the briefing room.”
1.7.3
Live fire exercise review
Nils Middelkoop, like the vast majority of those with whom he worked, was a gifted
programmer. Also like many with whom he worked, he was an equally gifted hacker. It
had always been Xenix policy to hire hackers to stop hackers. Nils had a criminal record
– also nothing unique among Rune’s Data Security staff – and it had been his felonies
which had attracted the attention of Xenix. Nils’ sentence had been reduced and he had
been recruited by Xenix on his release.
Nils was not a criminal. He was simply too intelligent for his university tutors and too
bored for his own good. He had found his studies boring and had taken what he was
learning in his programming degree at the University of Cape Town, added liberally to it
from his own knowledge and experience, and hacked into Xenix’s entertainment
network. The fact that he had not sold any of the software, music, games and movies
he had stolen from Xenix mitigated for him at his trial and he had spent five months of
a one year sentence in minimum security at Pollsmoor prison near Cape Town’s
Constantia suburbs for theft of intellectual property.
Had he been asked at his trial, which he had not, he would have pointed out that he
had actually listened to three of the twelve hundred music publications he had stolen,
played one of the five hundred games, watched none of the seven hundred movies and
installed only those parts of the software which assisted his hacking. The joy had been
in the programming, his motive the simple display of the fact that he could do it. He
was no thief.
He would also have pointed out that he only stole what represented just under sixty
percent of Xenix’s total intellectual property because he had run out of storage space.
Now he stood and calmly faced the tirade of Janice’s considerable professional
anger. He knew he was only guilty of doing his job too well. Liol Bredemkamp stood
beside him.
“What the hell were you doing hacking Armageddon?” she thumped the table in
front of her and bellowed for the third time. The remainder of the Data Security staff
remained seated and silent in the other chairs that dotted the boardroom-shaped
conference room which lay behind glass walls at the rear of the operations room.
“And you,” she turned on Liol. “If you want a scenario that has satellites falling out
of the bloody sky, you should have told Betty to expect us to try and establish data
contact with them in spite of the comms blackout!” Instead, unwittingly, Nils had
bypassed Betty completely – and the Live Fire exercise itself – and had managed to
hack into a real-life network which was supposed to be utterly impregnable.
“I programmed Betty to disallow it,” Liol explained in his thick Afrikaans accent.
“Heerlikied, she was supposed to stop him dead.”
“She did,” replied Nils, speaking for the first time. “I thought she was emulating
Armageddon denying me access, so I hacked around it. I didn’t realise I was hacking
around her.”
“She was supposed to deactivate your implants,” said Liol.
“She tried,” Nils smiled. “She failed.”
“Shut up, both of you!” snapped Janice. “I am now going to have to explain to some
very senior and very annoyed managers how Armageddon’s security has just been
compromised and you,” she stabbed a finger at Nils, “are going to tell me how you did
it. You,” the finger moved to Liol, “are going to offer a written explanation of exactly
why Betty did not stop Nils going outside of the exercise.”
Rune, standing behind Janice and leaning against the front wall of the conference
room, was desperately trying to keep the smile off his face. It had only been a few
weeks, but he was very proud of those who worked for him – especially of Nils and what
he had achieved today. Illegal, impossible and absolutely vital if such a scenario were
ever to occur in reality. He knew that Janice knew this. He also knew that Nils and Liol
knew that Janice knew this. At times it could be very challenging trying to lead and
discipline a team of such intellectual power as his. Everybody knew everything.
Janice relented. “Liol, you screwed up. You know you screwed up. You’ve shown us a
weakness in Betty’s programming which is exactly what these exercises are there to do.
Nils,” she paused, and a smile spread across her face as she shook her head. “I really
do want to know how the hell you achieved that. We’re all ears. Please go ahead.”
Nils turned to face his colleagues. Another man may perhaps have been
embarrassed by the compliments, but Nils simply smiled an acknowledgement at what
he had achieved. He was not arrogant, but nor was he falsely modest. He was good and
worked with the best – he knew it and he was proud of it.
“Your hack,” he began, indicating Liol, “was supposed to have come from a physical
infiltration into the Armageddon site, correct?” Liol nodded. “So they used
Armageddon’s own computers, pretending the attack came from somewhere else?”
Another nod. “Damn! No wonder it took so long. The last place we’d expect a hack to
come from!” Nils cursed as Liol nodded a third time with increased enthusiasm. “Now
how are people supposed to get into Armageddon without blowing the whole place to
shit? You know why it’s called Armageddon? Because the place is designed to withstand
absolutely anything that is thrown at it. They called it Armageddon because somebody
said that, if there were a war against Xenix, the final battle would be there. It’s
unreachable. It’s impregnable.”
Nils turned from Liol to face his colleagues. “So I figured that somebody must have
hacked into it from outside, not gained access from within. In order to control the
satellites, they’d have to have control of Armageddon, but in order to control
Armageddon, they’d first have to have control of the satellites. That’s the idea: a
contained network. So I hacked the satellites. It was part of the back-hack.”
“How?” asked Janice.
“The six satellites which remained still covered the majority of the globe. There was
a mobile blind spot which Rune saw, which is how he realised there was a problem with
the satellites to start with, but Cape Town had just moved out of the blind spot when
the exercise started. So I gained access to the comms dishes on top of Table Mountain,
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realigned them from the comms satellites to the project ones and had a direct signal
with them. It wouldn’t be very easy for somebody else to do that – they’d need access
to dishes powerful enough to transmit their signals at our satellites and also need to
know where those satellites are, which, of course, only we know with enough accuracy
to align a comms dish. Those dishes are controlled from here, not Armageddon.
Jeanette was doing this anyway, since she needed their input to find the hacked
satellites. From there I just needed to crack the firewalls on the satellites themselves
and I was in. I must have made it – it was at exactly that point that the sirens went off.
Only I must have hacked the real satellites, not Liol’s play-play ones.”
“Indeed,” smiled Janice. “Okay, fair enough. But there’s an awful lot of encryption
you got past in a very short space of time. How did you do it?”
“I asked Betty,” and here Nils’ smile turned wicked.
“You what?”
“I didn’t cheat exactly,” he explained. “I just asked her, as the governing AI, to
assist with the decryption. In a full-on crisis we’d have the AIs helping us, so I reckoned
I could use one with the speed decryption. I asked to use the decrypt algorithms we’ve
been working on.”
“She shouldn’t have helped you.”
“She was a bit… reluctant.”
The smile fell from Liol’s face. “You hacked my AI?”
“I did ask nicely. I informed Betty that we had a code red and I needed access.”
“You hacked my AI,” Liol said again, sullenly.
“She’s there to make swift decisions. I had lost contact with Armageddon and
needed to get it back. I convinced her that my priority was greater than the exercise.
It’s just that, in doing so, I also managed to convince her this was no longer an
exercise. Liol didn’t screw up. I lied to Betty. I screwed up.”
Rune imagined a space pod holding a dead body parked outside the starship
Discovery and Dave Bowman asking HAL to open the Pod Bay doors. He doubted,
however, whether many present shared his enthusiasm for Stanley Kubrik’s century-old
warning about lying to computers programmed to deal only with the truth.
“Okay, Nils I want a full report. Liol, I also want a full report. All of you, very well
done. You two included.”
1.7.4
Rune and Janice out for drinks
During the area of Apartheid, South Africa had had a nuclear weapons program. It
was a somewhat more comprehensive nuclear weapons program than the vast majority
of South Africans had suspected. During the 1990s, with the dismantling of the
Apartheid regime, the IAEA, the United Nations’ International Atomic Energy Agency,
had overseen the decommissioning of this weaponry. It formed part of the so-called
Truth and Reconciliation Commission, an historically unique body set up to investigate
the crimes committed by both sides during South Africa’s struggle for democracy, not to
affix blame, but rather to achieve understanding for a population desperately deprived
of answers. It had been hoped that this body would have assisted the transition to an
equitable society.
To a limited extent it worked. Crime remained South Africa’s main problem. It
always had been, but now it left the townships and found its way into the homes of
previously secure and blissfully ignorant middle-class, white South Africans. As the
decades passed, South Africa did manage to settle down, but it took the purging of a
generation before proper understanding and forgiveness could begin to be achieved.
Among the few obviously successful achievements of the TRC was the
decommissioning of South Africa’s nuclear arsenal. One of many sites for nuclear
research and development had been bunkers built deep into the mountains that formed
the backbone of the peninsular which ran down the west of False Bay from Cape Town
to Cape Point, the confluence of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. Under British rule,
Simonstown, a village wedged, like most of Cape Town’s southern suburbs, on a narrow
strip of land between sea and mountain, had been established as a naval base for the
British Navy. When South Africa achieved independence from Britain in 1961,
Simonstown remained the headquarters of the South African navy and the mountains
behind the small trip of land retained for training exercises. Batteries of naval guns
were mounted on these hills to form an integral part of South Africa’s naval defence.
Beneath them, billions of tons of rock were hollowed out, initially as emergency
headquarters and magazines, but later to form offices and laboratories. As South Africa
entered the nuclear age, so these laboratories had been expanded. By 1990, a vast
labyrinth, forming a subterranean city, existed yards from some of South Africa’s most
popular tourist attractions and seaside playgrounds.
By the middle of the twenty- first century the navy retained the use of come of
these bunkers, but, without a nuclear program, the majority were surplus to
requirement. Then came Xenix and the need for an exceptionally secure satellite control
station. The lights were switched on throughout vast tracts of bunker and the
technology of Martian life came to replace that of Earthly death. Those who knew of the
nuclear capabilities of the satellites understood the irony of the situation. Perhaps
recalling the warlike purpose of the original installation, and, as Nils had pointed out,
acknowledging its role as final defence in Xenix’s security strategy, they had named it
Armageddon.
Fish Hoek, a town half-way between Cape Town and Cape Point on the eastern coast
of the Cape Peninsular – and despite the tourism industry (South Africa’s largest source
of revenue behind Xenix and Johannesburg’s gold-mining activities) – retained, as it had
for decades, its local legislation against the sale of alcohol. A puritanical mayoral
leadership had, during the middle of the twentieth century, decided to keep out of Fish
Hoek the undesirable element that seemed to haunt all pubs and off-licenses and
despite appeals to repeal the bylaws, the legislation remained. Rune and Janice sat
under a warm evening sun on the terrace of what was ostensibly Fish Hoek’s yacht club
near the hospital and sipped the drinks they had purchased using the accustomed
loophole: as members, they had purchased tickets and then exchanged them for drink.
The tickets were the items of sale, not the alcohol, which was “free” in exchange for a
ticket. Neither of them had so much as set foot on a yacht in their lives.
“You blew Bart’s network card,” Janice accused with a smile.
“I overloaded the power to Bart’s UPS,” replied Rune, referring to the Uninterruptible
Power Supply that kept the servers running in the event of a power failure. “I blew that.
The card was fine.”
“The UPS should allow for spikes. It’s meant to.”
“A spike and a sustained input a hundred times normal are two different things. I
couldn’t have all that data streaming off to your hackers. And Nils needed the break.”
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“Nils needed no such thing! Anyway, Betty allowed it. We need to test it and see if it
works in reality.”
Rune nodded and sipped the Castle Lager in his hand. “Nils did well.”
Again Janice produced a smile that seemed to make the room around Rune slightly
brighter. “I had Barnes on the phone after that meeting.” The expression “phone”
remained in use, despite the growing absence of the device as it was replaced by PHUDs
and neural implants. Houses still retained telephone connections to facilitate network
connectivity, but mobile telephony had all but disappeared, replaced by PHUDs and
neural technology. “I could probably have heard him from London without my implants.
There’s going to be a lot of overtime at Armageddon over the next few weeks.”
“The exercises are supposed to discover weaknesses.”
“They’re supposed to train staff for an emergency,” Janice played absently with the
ice in her drink, swirling her finger. “You know Nils has a criminal record?”
“So should I,” shrugged Rune. “If you’re any good, then so should you.”
“I miss England. I miss green. I know Cape Town is supposed to be all lush and
green, and maybe it is, compared to, say, Jo’burg or whatever, but you can’t beat the
Kentish countryside.” Janice had worked in Cape Town for nearly a decade, having come
out from Maidstone in Kent during her late teens for her first position at Xenix, but she
retained the absent consonants and lighter vowels of her native Estuary accent.
“But you ain’t got the mountain,” Rune mimicked Janice’s accent. Badly. Mary
Poppins’ Bert would have been proud.
Again she smiled. “Yeah, it’s hard to get lost in Cape Town, isn’t it? Just look up.”
Spoilt by the presence of Table Mountain as a universal landmark, Rune had found
orientation exceptionally difficult in the sprawling chaos of London’s streets. Town
planning had come far too late to introduce order to the ancient capital. For a year he
was more or less lost three blocks from his front door, his office or the Thames unless
he consulted his PHUD. The familiar streets of Cape Town were among his greater
comforts now he worked where he was born.
Janice smiled over the rim of her drink, playfully flicking at the ice cubes with the tip
of her tongue.
“Oh, I’m good,” smiled Janice, and let the double meaning hang lightly in the air
between them.
Unsure how to respond to this first acknowledgement of the affection that had been
growing between them over the past few weeks, Rune dropped his gaze into the halfempty glass in front of him. “How is Phillip?” he managed.
“Pissed off,” said Janice after swallowing the remainder her drink. “But he knows
what we achieved and he’s happy with it. I’m supposed to shit on you so you will shit on
Nils for what he did, but he’s grateful that we found the weakness and not somebody
else. He’s also pretty impressed with Nils. Consider yourself shat on.”
“Consider your next drink my apology. Same again?”
Rune drained his glass and then stood and walked to the bar. He could feel Janice’s
eyes following him. He wasn’t sure whether he was entirely comfortable flirting with his
boss, and he knew he was definitely uncomfortable with the idea of romance clouding
their professional relationship, but he liked her and he liked risk and his third beer was
assisting in allaying his concerns.
He returned, drinks in hand, to find Janice rummaging through her handbag. She
produced a box of cigarettes, lit one and leaned back in her chair as she exhaled the
smoke. “Jesus, I’m glad we’re allowed to do this again,” she sighed, referring to antismoking laws, recently repealed, which would have, until a year ago, forced her outside
to enjoy her cigarette. Modern tobacco companies insisted that cigarettes now lacked all
the carcinogens which had made them socially taboo and then actually illegal during the
first decades of the twenty-first century and, a few years previously, South African
authorities had concurred. Rune did not smoke and found the smell mildly irritating, but
he also found the sight of a woman smoking attractive.
“You’re from Cape Town, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yah. Brought up here in Fish Hoek, actually. I joined Xenix in London and was
based there for four years before coming back.”
“Happy to be home?”
“I suppose so. You?”
1.8
1.8.1
First Kutulu Hack and Kyrell is Sent to Hell
Kutulu hacks Xenix, almost fades at vital moment and Kutulu reviews
his progress
Rune, wake up. Bart primary and secondary are down! Tertiary is
weakening, but I think we can hold her.
Rune was instantly awake. The effect of the cerebral intrusion was, as ever, not
unwelcome. The result was that he simply awoke. The contents of the message,
however, had his eyes open suddenly wide in the pre-dawn gloom. The call identifier
icon hovering in front of his vision informed him Nils was calling from the tail end of his
night shift.
Who is it?
Don’t know. We’re backtracking, but it’s funny. No source IP yet.
Okay, keep going. I’m on my way.
Should I call Janice?
Rune turned his head to look at the jumble of red hair that lay beside him, snoring
softly. I’ll tell her, he said and terminated the call.
Kutulu had lost all sense of his body. He existed in waves and pulses, feeling and
searching, penetrating. His consciousness flowed at the speed of light from junction to
junction, probing, turning, seeking. He had no senses, no sound, no sight, only the
vaguest sense of touch as closed pathways bumped with a sharp, slight pain while the
comfort of free-flowing thought brought its trivial pleasure.
Touch brought information. Like instant Braille, he could read the flashes of
information as they streamed past him, as he collided with them, joined with them,
dismembered them, bypassed them. A millipede with infinitely long and infinitely
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sensitive legs, blind and deaf and yet incredibly tactile, able to sense the smallest
movement, interpret the tiniest signal, read the briefest pulse.
He had had to learn over the nine nights as Kyrell slept. It was like no sensory input
he had received before. He had inhabited hundreds of bodies in dozens of different
shapes. Biochemistries utterly foreign to both humankind and his own caste and race,
visual inputs beyond ultraviolet or infra red, auditory senses in the ultrasound range,
tactile response to chemical stimuli, taste response to light. Over millennia the Universe
had not only produced wilder answers to evolution’s questions than humankind
imagined – it had produced them beyond anything humankind could imagine.
And this was not the first time he had inhabited technology either. As Nature had
responded with wildly differing engineering across time and space, so the races it
created had come up with incredibly diverse technological answers to their
environments. Electricity as it was known to humankind was not uncommon as a
solution to communication and power, but its means of transmission varied greatly, as
did the code used to transmit messages.
Kutulu had struggled before in the energetically sparse environment of the human
Universe. Electricity was not free to communicate outside of physical conductors, and
even those conductors were not terribly reliable. It was one thing to take on the form of
life energy and translate that into electricity. This was easy – Nature herself had
produced this form of evolution on more than one occasion, sentient beings composed
entirely of light or electrical flow or magnetic waves. It was the restriction of the
conductors, required in these dimensions, which Kutulu found hideously restrictive but
which he recognised as the fundamental aspect of most human technology.
IP communication, sending information in small packets, had been used since the
beginning of computer communication, and Kutulu could see why. In this ridiculously
low-energy environment, the smaller the package of information, the more reliable the
communication. Large amounts of data would be reduced to strings of tiny packets and
then sent from source to destination. The destination would then take the packets and
re-assemble the original data. The advantage of this was that a fault in communication
would result in the loss of a few packets, not the entire transmission. It also meant that
one stream of data could be divided across multiple transmission routes to speed things
up. The data need also not come sequentially.
This was an ingeniously simple solution to the complex problems of the desert
dimension. Kutulu readily admitted this. But it made existence within this energistic
environment challenging to say the very least. As his sense stretched to read the
information that ran past his consciousness, transmitted into the Net through the neural
implants, so he struggled to glean their meaning, trying to join millions of microscopic
bursts of data into their component parts.
Fortunately, mankind’s solution was nice and simple and afforded Kutulu the
information he needed to translate what he “felt”. Every packet was encapsulated in its
own identification – quite literally numbered in case it got lost. It told you where it came
from, where it was going to and how long it was. It even included a check digit to
ensure the accuracy of the information it contained – the packet should be rejected if
the data within did not add up to the check digit when viewed purely arithmetically. The
sheer scale of the information was utterly vast, but Kutulu had no problems digesting
such amounts of information. He was, after all, at least from a human perspective, a
god.
Janice mumbled something into her pillow as Rune tugged at her shoulder. “It’s
Nils,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”
“Wha’ ‘ime ith i’?”
“It’s just gone five o’clock.”
“Thuck!” She rolled over onto her back, allowing the strain of opening her eyes
against the bright bedside light to show histrionically. “What is it?”
Rune turned to get up off the bed, stood and spoke as he walked towards the ensuite bathroom which ran off his bedroom. “Nils reckons somebody has cracked Bart
One and Two. He says they’re holding Three, but I don’t think he’d have called if he
wasn’t very worried.”
Janice sighed, rubbed her eyes with the balls of her hands and sat up. “We need to
speak to him.”
“Fine, open a channel.”
Janice closed her eyes again, but this time she was wide awake. Nils?
Janice. Has Rune got hold of you?
Janice opened her eyes and exchanged a glance with Rune. Optic input for the
conversations had not been opened at her instruction. Nils could not see what she saw,
or what Rune saw.
He’s online. Can you report or are we distracting you?
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, replied Nils. He sat at his desk,
surrounded by screens and old-fashioned keyboards. He had two PHUDs on his head,
one left-handed, such that each eye received differing data (which he ignored
completely unless he chose to focus on either by closing the opposite eye). He was now
also focussing on the conversation with his managers in his neural implants. Who said
men couldn’t multi-task? It’s like the data is being controlled by itself – like it is a
self-replicating AI, only the size of a virus. It has no source IP. It’s not coming
from anywhere – it’s here. It’s leaving no trace. It has its own signature, it’s
very unique and easily identifiable, but there’s no attacking it because… well…
Yes?
I know this sounds like kak, but it’s like it dodges our attacks. The incoming
signal moved from Bart One to Bart Two when we dropped Bart One. It then
jumped back when we dropped Bart Two.
So drop both.
We did. It stayed between them – bring up either one and the signature
would appear on it. Drop both and… I can’t describe it, Janice. It’s not
possible. It remained alive within the connecting cables between the two
servers.
With nothing to write to? Rune was astounded. For data to retain any integrity, it
had to be written to some form of permanent of semi-permanent medium. Permanent
data was written to a disc, semi-permanent to silicon chips. Within communication
cables, data flowed, it could not remain still. It was an electrical impossibility. A cable
between two servers which were both off would be dead – it would have no charge to
maintain the data within. Without electrical stimulus from one or both computers, the
particles, held together by minute amounts of current to form their intricate patterns
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that computers could discern as data, would simply dissipate into their natural state.
The information would be lost. Should be lost.
Yah. Turn everything back on and off it goes, into whichever server turns on
first, trying to hack beyond it. It doesn’t seem capable of movement when held
in a cable, but it also doesn’t disintegrate.
So right now, Janice interrupted, you have it trapped between Barts One and
Two, yeah?
Well, yeah, Nils imitated Janice’s word. But it’s not that simple. There are
direct physical links between the servers. They’re off, powered down, but Bart
Three activity is starting to peak, incoming comms requests. It looks like the
signature is finding a direct route to Bart Three through the physical cables.
Even though Bart Two is off? Rune could not shout across a neural conversation.
He wished he could. This was insane!
Yup.
Janice examined and abandoned the idea that Nils could be mistaken in a few
seconds. Nils was far better than that. This was clearly something Nils had never
experienced and was convinced could not happen. That scared Janice.
We’ll be there as soon as we can. In the meantime, unplug the physical link
between Two and Three. Get somebody down to the comms room and
physically sever the connection.
Guillotine the line? Physical disconnectors which actually severed the cables
connecting servers were installed on major incoming and outgoing lines. Crude but
effective, they contained a tiny blade made of non-conducting material which simply cut
the line. It was the ultimate admission of defeat to guillotine the line and it caused
untold communications problems. To Nils (and Rune’s) knowledge, this had never been
done before.
Guillotine the line. You have my authority.
There was a brief pause.
Suddenly, without warning, Kutulu could no longer feel the connection to his
biological body. Swiftly, using the limited senses he possessed, he examined himself for
damage. His tactile contact with his Universe had been vastly diminished: he now
seemed to exist within a microscopic fraction of space which, even for this realm, lacked
energy and, what remained, was falling exceptionally fast. It would be a minute fraction
of a second before it fell below anything he could use to sustain his consciousness.
Suddenly, without warning, Kutulu could no longer feel the furthest probe of his
centipede limbs, nor could he feel his biological body. It was like having his fingers cut
off one of his (hundreds of) hands, without the pain – as if the shock were too sudden
to admit it. He simply no longer existed in those places. The severed stump instantly
became its own hand and felt around what had, a nanosecond before, been a free
pathway to find a cold dead-end. His consciousness understood immediately: somebody
had physically cut the cable. He was not concerned about his body – he existed entirely
within this environment now.
Suddenly, without warning, Kutulu’s eyes shot open. It was like having his (one and
only) arm cut off suddenly, without the pain but with a shocking sense of blindness. A
millisecond before he had been probing the third wall which held the outer defence of
the project network, a thousand fingers on hundreds of limbs, exploring and touching
and feeling throughout that part of electrical space and now he was immediately without
any sense of that space at all. He continued to exist in the simple and direct pathways
that led to the outer defence and, in reverse, to the biological body whose eyes had
come open in shock (and were now closed and ignored for the meaningless distraction
they were).
In minute fractions of a second, energy flew away to nowhere. The vital spark,
miniscule as it was, that held together the particle structure that formed Kutulu’s
consciousness fell to nothing and for the first time of which he was aware – and for the
last time this mind would ever experience – Kutulu experienced death. Particles
energised by his will and the application of almost infinitesimal amount of electrical
energy returned to their natural state and the demonic lord of the Abyss popped out of
existence like cigarette smoke in a sudden wind. The mighty Kutulu, undefeated by
Marduk himself, disappeared from this, the most bizarre of all Universes, and
fragmented into oblivion in less time than it took light to travel two inches.
In minute fractions of a second, Kutulu exploded in a profusion of limbs, seeking and
probing with an urgency and speed he had so far lacked. The energy available to him
remained dangerously low, but that was the state of this human Universe and Kutulu
was becoming used to it. He spared no thought at all for that part of his consciousness
which had been trapped beyond the severed cable. He knew all of him existed
simultaneously throughout the entire energetic thread that led from this place
somewhere beneath the Cape Town mountains to his body which lay in Kent. It would
not be the first time he had been severed from himself. Sometimes he had made it back
to himself. It made for a plurality of simultaneous memories, but he was, after all, at
least from a human perspective, a god.
In minute fractions of a second, Kutulu pulled in the stump towards his physical
body and then launched it again in a different direction, this time with an urgency and
speed he had so far lacked. He knew that was not the only entrance to the Network he
sought. He also knew that part of him may now exist beyond the severed connection.
He knew it was not the first time he had been severed from himself, existing as he did,
entirely and simultaneously in all parts of his energistic form. Perhaps that part of him
was having more luck, and, if so, they needed to be united to incorporate the
information. Here, linked to his physical body, he had access to the energy he knew he
needed in this realm. His other part – or parts – may not be so lucky and would need
assistance.
Barts One and Two guillotined, reported Nils after a three second pause. They’re
islands. Bart Three… pause …Bart Three retains high comms requests. Source
of requests… another pause… fuck! Excuse me, Janice. Fuck! Fuck! That’s
fucking impossible!
What?
Bart Three is receiving requests from a severed fucking cable! That’s not…
Daffy! Hold on… hold on… Daffy One is under attack. Hold on… Same
signature. They – FUCK!!!
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Pause.
Nils? Nils!
Jesus fuck! I’m sorry, Janice, Rune, I just…
Calm down, it was Rune this time. Relax. What is it? Report slowly. You’re
getting garbled.
requests and, at the same time, Daffy One also pulsated. Bart Three was bypassed and
the signal, a red bulge in the black line, ran from server to server, only once failing to
find the shortest network route from Bart Three to Daffy Three across the “inside” of the
network. At the same time, in what Rune and Janice knew to be fractions of a
millisecond, the same red bulge passed from Daffy One to Daffy Two. Both signals met
at Daffy Three.
What’s happening now?
There was a long pause, at least for the current situation. Almost ten seconds past.
Nils?
Okay, sorry, coming up on you is the server activity report. I was watching
it, filtered entirely for the signature of this attack. Take a look at the route
from Bart Three through the mail servers off the firewall and back through
Daffy Three, Two and One.
He pushed through and found another wall, blocked in the same way as the first,
and this time he knew how to bypass it entirely. All the pathways led to the wall itself,
to what Kutulu knew was the heart of the computer that controlled that part of electrical
space, but that was only because that was the source of the energy needed to sustain
the data integrity. He was alive – he fed off the energy of this environment but could
direct it at his will. He found the direct connection to the second wall – a tiny fraction of
a connection without any energy of its own and he stretched himself out along that path
to the second wall.
He pushed through and found the third wall, blocked in the same way as the first,
and this time he knew how to bypass it entirely. Beyond this lay no more walls. They
were other computers, each digesting streams of information, re-routing, creating,
destroying, digesting information as the eternally hungry and soulless entities they
were, and up ahead, reading the distortions of the packets of information that rushed
past him, testing their unusually high inaccuracy and reading from it the direction,
energy and signature of the source, he knew he was sensing himself, breaking through
the outer walls. They needed joining – he had found his way through and had to carry
that information back to his biological body to store it in case he was more successfully
severed.
The second wall was bypassed like the first, but this time he could feel the data
running past him with its errors and inconsistencies. The severed part of himself had
survived and was coming back towards him from the inside.
The first (inner) wall was bypassed like the others, the corrupted data stopped
streaming past him and up ahead, rushing at a sedate speed of light…
Space around Kutulu’s body misted over. In the light it seemed that the air about
him had suddenly become liquid and somebody had thrown a good few stones into the
cocoon pond. The air rippled and flowed, and beneath it, obscured by the ripples in the
air and by the misty quality space appeared to take about him, Kutulu flickered, like the
signal on a faulty television set. He opened his eyes and his body pulsed and faded into
and out of existence. His electrical self required minute amounts of energy to remain
constituted, but his physical body required a great deal more, and from far more
diverse and arcane sources.
Kutulu pulled everything into himself in a desperate effort to summon the strength
and energy he required. Space flowed slower and eventually congealed around him and
he lay, as ever, on a couch in the mansion, inhabiting only that part of space filled by
his biological body.
And acutely aware that he was fortunate to be occupying even that.
Nothing… hold on… hold on… no. Nothing. The signature’s gone.
What did you do?
I didn’t do anything, replied Nils. Nothing at all. It’s just gone.
Gone?
Gone.
Okay, Janice sat up in bed, opened her eyes and swung her legs over the side,
ready to stand up. Keep an eye out. I know you’re supposed to leave at seven,
but you’re not going to. You’re going to get as much info on this as you can
and have it ready for he when I get in, which should be as soon as possible.
Rune, I want you to get straight to work as well.
Rune winked at Janice as she stood, naked, and walked past his to the bathroom.
Janice out.
They join at Daffy Three! Janice and Rune examined the chart that appeared at
the forefront of the consciousnesses. It looked like a randomly completed join-the-dots
puzzle. Animated along the lines which joined the nodes (cables joining computer
servers) was the path of the new signature.
Played infinitely more slowly than reality, Rune and Janice saw Barts One and Two
severed and disappear from the chart. Bart three pulsed with the incoming comms
For a long time Kutulu lay alone. He examined closely what had happened in the
time – less than a minute – it had taken to attack and penetrate Xenix’s network. He
knew this would be a record unbeaten in human history and one unlikely to be
repeated. He found no joy in the knowledge.
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He had been severed – in three. One part, the foremost part of his existence, had
continued to live within the third wall, the third server, and had found its way across the
inside of the network. A second part, that closest to his physical body, had also survived
and found the second way through the outer walls to be joined with the first.
A third part was unaccounted for. Kutulu knew this because he had an exact sense
of his shape and existence in space at the point at which the connections had been
severed. He could not reconstruct that shape in its entirety using the information he
now had from his two simultaneous selves, reunited with their concurrent memories.
Part of him had been captured.
He examined closely the final memory of that space he had occupied from which
neither current personality had returned. It was the space between the entrance to the
first server and the entrance to the third. An exceptionally small space, self-contained
and, he recalled, utterly dead. They had turned those computers off before severing
their data connections. That part of him was probably dead. Probably.
Much more urgent, however, was the fact that he was fading. Vivian had seen it and
understood what she saw. Supporting his life-force within data cables was simple – he
simply required a minute amount of electricity. But supporting his life within a human
frame was another thing entirely, and it could not be maintained for long. There were
ways of extending it – indefinitely if the resources were at hand – but it was unusual for
this to be the case.
It was before, though, wasn’t it? Kutulu was unaware of the scowl that darkened his
face. For one momentous day, all the energy we ever needed existed. And like fools we
grabbed it. To exist in the human realm! Tens of thousands of us, able to take on the
might of humankind. To close forever the damnable Gate that swung wide so long as
humans existed in their paltry Universe with their obtuse faith and ridiculous belief. We
thought we had had a chance to defeat them, to wipe them out, to close the gate.
We hadn’t understood the principles then, had we? Rushing headlong into this sterile
existence with no idea how we would sustain ourselves. Living off the corrupted
energies of our enemies, dying with them in exactly equal numbers because, as their
energy faded, so did our ability to remain. And Marduk had fought on, hadn’t he?
Blessed and protected by them.
A trap! A trap and none of us had seen it. Not even the great Tiamat with all His
wisdom. As Marduk’s energy faded so his faith increased – it had to. That is forever the
human response – more and more hope as the situation becomes more and more
desperate. Hope sprung from faith and imagination – those two unique and dreadful
weapons that held open the Gate.
And so they had come in their hundreds and thousands, surrounding our two useless
bodies, trapping our souls in this realm in bodies we could barely hold upright. Then
watching Tiamat sliced in two and the sheer, unbound terror of seeing both halves die
and knowing that the Great One no longer existed.
But then Marduk the Brave, Marduk the Great, Marduk the Unbelievably Stupid had
shown mercy. Not Oblivion and Uncreation. Instead imprisonment beneath the
suffocating depths of their oceans. Imprisonment and hope. Hope to escape one day.
Hope that one day another Unbelievably Stupid human being would come to the rescue.
And Kyrell Trepan had done so admirably. And now he must pay for his disregard of
the angels. Just as each enemy life had sustained a life in the Great Army, so a life
would be needed now to sustain existence.
Kutulu laughed humourlessly, then called Vivian using his neural implants.
1.8.2
Kutulu explains faith to Kyrell while preparing sacrifice
Kyrell awoke in darkness so complete he wondered if he was blind. He worried about
this for almost an entire second. Then he realised his predicament and his sight became
the least of his worries.
Almost dislocating his shoulders, his arms were stretched around an upright pillar of
some sort immediately behind him. His wrists were handcuffed together, such that he
was bound to the upright pole, facing outwards. He was completely naked and the
splinters in his back and buttocks informed him that the pole to which he was tied was
made from none-too-delicately prepared wood. His ankles were also tied to the pole.
The cool humidity of the air informed him that he was in the ritual chamber beneath the
mansion.
He was, therefore, in a whole world of shit.
“Hello,” said a voice in the darkness. It was a woman’s voice. It was Vivian’s voice.
Kyrell sucked air deeply into his lungs, forced himself to relax and then allowed his
deepest and most quietly threatening voice to echo with authority around the chamber.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in?”
“Me?” asked Vivian’s disembodied voice with imitation coy shyness.
“Untie me,” Kyrell said it very slowly. “Untie me now.”
“But I can’t do that.”
“You will do that or you will know pain in ways even you have not imagined.”
In the silence that ensued, Vivian must have walked stealthily and unheard towards
Kyrell, for she suddenly whispered close enough to his face for him to feel her breath,
“Fuck you, Kyrell. You are going die today.” And then she kissed him hard against his
lips, slipping her tongue inside his mouth and then biting hard on his lower lip, drawing
blood.
Chuckled laughter came from the silence to Kyrell’s left and he knew in an awful
instant that he was doomed. Then he heard the small metallic clack of a metal cigarette
lighter opening, the chick as the flint was rolled and a small yellow flame, bright against
the utter darkness, illuminated Kutulu’s face from beneath.
“In the beginning,” he began, his tone conversational, as he walked slowly from
Kyrell’s left to stand in front of him, “we existed alone, just like you do. We had our own
little planet and we got on with our history, wondering every now and then whether
there was life out there. We fought wars, we loved, we plotted, we were born, we died.
The circle of life, I suppose. For millions of years our planet circled our sun. Oh, you
wouldn’t recognise it as anything like your own. Our space is far too full of energy ever
to be black with tiny little white stars like yours. You are vain enough to think that there
are only seven colours and shades between. Seven? You’re not even close!
“We gave birth to our own technology. Often very similar solutions to you, as it
happens. Fire was pretty easy in our realm, but we came up with the wheel, same as
you. We found our solutions and our information technologies. Alone, quietly getting on
with our destiny, we passed your paltry achievements. We colonised the planets in our
system, we searched the skies to see if we were alone.
I wonder… Does such hope make me more human?
Page 48 of 137
“Then one day… ‘Once upon a time’ you might say… a blackness, a huge vortex of
utter nothingness tore a hole through the skies we searched, just outside the orbit of
our outer planet, and they came. Millions of them, in their huge white ships and their
glowing white bodies. We knew – just like you think you do – that travel across space
faster than light was impossible. We’d tried to bend space and time and found it also to
be utterly beyond our grasp or even the most imaginative theoretical models. The more
we discovered about our Universe, the more alone we seemed to be. And then, out of
nowhere, came the Invaders.
“They raped our culture, Kyrell. They tore down everything we had built, they wiped
from our planets the technology and the science and the education that we had spent
millennia building. They cared nothing for our achievements. We would serve them and
join their culture or we would be destroyed.
“Oh, we fought hard and we fought bravely and we died in our millions defending
ourselves, but we achieved very little except a truly stupendous amount of carnage and
death and destruction. We threw at them everything we had, every weapon and every
technology the might of which makes your nuclear arsenals look like boxes of
firecrackers. And all we did was die, die in our millions, choking on our impotence and
vomiting our despair. For every one Invader we did manage to kill, ten would come in
their ships through the great, black Gate that mocked the beauty and colour of our
skies.
“There were some of us,” Kutulu appeared to be talking to a much larger audience.
His anger and vehemence spat against the flame beneath his face and his black eyes
seemed infinite against the darkness. “Some of us who realised quite early on that, to
coin a phrase, resistance was futile. We were more concerned with how these Invaders
got here. If we could close the Gate we might have a chance at taking on the remainder
of the Invaders. How was the Gate opened? What was the science behind it?
“You see,” Kutulu now stared into Kyrell’s eyes, as if trying to connect with him
intellectually, ignoring the fear and pain that haunted the once mighty Satanist’s
countenance, “we were a pragmatic race. Much like you, I suppose. There had to be a
rational answer. There had to be a scientific means by which that Gate had been opened
and, therefore, a scientific means by which it could be closed.”
Kutulu paused, letting the concept hang in the air. His eyes smouldered and his jaw
worked from side to side as he chewed his teeth in anger. “Bullshit!” he shouted
suddenly, making Kyrell jump. Then he returned to his low, conversational tone. “Sadly,
yes, bullshit. Out Invaders were indeed superior to us in just about every way from a
technological point of view, but their transport to our world had nothing to do with
science as either of our races knew it. We looked into the Gate, we probed it, we tested
it, we even sent small craft into it. It was just a wall. A big, black, featureless wall.
“Then, one day, for no reason any of us could work out, I vanished. I disappeared.
Imagine that! I just ceased to be. One second I was sitting in my chair going through
some data regarding this black nothingness that brought our Invaders and the next…
poof! I was gone.
“Only I wasn’t gone. Well, I was gone from my world, but I was still alive. You know
where I would up? Can you guess?”
Kyrell stared into Kutulu’s eyes, but did not answer.
“Here,” said Kutulu. “Not right here, of course: it was actually somewhere in Europe.
I wound up in a little circle drawn on the ground. And a bunch of you mammalian
human creatures were dancing about. I arrived in my normal form, which scared the
living daylights out of your poor ancestors. They had no idea what they had done and
they ran, screaming, from their little ceremony.”
“I stayed here in your realm for almost three days. Then, without any warning,
without so much as a by your leave, pop! I was back on my planet, somewhat worse for
wear and a good way from my home.
“It happened again, this time to somebody else. It started happening more
regularly. Slowly we started to discern a pattern, although we had absolutely no control
over when or where these phenomena would occur. We began to understand. Then we
began to realise the awful power the Invaders had brought with them.
“They brought you.”
Kutulu turned away and walked slowly around the room, lighting black candles
placed at regular intervals on the floor, slowly bringing an eerie half-light to the
chamber. “Well, I suppose that’s not really true,” he continued as he went. “I suppose
you were already there, always had been. They’d just worked out that you were there
and had made use of you.
“You see; I’m going to tell you a little secret. A secret of the Universe. You won’t be
telling anybody, I assure you, so there’s no harm in it really. Even if you did – well, this
planet of yours is so full of crackpots. That’s part of what makes you so… dangerous.
You see, you really are alone in your Universe. You can keep searching forever if it
makes you happy, but please believe me that you are quite alone. There is nobody out
there, no flying saucers, no green-eyed monsters, no silver thin bipeds with big heads
and eyes. You’re alone. You’re alone because you’re an anomaly – you shouldn’t exist.
Your entire existence makes no sense – you would probably take pride in the fact that
you being here at all contradicts every scientific principle we’ve ever had. Which, I
suppose, works both ways. I mean, to you, we shouldn’t exist.
“The difference is, you know we exist. Somehow, even though it contradicts all your
science and flies in the face of accepted wisdom, deep down inside you, you know we’re
here and you always have. For some reason, when you first stood on two legs and
started scratching pictures on cave walls, you knew there was something out there,
something beyond yourselves, some greater power, some God, some something. You
worshipped it, you feared it, you sacrificed to it, you prayed at it… you did just about
everything, and I’ve seen your history – there’s not much you haven’t done in the name
of religion or spiritual experience.
“The power of this knowledge combined with that thing that sets you apart. Oh, the
knowledge is pretty damn unique, make no mistake, but you have one terrifying ability
that tore our realm to pieces. Your faith, your belief, your imagination… whatever it is,
and I don’t even pretend to understand what the exact mechanics of it might be… you
have the ability not just to pray, but to effect the answers of your prayer.
“Call it your sixth sense. Call it ESP. Call it summoning demons, praying to saints,
calling on the angels… that ability, weak as it may be, to control what you think of as
the supernatural, to influence what you think is unseen. That, my human friend, is what
sets you apart and that is the power the Invaders harnessed. The Invaders, your gods,
your angels, your great white fucking spirits.
“You summoned them. You called them. You brought them into our realm because
your power called them and distorted the very fabric of our existence.
“There are so many worlds, so many Universes. Some are separated by space,
others by time, others by differing dimensional structures. Only yours, separate from all
the others and hidden from all the others, exists entirely removed from all the others
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and acts as that Gate that joins them all. Your faith, your belief, opens the Gate
between the worlds. You know this – how do you think you summoned me? That is the
height of your powers, to bring us into your own realm. But that is certainly not all.
“Demons are real, Kyrell,” Kutulu turned and faced Kyrell, extinguishing the lighter
in his hands, illuminated now by the candles he’s lit. “I mean flesh-and-blood real – not
spirits. We’re real and we are the only ones who have been able to fight back against
the Angels, the Invaders, which is why your race knows us as your enemies. They learnt
how your prayers and beliefs work and they learnt to manipulate them, release power
for themselves and bind any power that may come to us. They gave you your religions,
your ten commandments, your Moses, Jesus, Mohammed. They have channelled your
energies to ensure they can move freely within our realms. We have tried to do
likewise, and, largely, we have failed. There are a few, like you, who know the arcane
ways to summon us into your realm and give us power over our enemies. We come to
you and control you and try to fight against the onslaught, use the enemy’s weapon
against him. But, ultimately, this is not going to work – the enemy cleverly convinces
you that it’s all hocus-pocus. For thousands of years we have fought, and I believe we
are reaching the end of our ability to fight back. I have not seen my home for nearly
five thousand years, but I know from the echoes I hear and from what you have told
me that the fight continues, otherwise your history would have been vastly different.
“You are the Gate. Every one of you. You are the source of energy for our world and
the way between our worlds. Your Universe has almost no physical energy of its own,
yet, perhaps because of this, your faith and belief release a power too terrible to
imagine in ours. You have no idea, you just pray and hope while you murder millions
and release untold Hell across the Universes.
“It will stop soon, though. Just a little more time. I have cracked the Network you
said was uncrackable - Xenix’s satellite network? I can get in and control those
satellites. So I don’t need your nuclear arsenals, buried outside any computer access. I
don’t need my vast armies of demons that you wiped out centuries ago. In a few days I
can bring down those satellites. They have more than enough nuclear payload to
release enough radioactivity to wipe out humankind in a matter of a few years. The
Gate will close, and we will be able to fight on to victory. Your angels, your saints, your
fucking saviours will be defeated and destroyed so we can continue to discover our
destiny in peace, unmolested.
“But, I’m afraid the little bit of faith that sustains my existence is all but gone. I’m
fading back into my Universe, as I did before. And I’m afraid that’s not good enough.
The best way to hold a summoning, Kyrell? What would that be? What is the most
successful release of spiritual force to effect the summoning of the most powerful
demons?”
Kyrell continued to stare back into Kutulu’s eyes. He knew the answer. He’d known it
from the start. The lecture, interesting as it may have been for a completely insane
perspective on human (and inhuman) history, was entirely unnecessary. He knew what
was coming. He knew what would be required.
“Just like Jesus!” mocked Kutulu. “The real reason for that little episode would come
as a bit of a shock to mankind. We need a bit of a human sacrifice, I’m afraid, and
you’re the closest human. You’re not going to die, though, since we’ve learnt a better
way – one we haven’t been able to communicate to you yet. You bloody occultists insist
on looking to the distant past for your answers while we try and tell you new things
here and now. I need to unravel you. I am going to unravel your existence here, you
are going to fade into the nothingness I should become and, in doing so, you will
release here the energy I need to sustain myself. Sort of like you pushing down on the
see-saw to push me up. And to do this, I use simple science. At least, what is simple
science in our Universe. It’s a little different to yours.”
Kutulu walked to stand a few yards from Kyrell. Vivian, naked and hauntingly
beautiful in the candle light, watched impassively. “Please do give my best to my
people,” smiled Kutulu, raising his hands. The air around Kyrell started to thicken, to
run, to ripple, a cocoon of semi-solid air that became increasingly opaque, running
faster and faster, spinning, crackling, rushing, dislocating.
“Tell them the Gate will be closed soon.”
1.8.3
Kyrell is sent to Hell
Reality dissolved. Tied to his stake, Kyrell watched helplessly as the cocoon which
contained his universe spun faster and faster and became increasingly opaque. It did
not become opaque enough.
Beyond the insanely twisting border not two feet from his face, Kyrell looked into
naked nothingness. He knew darkness, yet this was somehow deeper than simple
darkness – it was emptier. Something ageless, timeless, terrifyingly forsaken, etching
into his soul the vast, naked and unutterable desertion of what surrounded his bubble of
space.
He held his breath, fearing that the air about him would escape and leave him with
nothing to breath. Beneath his feet, the stake appeared to be smoking slightly where it
had been severed. Whatever had been beneath his feet had clearly been left behind.
Where? When?
Kyrell’s ears told him he was tumbling over and over through the void, which he
found strange. He continued to hang against the stake, which was also strange. Gravity
still held dominion in this place, although it came from all over giving the sensation of
tumbling. Down the rabbit hole, Kyrell’s remaining grasp on sanity sang to the back of
his mind.
The handcuffs cut into his wrists and the splinters dug and scraped against his
hands, back and buttocks. He repeatedly banged the back of his head against the stake,
his shoulder blades ached from the strain of his arms pulling at the odd angle and the
chord which held his feet in place rubbed hotly against the bones just beneath his skin.
Still he tumbled.
Along. That was what it felt like. Along. Not down. He wasn’t in freefall. He felt more
like an Easter Egg bouncing along a hillside than falling down through space. He was
bouncing along something, or that’s what it felt like. The impenetrable blackness
remained unaltered around him, yet it felt now like there was a surface along which his
cocoon rolled, end over end. Although not attached to anything he could see, he and his
stake, while bouncing against each other, did not move any closer to the boundaries of
this cocoon – they remained about two feet away at all times, as if keeping pace with
him rather than shielding him.
Then it changed. He reached the end of something – a cliff? – and now he was
falling. There was no more sensation of bouncing and he could feel the tumbling slow.
This was definitely falling. Into what? Onto what? At what speed?
It was then that Kyrell noticed the ominous silence. In all the violence of being
jostled about and then falling (at least apparently) into empty space, the silence had
remained almost oppressive. Perhaps it was this that gave the sense of infinite void
beyond. There was absolutely no sound at all.
Page 50 of 137
He involuntarily gulped down another lungful of air as his chest constricted against
the lack of oxygen and he was mildly surprised to find he could breath quite normally.
He didn’t hear the gasp at all, but it came nonetheless. He tried making a small noise, a
grunt as it turned out. He heard nothing. He called out, “Hello!” at nobody in particular.
He still heard nothing. It was bizarrely like being stuck in an old black-and-white silent
movie, or an 8mm amateur cine reel, just without the honky-tonk piano or the rattling
of the projector.
Still he fell. His initial panic was starting to subside as seconds became minutes and
he remained secluded within this shell. Apart from the handcuffs, splinters and rope
about his ankles, he felt no particular pain or even discomfort. He was definitely
concerned about the fact that he and his private bubble of reality (and air) must be
gaining considerable speed as they fell “down” (as if such references made any sense),
but the blind panic which began this experience – he had even considered pleading with
Kutulu and probably would have had he been given a chance – was definitely receding.
It may perhaps have felt even better had he not been falling head down.
Again some mischievous part of his psyche (and childhood) recalled the image of
Alice and the rabbit hole. Perhaps, like Alice, he was falling at quite a sedate speed and
able to pick up things as they fell past (like other reality bubbles containing naked men
tied to wooden posts, perhaps). Maybe, like in the Disney Cartoon (where on earth had
he seen that?) some form of skirt was even now ballooning, Mary Poppins style, to act
as a parachute.
In an airless environment?
Who says it’s airless? You can breath.
In here, yes. Out there?
So how do you know what’s out there then, Mr Genius?
Kyrell shook his head. A vivid imagination was one thing – and Satan knew what a
wicked imagination he possessed. Many poor little people – literally poor, they tended
not to be missed so badly – had formed gruesome parts of rituals he had dreamed up
for his own sadistic delights. But there was a line, a very definite line, where
imagination and fantasy stopped and clear, hello-mother-I’m-a-mushroom madness
began. He thought he knew where that border was. He had known, until a moment ago.
Now he and himself were engaged in heated debate about what existed beyond a tiny
bubble floating – correction, falling through endless space.
It was moving. Slowly, scraping painfully against his wrists and continuing to bang
lightly against the back of his head, but it was moving. He had to work his ankles
downward, which was harder since the chord was tied tightly, and he succeeded in
scraping a good deal of skin away from his ankle bones, but progress was definitely
being made. He tried to angle his head upwards (downwards? stop it!) to see what was
happening to the cocoon as he edged the stake higher above his head, but he could not
lean back far enough. It occurred to him that he may puncture his cocoon, but, for
some reason he would later consider entirely the silliest in his bizarre existence, he
considered this unlikely.
Whatever Kutulu (or, more likely, Vivian) had put into his system, it was certainly
making him cheerful. That said, it was also true that this was hardly an environment to
face with cold sanity. He supposed he should thank his betrayers.
Not before I fucking disembowel them. The image pleased him.
His ankles came loose as the stake passed up away from the chord and gravity, or
whatever it was above his head, tugged painfully as the weight of the stake hung
against his wrists. This also seemed a little odd – presumably he should be falling at the
same speed as the stake, yet the stake appeared to have weight relative to him. Not
much, not nearly as much as it should on Earth at any rate, but it weighed something
even though they fell together.
The weight helped. He wriggled his hands against the stake and felt it fall towards
his head. Then, just as suddenly as his ankles, his wrists were free of the stake. He
launched the stake away “upwards” away from the top of his head and was now able to
arch his head backwards to see what was happening to the “top” of his bubble. What he
saw twisted his gut and destroyed any cheery mood he may have established.
Stretching away, apparently into eternity, his cocoon actually formed a tunnel, down
which he was falling, head first. The stake was falling away from him, slightly faster. He
looked back towards his feet and saw that the “floor” of the cocoon remained constant,
like he was falling down a tunnel that was closing at the same speed at which he fell. He
let out a small yelp, again unheard, and automatically flailed for balance, the pain
ripping into his shoulders as he yanked involuntarily against the handcuffs behind him.
Slowly he arched his head back again and stared up the hollow tube down which he
fell. Fuck Alice!
Is that the best you can do?
Then Kyrell remembered that he had awoken tied to the stake. One does not
normally remain asleep when stripped naked and then tied to a pole. One tends to be
drugged in order to gain one’s co-operation does one not? What had they given him?
Shut up.
“Fuck,” cursed Kyrell inaudibly, wondering at the same time and on a more practical
and slightly more sane level whether he could do anything about the handcuffs,
especially since the stake was now floating freely behind him. Drugs or no, his mind
seemed to be clear. At least the insane little thoughts dancing around his head were
clear. Yes, clarity was definitely necessary when carefully examining the utterly
preposterous. Idiot.
Shut UP!
He was falling “down”, or towards his head. He felt behind him with his fingers and
tried to push the stake “up”. Well, towards his head, “up” from his perspective in the
direction his ears told him was “down”. He considered this juxtaposition of reference
points for a few seconds, scolded himself for being a fucking prat and then continued to
work the stake with his fingers.
Or maybe she’d like it?
Or was he really falling? Perhaps he was standing quite normally at the bottom of an
infinite tube. Well that makes far more sense, now doesn’t it? Despite his own sarcasm,
he had to admit it was wrong. Gravity definitely pulled from above.
With a bright flash, the eternal end of the tube above his head erupted in colour,
spinning, swirling, darkening, and suddenly it was no longer infinite. The end came
rushing in, ground rushing up towards him, far too fast, careering towards him which
blinding speed. He must have been travelling at hundreds of miles and hour at least.
(But where was the wind rushing past? How could it with the floor remaining constant?)
He did not even have time to brace himself.
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Either he passed out or the universe jumped from intense colour to jet black in a
sickening instant.
1.9
Aftermath of First Kutulu Hack
Rune turned to Janice as the last programmer left the room.
“We should be here this evening.”
“One of us at least, yes.”
1.9.2
1.9.1
Janice asks for explanation of hack
“I need a proper explanation,” Janice said sternly, looking at Nils out the tops of her
eyes, her eyebrows raised in emphasis. “I’ve got to explain to my superiors what this
technology is that attacked us. It is also very worrying that we don’t know how we
stopped it – or even whether we stopped it! I mean, where is it now?”
Janice, Rune, Nils and five other senior programmers from Nils’ shift sat in what was
set aside as a training room. Desks and chairs and been moved so that the group sat in
a rough circle, all facing each other, each with electronic notepads. While neural
implants recorded proceedings, it remained easier to take notes in longhand than
distract attention from the conversation in order to issue instructions to the implants.
Behind Janice, at the front of the meeting room, a three-dimensional representation
of the security network hung in the air, a more complex and detailed version of that
they had examined earlier when Nils had first reported to them. Slowly, the direction
and amplitude of Kutulu’s invasion repeated itself over and over, entering at Bart One,
running to Bart Two then, following the guillotining of Bart Two, one signal hacking
through Bart Three, across the inside of the network to find Daffy Three while a new
signal hacked in through Daffy One and Two. The signals met between Daffy Two and
Daffy Three and then disappeared.
“Janice, there isn’t one,” replied Nils, responding to Janice’s spoken word by
speaking also and not using his neural implants. “Not yet. We need to bring Bart One
and Two up again, obviously as stand-alones (which means we need to replace Bart
One and Two, and bloody urgently). We need to look at what it did and whether or not
it left any trace we can reverse-engineer. Preliminary report is that this appeared to be
a program the size of a virus yet with an intelligent payload. It also,” here Nils looked
away – he couldn’t believe it either – “was somehow capable of self-sustaining… I don’t
know – generating it’s own minute current… enough to sustain itself when external
current sources were terminated.”
“Which is impossible,” said Rune.
“Which is impossible,” nodded Nils.
“How long is this going to take?” asked Janice.
“A year if we try and do it now,” said Nils plaintively. “This is the eleventh hour of
our eight-hour shift. We need some sleep.”
“Okay,” said Janice. “I’ll get the morning shift to replace Bart One and Two and get
them onto a workbench. I need you guys to get to the bottom of this and I need
answers by tomorrow morning, understood?” Nils and his colleagues nodded. “Okay, get
out of here.”
The six programmers filed out, clearly exhausted. It wasn’t the length of the shift,
Rune acknowledged. Xenix had never come so close to a full security breach, the
satellite network had never come under so immediate a threat – and everybody knew
that all defences had failed. The signal had been inside the network and, for whatever
reason, chosen to hack its way back out before causing mischief.
Janice realises there is no safety from Kutulu hacks
Nothing?
Nothing, Nils replied to Janice. Barts One and Two are fully operational.
There’s nothing wrong with them. Their logs record everything we already
know about the attacks, but they don’t tell us anything about how it was done
or give any information on the nature of the virus.
What do they log?
They log an identifier – the first and last bytes of the incoming signal.
They’re the same throughout, so I assume we could identify the attack again,
although God knows what we’d do about it. But that’s quite ordinary – it’s as
much an identifier as any IP packet would need to carry. What we can identify
of the data within the packet is that it is exceptionally small and completely
encrypted.
What do you mean “completely encrypted”. You’re hackers, for God’s sake.
Hack it.
We have. Beneath the encryption is more encryption, and again and again.
It’s almost as if it isn’t code at all, just random characters. The characters kept
changing though. The payload itself, I mean – the virus itself, not the
identifier. It kept changing. Every record we have of the virus data shows a
completely different set of data, although at roughly the same size and with
the same identifier string and check digit. It’s like it was continually reencoding itself. Or re-programming itself.
Could we only have imprints of data as it changed, therefore making it
nonsensical?
Well, yes, but at least part of it should remain readable. Unless it continues
to change every part of itself simultaneously and I just don’t see how that is
possible.
Janice looked from Nils to Rune. Together the two programmers had worked
throughout the day on the computers and throughout the route the virus had taken.
Janice knew that, between Rune and Nils and the team they led, she had more data
security know-how ion one place than any other organisation on earth – and that
included military organisations. Xenix ensured that their staff were paid top dollar.
If these two were stumped then they had a serious problem.
I can’t leave this network up knowing that technology exists to bring it to
its knees in seconds. All this virus has to do is change its identifier and the first
we’ll know of the attack is when our satellites start wandering off on their own
missions. Both Rune and Nils jumped to interject. Okay, okay, I know that’s not
true. I know you’d see the attack coming. My point is there’s nothing you could
do about it except physically sever every link to the outside world and even
then you wouldn’t be sure. We have code we cannot identify inside a virus that
survives in dead cables. We didn’t defeat it last time – it went away of its own
free will. And now it knows its way in. You said it was intelligent, it must have
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reported back to its author who can cheerfully reprogram it to dance through
our defences like… like…
Lacking a suitable metaphor, Janice gestured dramatically with her hands and fell
silent. She was right. They sat in silence for a few seconds.
What happens if we bring the network down? asked Rune. Nobody but us
will have control of the satellite network.
I don’t know, replied Janice, a scowl of concern darkening her pretty face.
Everything from orbital adjustment commands to launch instructions come
through this network. We shut it down and the astro guys are going to go nuts.
I have to check up the line. For now, keep your eyes open and your guillotines
sharp. I’ll make the atsro-engineers aware that they could lose satellite control
without notice, so they need to keep their orbital trajectory instructions tight.
I don’t know of any launches in the next twenty-four hours, but that doesn’t
mean there aren’t any.
So we keep it up for the time being. It was a sign of their fatigue that not one of
the programmers bothered picking up on the double entendre. Just be ready to drop
it on my call.
1.9.3
Nils and Liol discover Marduk’s Sword: OUT OF SEQUENCE (Should
follow Live Firing Exercise)
Nils and Liol sat together in the otherwise deserted control centre. Both had their
eyes closed as they concentrated on the output from the neural implants.
There, indicated Nils. That’s where Bart crashed.
Bastard simulated a UPS override, said Liol with a combination of resentment
and admiration. I’m not sure which is more impressive: the fact that he did it or
the fact that Betty allowed it.
Nils issued commands into his implants. So up to that point we’d lost… shit!
Well, countered Liol. It was a direct link to Armageddon. Highest bandwidth
I’ve ever seen.
Christ, you emptied just about everything! A minute or two and it wouldn’t
have mattered whether or not Rune dropped Bart. You had everything. Look at
this, he brought up a list of data files. Liol shared the input. This is the data that was
being transmitted at the time. It’s down to non-IT, non-sensitive… it’s a stocktake data – priority five.
There is a priority five?
Exactly. It’s worthless. Well, it’s worth a lot of money, but it’s not related to
the functioning of Xenix or the Mars Project at all.
It’s a list of Armageddon exhibition stock, said Liol.
You what?
Exhibition stock. Like that assegai and knob-kerrie in the foyer – isn’t it
supposed to be nearly three hundred years old? The one in the glass case? And
the paintings in the corridors?
Ah. Only this is Armageddon’s lot.
Yah. Look at this, he continued absently as they both perused the contents of the
data file. Objects de art and various other items were listed with brief descriptions, a
digital photograph, a note (presumably the text of a plaque which would accompany the
item), insurance values and a rough indication of the item’s origin. You want to tell
me why this isn’t in a museum?
It’s just art.
No it isn’t. Look at this, Liol highlighted an entry. “A stone bird, probably an
eagle. Artefact from Great Zimbabwe Ruins.” This shit is priceless.
No it isn’t. It’s worth – Jesus! Nils’ mind reeled at the price indicated. You could
buy a luxury yacht for less than that! And this one. We walk past it every morning!
Check it out.
Liol examined the highlighted entry.
Item:
A sword. Artefact from Great Zimbabwe Ruins.
Description: Single-handed fighting sword. Blade 51.3cm long,
6.7cm wide, double-edged. Hilt ivory and cedar
overlaid with traces of leather. Hilt 21.4cm
across, handle 10.9cm long. Single rune where
handle and hilt cross.
Note:
“Nebuchadnezzar’s Sword”
While found at the Great Zimbabwe ruins, this
non-ceremonial fighting sword does not appear to
match the technology or artistic style of other
items associated with this site. The style and
craftsmanship
of
the
hilt
and
blade
are
consistent with very ancient Mesopotamian sites
such as Ur. Parts of the hilt have been carbondated at around 9,500 BC however this date is
the subject of heated dispute. The incongruity
of this find in Southern Africa when it appears
to originate in the ancient Middle East has
confounded archaeologists since its discovery in
a vault along with other precious items beneath
the Great Zimbabwe Ruins in 2032 by Dr. Keiron
van
Niekerk
of
the
University
of
the
Witwatersrand (Johannesburg, South Africa). It
is thought to have reached this region via the
vibrant trade which existed during the height of
the Zimbabwean kingdom (12th to 14th centuries
CE) between the local rulers at Great Zimbabwe
and the Near East. Those items found in the
vault along with the sword, however, have been
associated with the religion of ancestor worship
now known to have been part of the ancient
Zimbabwean culture and are consistent with other
items found at the site. Only this sword seems
to have originated outside of the Zimbabwean
culture.
An elaborate rune at the centre of the hilt,
where the handle meets the blade, is the only
embellishment
on
this
otherwise
simply
Page 53 of 137
functional
mystery.
sword.
It’s
meaning
remains
a
Value:
Insured for $125,000,000.00
Location:
Glass display case in the central foyer of Xenix
Mars
Project
“Armageddon”
Headquarters,
Simonstown, Cape Town, South Africa.
1.10 Kyrell in Hell
1.10.1 Kyrell sees Hell from his basement
Consciousness seeped back into Kyrell’s mind. It was hard for him to work out
exactly where unconsciousness had ended and awareness began. This was perhaps
because of the intense darkness. Slowly the pain in his wrists and ankles became more
insistent and blissful oblivion gave way to sickening reality.
His memory didn’t help. He lay, the pain slowly increasing like somebody,
somewhere had a volume knob and was turning it very slightly every few seconds. His
hands remained cuffed behind his back and so he lay awkwardly on his right side, his
forehead pressed against a cold floor. He recalled his cocoon and the endless tube
above him, he recalled the stake falling away, he recalled an obtuse conversation with
himself, like he existed simultaneously as two separate entities within a single brain. His
head hurt. Inside and out. The side of his mouth was caked with dry blood.
By raising his eyebrows as high as he could, he forced his eyes open. Darkness
swam about him, but it was not complete. The eye which was not in contact with the
ground could discern dull blue flames burnt at intervals around him. They were small,
candle-like, although their source was not immediately obvious. Kyrell squinted against
the almost-complete darkness, trying to make the flames come into focus. They
wouldn’t. He looked down at his body, but could see only the vaguest outline in the
darkness.
He lifted his head and his eyesight exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain. “Aw, fuck…”
he muttered and allowed his forehead to drop softly back onto the ground. He closed
both eyes tightly against the headache from hell and breathed evenly until the pain
became again manageable. Somebody had had one hell of a party inside his head.
He wasn’t exactly sure how much time passed, but eventually he rolled onto his
back. His wrists and arms ached in protest, but they had nothing on his head. Using his
hands, he pushed himself upright so he was sitting facing the flames, which he saw
were positioned in a circle. His stomach lurched and threatened to disgorge its contents,
but Kyrell swallowed a number of times and breathed evenly until he had again
resumed control over his body.
The dim blue flames were the only source of light, but they were enough for Kyrell
to make out the basic contours of the place in which he found himself. Vague familiarity
danced at the edges of his consciousness as his eyes became increasingly accustomed
to the dim light. Then sudden realisation of the blindingly obvious – of the familiar
where it is least expected – punched his diaphragm like a physical assault. He saw the
stone steps leading up beyond the circle of light and knew in a terrifyingly disorientating
instant exactly where he was.
He had hardly moved an inch. For all the Alice in Wonderland and rabbit holes, he
had hardly moved an inch. He sat on the floor of the mansion basement, the black
candles burning about him exactly as Kutulu had lit them. The only difference was there
colour. The normal orange was replaced by a pale blue.
Realisation made him search around in swift movements that hurt his head. Where
was Kutulu? His senses strained against the dark silence, but he could hear nothing
except his own, now ragged breathing.
Again he allowed time to pass, although now he did so in complete consciousness.
He watched the candles burn, their blue flames straight and even in the absence of
interfering wind. He listened, but could hear nothing. Eventually he started to become
uncomfortable in his seated position and had to make a decision. He didn’t know what
had affected his eyesight to turn the flames blue – he guessed it to be whatever drugs
Vivian had used to get him tied to the stake – but he knew that Kutulu and Vivian were
no longer in the chamber. While the light from the candles remained he had to make it
to the entrance and try and work out what (or who) lay beyond.
He forced his legs around underneath him and then came upright in a kneeling
position. From here he stood easily. He flexed his shoulders against the cramp of the
handcuffs and shifted the cuffs themselves so they lay against solid skin and not the
swollen slices they had made into his wrists. He then walked slowly towards the
stairway that led up to the main house. He was concentrating very hard on ensuring
that every move was as silent as possible. Perhaps, had his concentration not been so
focussed, he would have noticed that the candle flames did not flicker at his passing,
but continued to burn straight upright as ever.
The staircase which led up to the ground floor entrance was on two levels – it led
away to a landing, half-way up, and then turned back on itself to lead up to the hidden
door in the floor. From the basement itself, it was not possible to see the landing unless
you stood directly at the bottom of the stairs. As Kyrell inched slowly towards the
entrance to the stairwell, he became aware of a much brighter light shining down from
above. It seemed odd that the trap door should have been left open when Kutulu and
Vivian left, but it would certainly be the least odd detail of the past few hours.
Acutely aware of his position of weakness, his hands still cuffed behind his back,
Kyrell turned as he reached the foot of the staircase so that he walked backwards up it,
able to look back towards where the second flight rose to the entrance. Even in contrast
to the dark below, the light above seemed both exceptionally bright and, as he
approached the landing, redder than perhaps it should have been. Kyrell reminded
himself of the blue candle lights and continued towards the entrance, reminding himself
that he should expect carrots to appear pink and apples purple until whatever Vivian or
Kutulu had given him had worn off.
He reached the landing. His first glimpse through the trap door made purple apples
seem positively mundane.
Realisation dawned in stages – definite points of understanding which seemed like
an internal conversation. First, the trap door was gone. There was no door and no
doorway, simply a rough hole in the ground. Secondly, as the absence of the door
began to sink in, Kyrell noticed with what seemed to be increasing detachment that,
around the doorway, the house itself had vanished. He was looking directly into the sky
– no passageway, no three stories of mansion, no carpeted floor or sculptured ceiling.
Just the sky.
Then he was forced to re-examine his definition of what he saw as sky. It was
definitely a long way away, it had that opaque look that skies tend to have. There were
no clouds, but that in itself was not particularly odd.
Page 54 of 137
It was the fact that sky was the colour of blood that made it seem somewhat
different to the one he’d left a few hours ago.
Kyrell squinted against the bright red light and lent back against the landing wall as
best he could with his tied hands. He looked back down into the basement, but his lightblinded eyes could no longer make out the blue candle lights. Then he looked down at
his naked body. That was the familiar flesh colour it had always been, although looking
a little pallid in the red light from above. The walls of the basement were the colour of
stone, the dirt under his fingernails was brown. Only the light from the candles and that
from the sky seemed different.
That and the small matter of the absence of the mansion.
He walked slowly up the second flight of stairs. The first sensation as he entered the
light was exceptional heat. In the shade the temperature was bearable – as close to
room temperature as could be gauged by someone without their clothes. But as soon as
he stepped into the light, Kyrell was aware of the intense heat the sun was generating.
He could not stay in it for long without burning very badly, but he had to see beyond
the rim of what should have been the doorway.
He climbed far enough up the staircase for his head to protrude slightly from the
hole. He did not want to emerge too suddenly or too obviously. While it was becoming
increasingly likely that Vivian and Kyrell were nowhere near this place in any sense
whatsoever, he had no idea what may be there waiting for naked, handcuffed people
and so he emerged slowly.
A bulbous sun baked down on red desert. Burgundy rocks and crimson sand, a
sullen orange sky. The sun was far too big, taking up nearly half of the sky – it was like
looking down on it instead of seeing it hanging there. Kyrell looked from side to side.
Nothing but desolation, nothing could grow in this terrible place. He spared one last,
swift glance at the ridiculous sun and then backed away down the staircase into the
shade. He fell against the landing wall and allowed himself to slide down it into a sitting
position on the floor.
It was all crystal clear. He was dead. Below, the basement he could haunt forever,
the ghost of himself. Above, only the Hell he had desired for so long.
But, if that were the case, how did he explain the handcuffs?
1.10.2 Kutulu Almost fades
It was hard to tell day from night. Strangely the temperature within the basement
remained constant while outside the daylight blistered the land or the night froze it.
Kyrell had gone outside three times now, once at night into the freezing cold and once
at dawn to search for food. His hopes hadn’t been high. He’d found nothing.
The night had been awesome. Kyrell was still unable to decide whether he was dead
or not, but the lights that played in the skies had seemed something completely
unnatural and beyond his ken, until he was reminded of the Northern Lights. What were
they doing flashing so vividly above the skies of Hell?
Kyrell had spent hours scraping the handcuffs against the walls, but had achieved
little. He knew they were police-issue, re-enforced jobs because they were his. While he
desperately needed the use of his hands, he found their presence comforting. He
doubted whether ghosts were restricted by the application of police restraints, and this
argued that he was not a ghost and therefore not dead.
Shortly after he had “arrived”, for want of a considerably better word (he had none),
the candle lights had gone out. He had not managed to find their source – the candles
which should have been beneath them were entirely absent, meaning the lights simply
hung in mid-air – and now they existed no longer.
Kyrell had spent years studying the occult and he was mildly ashamed that he was
left entirely without reference as to where he may be or what forces may now be
arrayed within his world. He was at a loss to explain what was happening around him.
Daytime obviously resembled Dante’s Inferno, but this made little sense. Few
sources, occult or otherwise, viewed Hell in this way. It was a popular vision of Hell,
yes, all red and fiery and hot, but, like so many other popular illusions of religious or
spiritual concepts, it was not backed up by much in the way of authoritative literature.
The Bible certainly did not view Hell in this way, despite centuries of popular art. The
Bible had two Hells – the book of Revelation spoke of a lake of Fire and, in the Gospels,
Jesus spoke of darkness where there would be “crying and gnashing of teeth”. Biblically,
Hell was either hot and wet or completely dark. Dante’s Inferno was simply popular
culture.
The Satanist had little formal concept of Hell, except as a means of describing
difficulty. Satanism had no Heaven and no Hell. As animals, no more nor less than the
others which walk the earth on two or four legs, the Satanist believed that when he
died, he simply ceased to be. Oblivion. Hell existed only to scare small children.
Islam had no Hell, just Oblivion for the unbelievers, and other major world religions
taught re-incarnation or of some sort or Nirvana for everybody, saint and sinner alike.
The same was true of many of the occult documents Kyrell had read throughout his life.
None agreed with the popular view that Hell resembled… well, exactly what he found
outside his little basement.
And was Hell supposed to have a day/night cycle – and one so terribly contrasting as
this one? This was a desert on coke – everything a desert should be multiplied by a few
thousand. At night he could not touch the ground as the frozen temperatures scalded
him. During the day he could not touch it either for the opposite reason. Yet it remained
so wonderfully temperate within the basement.
Kyrell’s more immediate concerns, however, centred on food, water and the
presence of any other soul. Monstrous as the climate of this place was, it held only
temporary fascination. He could study it at his leisure once he found something to eat
and drink.
Starting at the foot of the staircase, Kyrell systematically searched the floor and
walls of the basement in minute detail. This task completed, he searched the floor,
moving slowly from one wall to the next, moving up and down imaginary corridors on
the floor, as one would do mowing a lawn, searching every detail he could find. He
found the stake pretty swiftly, lying to one side, but nothing else.
He sat with his back against the wall of the basement and considered his dwindling
options. He could not survive outside the basement, yet he would also not survive
within it. He had probably been here approaching twenty-four hours and his thirst had,
by now, found the back of his throat, making swallowing painful. As he sat he
considered the possibility of threading his legs and torso through his arms so as to bring
the handcuffs to the front of his body. He had tried this once before and given up due to
the pain in his wrists, but he considered doing it again. Perhaps if he lay against the
stairs so he more of an angle…
Page 55 of 137
Kutulu lay in the darkened room. Once it had probably been a drawing room. Now it
was furnished as a lounge, as were many other rooms throughout the mansion. This
one led off what had become his private quarters – a reception room. Not that Kutulu
received many visitors.
Three weeks ago the Helmsford mansion, magnificent and alone on its Kentish
estate, had performed three functions: wine production, narcotic and weapons
trafficking headquarters and centre for the academic and practical research of the
arcane and occult. One had obviously fronted for the other two.
The mansion had been a relatively busy place. Security had been reasonably high –
as high as Regan and Kyrell could allow without attracting suspicion from Regan’s
legitimate clients. All who worked on the estate knew of all three functions. This was
easier to manage than it once would have been, since the production of wine was all but
completely automated, despite continuing protests from connoisseurs and purists. The
Helmsford label was respected throughout the world as a fine source of cabernet merlot,
whether produced by hand or by machine.
The full staff compliment had therefore sat at about twenty. This included security
staff, those responsible for wine production, domestic staff and accountants. Three
businesses running seamlessly alongside one-another. Kyrell had been an exceptional
manager, Regan a more than able enforcer.
Alongside the regular staff were those few who knew of the Helmsford mansion for
its studies of the occult and would attend to further their own studies. Regan and Kyrell
had both been exceptionally careful as to those they had allowed to make use of the
facilities. The mansion remain a well-guarded secret. Perhaps a dozen people on the
planet knew of it as the centre for arcane learning that it was. These men and women
were powerful magi and warlocks, those who knew and possessed the powers of
darkness. These were no theologians or philosophers – these were men of considerable
spiritual power.
At a single stroke, at his summoning, Kutulu had massacred fifteen of the twenty
local staff and an additional seven serious students of the occult. The five members of
the security team had been swiftly possessed by willing demons. There were a few loose
ends, mainly among those who knew the mansion’s true purpose but had not been
present that day. Kutulu had little concern for them – his timetable was brief enough for
their interference to pose no serious threat.
Indeed his concerns were, at present, focussed entirely on the maintenance of his
physical body. He was keeping them to himself.
He was fading. The sacrifice of Kyrell had had the desired effect, but what should
have lasted days had lasted mere hours. Now, alone again in his room, he sensed the
cocooning of space around himself and concentrated desperately on maintaining his
physical form.
Tremendous energies were required to retain his body in this realm. For thousands
of years his prison had provided its own shelter against the consequences of physically
entering this desolate dimension. It had been designed to retain him, bodily, in a
universe to which he did not belong. Possessing a body which was native to this
universe was the simple solution that had been used for aeons: retaining a physical
form deliberately brought from his own universe was tremendously difficult.
There were checks and balances. Even human physicists had it right when they
stated that the energy and matter of a given universe – essentially the same thing, just
in different forms – all added up to a specific constant. Matter could not be destroyed
without releasing its component energy and energy could not be destroyed without
being reduced to matter. A given amount of the stuff – close to but not quite infinite –
existed in all universes.
At the expense of tremendous amounts of energy, physical matter could be
transported from one universe – one dimension – to another. It was possible. The
process was similar to osmosis. The realm from which Kutulu came could easily accept
matter/energy from this realm. But working the other way was difficult – going against
the pressure gradient so to speak. Sending Kyrell into that other realm had been
relatively simple and helped equalise pressure, but only slightly and only for a short
time and in a circumscribed space. The pressure was back on Kutulu’s physical form – it
did not belong here and was being sucked back to its own realm.
The effect on Kyrell would be the same, only it would take much longer and be a
great deal less powerful, since he would be working against the gradient to return to
this realm.
These were technologies which Kutulu’s race, for all its advancement, struggled to
comprehend. He was not even sure the Angels understood it completely, relying, as it
did, on the ultimate arcane power: human faith. How ironic that this backward race,
barely out of the steam age and desperately devoted to its own destruction, should
have at its disposal a force so powerful it could tear holes clean through space-time.
And how typical that humanity had absolutely no idea about it.
It was vital to the Angels that humanity never consider this power as anything but
religious and superstitious. This was another irony – as soon as humankind understood
the power of their faith it would, by definition, no longer be faith and the power would
be no more. To harness the power of mankind’s faith, the Angels had to keep them in
the dark as to what it was truly capable of, since, if mankind realised it, it would no
longer be faith and the Angels would lose their power.
It was equally vital that Kutulu show mankind exactly what they had. Well, that had
been the plan for centuries. It had failed. And it had failed for precisely the reason
Kutulu was presently wrestling madly against the cosmos. Creatures from his realm
summoned into this appeared so briefly, appeared out of nowhere, disappeared into
nowhere and were so powerful in relation to men that they were considered angels,
demons or gods and promptly worshipped, expanding the power of their faith and
holding open the Gateway between the worlds, strengthening the angels and damning
the demons.
Kutulu had no idea how it worked, how and why faith – and especially prayer – had
the devastating effect it did on his world and his people. He did know that they were
enslaved, a subject race, and that humankind was to blame. Persuasion had failed.
It was time for plan B. It had been for five thousand years.
Suddenly the darkness about Kutulu thickened and deepened and he felt space
contort towards infinity. With a monstrous effort of will he focussed all his mental might
on retaining the shape of the universe immediately about him.
Vivian. As ever it was not possible to communicate emotion using the implants. He
would have to rely on her natural obedience.
Kutulu stood with great effort and held himself upright, wavering slightly. He walked
over to the doorway, passed it and headed down the passageway towards the
basement. Vivian.
Page 56 of 137
There was no sign of her as he reached the entrance and stumbled down the stairs
into the basement. He knew she could receive his signals, since he would have received
an error report were this not the case. He also knew she could be anywhere on the
estate.
Space again contorted around him, and this time it took his a couple of seconds to
marshal the strength to force space to confirm to his will. The cocoon encapsulated him
and he felt himself rush headlong up the infinite tube that led nowhere in space and
nowhere in time and yet across infinity.
As Kyrell stared hopelessly across the dark basement, trying to make sense of what
would clearly have been death and Hell had it not been for a stubborn set of handcuffs
working well beyond anything the manufacturers could have dreamt of guaranteeing,
the darkness on the floor six feet in front of him seemed to run as if liquid. Kyrell closed
his eyes tightly and re-opened them, wishing he had his fingers to rub his eyes. When
he opened them, the darkness continued to flow like oil.
It looked as if it were flowing over a barrel which lay on its side. A large barrel
shape, filling a large portion of the basement. Kyrell’s thirst-addled mind wondered
hazily what might be inside…
Kyrell jerked upright as understanding slammed into his mind, the movement pulling
painfully against his wrists. He ignored them. He’d just been inside one of those! Now
he was watching it from without.
Immense concentration consumed Kutulu’s being as he felt himself sink further and
further towards the end of the infinite tube. He felt the consistency of the tube shudder
and knew that it would soon dissolve and leave him back in the realm he so desperately
had to avoid. He lay where he fell on the floor of the basement and focussed his mind
so hard he could have sworn his ears would start to bleed.
The oily darkness in front of Kyrell began to fade and Kyrell could just make out a
gnarled figure, transparent or perhaps made of the same oily darkness as the cocoon. It
had a massive jaw which hung open, vast horns, each at least two feet long, protruding
from its forehead. Its muscular body jerked in what appeared to be pain and its tail
thrashed against the basement floor.
Kutulu opened his eyes and saw his cocoon dissolving. He could see the darkness of
the basement returning to solidity and he knew he was on the wrong side. His body
contorted in response to the mental effort and he thrashed against the floor, rolling over
as he did so, so see man seated with his hands behind his back staring at him. A man,
here? Which realm was he fighting against? For a terrible instant Kutulu fought the
confusion of seeing a man where no man had been for thousands of years. Then he
remembered why his hands were behind his back and looked up to recognise the man…
The demon form spun in its thrashing and stared for a terrible second straight at
Kyrell. The body was hideous, claws and horns, tail and maw, but in that instant he
knew exactly who lay before him, for he stared straight into his jet black eyes.
1.10.3 Kutulu rapes and possesses Vivian
Kutulu clawed mentally at his cocoon, spinning it about him by sheer force of will
and with painful slowness and at dreadful cost to his energies the walls about him
solidified again and he inched back down the infinite tube towards the other basement.
He clawed and tore at the fabric of reality, draining every particle of faith he could from
the ceremonies that had summoned him aeons ago, and that which so recently had
freed him. He had paid so dearly in the attack on Xenix and he had not realised how low
he had allowed his reserves to become.
As his cocoon once again gave way and as he saw Vivian staring at his body as it
flickered in and out of existence behind the terribly fragile walls that brought reality’s
horizon’s mere inches from his head, Kutulu knew with awful certainty that he could
sustain his existence in this realm for only a matter of minutes. But Vivian had come –
it would be alright.
The air about him ceased to flow and for a few seconds the Lord of the Waters lay
foetal, shivering slightly at the effort it had taken him to haul himself back into this
desert reality. In this world his natural form remained that of a young man, not his
accustomed features of his every dream and human nightmare. Not the grotesque
Kyrell had seen staring back at him with desperation and hate written across his voided
eyes.
He was back. He felt the floor beneath him and it was cold and solid. He touched his
face with his hand, then touched his hand against the floor. Both were equally solid. For
a few moments more, he was real to this reality.
“Lord,” Vivian knelt, not in homage but in a concern that was almost maternal. She
was wearing a tracksuit and trainers, sweating. Kutulu closed his eyes and felt within.
He had the power. It was all he had left, but he remained, at least from a human
perspective, a god. Even a weakened god has power.
Kutulu shot a finger at Vivian, pointing directly at her face, and he saw with ruthless
joy her concern instantly contort in pain. Her eyes rolled in her head and her neck fell
limp so her head fell backwards. The blow knocked her off her feet and kept her there,
suspended with her heels inches off the ground and her head floating about three feet
from it, hair hanging down, veil-like.
The demon lord rose to his knees, keeping his arm stretched towards Vivian, his
finger crooked towards her, holding her in the air by his will. Her head was thrashing
from side to side, although her pain had yet to find vocal expression: the air had been
knocked from her and she had yet to breath back in.
Keeping one arm outstretched towards her, he flourished the other across his body
and there was a tearing noise as the tracksuit, T-shirt and shorts beneath and
underwear beneath that was ripped from her body. Straps and torn pieces of cloth
resisted and cut deeply into thighs, wrists and neck. Now she found her voice, shrieked
as much in shock at what was happening as at the pain that cut into her as her clothes
were swept aside by God knew what forces to land against the wall of the basement.
Page 57 of 137
Kutulu stood and allowed his black eyes to roam over Vivian’s body. He savoured
the welts and the blood where the clothes had cut into her, eventually coming to rest on
her eyes which stared back at him in pain and terror. He drank in those emotions, fed
off them, feeling himself become that little bit stronger. He allowed the energy to course
through his body, directing it, using it to arouse himself.
Instead of wasting further energy on his own arrangements, Kutulu grabbed the
front of the trousers he wore, stained as they were by the basement floor, and pulled
them away from his body with another loud tearing noise. The belt cut into his back
beneath his kidneys before it tore, but he appeared not to notice any pain that resulted.
Vivian managed a “Lord?” in fearful question. Kutulu did not bother smiling – he had
no concept of empathy with her emotion at all. Like all his kind he fed on human
suffering – a poor substitute for faith, and faith was definitely preferable wherever
possible. Suffering alone could not summon, but it certainly made the summoning
easier when combined with faith. For now, suffering would do. It opened the soul, and
that was what he needed. He needed it open and he needed it to unite with his.
And for that reason he stepped up towards her and, with another flick of his wrist,
threw Vivian’s legs apart. There was a grinding noise and she yelped, but Kutulu
ignored it. He continued to move towards her and, as he reached her, entered her as if
it were the most natural thing to do.
For the first time, Vivian actually screamed. She had yelped and whimpered, but
now she screamed aloud and Kutulu could hear the tearing at the back of her throat as
raw fear, desperate pain and cold despair found a common voice. He grabbed at her
throat, not to silence her but simply to gain purchase so he could move against her. He
thrust with incredible strength, each thrust bumping from him an unconscious growl.
He held her throat tight, strangling her in order to hold her upright, for he felt his
power fading and did not wish to waste what remained on holding her upright. Besides,
the increased pain and fear returned to him as energy and further aroused him. He
would, of course, not let her die. He needed this body.
With a triumphant roar that drowned the gargled screams from her throat, Kutulu
climaxed and, as he did, focussed his entire personality, all that made him him on his
orgasm. As he had directed his consciousness through the PHUD to attack Xenix, he
now used the oldest and most potent form of transference energy known to humans –
sex – to eject his consciousness from the body that had housed him and imprisoned him
for the past five thousand years.
Both bodies shuddered together as power coursed from one to the other. To Vivian,
consciousness was squeezed into an ever-decreasing space, like being inside a box
whose walls are all moving inward. An iron maiden for the soul, her place within herself
shrank and shrank until she occupied no space at all, barely retaining any
consciousness, peeking out of nothingness into a void that was the body she had known
all her life.
To Kutulu the process was a simple rush from one body to the next. Perspective
twisted for a fraction of a second and then he was staring back at himself, felt himself
inside his body, felt the hand around his throat supporting his weight. With miniscule
energy – a mental dismissive wave of the hand – he banished Vivian’s consciousness
from her senses and imprisoned her deep inside her own nightmares. He then saw his
own, black eyes glaze over as the soul left them. The body that held his new body
collapsed and fell, limp, to the floor. He, too, fell backwards and felt a sharp pain in his
pelvis as he hit the ground. That was the grinding noise he had heard when he spread
her legs – he must have broken her pelvis or dislocated her thigh.
He focussed his energy on this wound and felt the bones knit themselves back into
place. Then he did the same for the cuts and welts he had caused by ripping her clothes
off. He stared down at his new body, admiring the beauty without being aroused by it.
Even while raping her, her physical beauty meant nothing to him, being a member of a
different race entirely. Only the pleasure of her pain and fear and despair had been
instrumental in his arousal.
He stood and walked over to the exit of the basement and didn’t look back as his
body slowly, and with any fuss, wrapped itself in infinity and disappeared.
1.10.4 Kutulu Body fades to Hell
Kyrell was not unduly surprised when the darkness again wrapped itself in liquid. In
his thirst and growing hunger he found it hard to become too excited by this, and
struggled even to find the fear he knew he should feel that Kutulu was coming across
the dimensions or whatever lay between this basement and the one he knew. The
thought of death had not scared him before – and now he knew what Hell looked like.
In the dim half-light he saw the black cocoon peal away and looked down at the
body of his lord, stripped from the waist down, lying inanimate on the floor. The black
eyes stared at nothing and only then did true fear rise inside him like bile.
For who in this world or the next could own the power to kill this demon lord?
1.10.5 Kyrell found by demons
Kyrell lay somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, his cheek pressed against the
basement floor. He was weak with thirst and had little idea whether it was day or night
above the entrance staircase. The body of Kutulu lay where it had arrived, staring
vacantly at nothing in the half-dark. With his hands still tied behind his back and thirst
driving from him what sanity he had retained, there was little he could do about it.
He reflected on the irony of his position. He was a Satanic High Priest. Quite apart
from the authority he had held until so recently as a very senior figure within British
organised crime, he held arcane knowledge and powers that most human beings
considered the stuff of fantasy and children’s fiction.
Even most Satanists regarded their religion as a simple statement of faith with no
real arcane power they would ever actually see. This was useful – until recently he had
not realised just how useful, but it was useful even to him to have the simple believers.
They did not summon demons or do anything more fantastic that recite words and
enjoy the pageantry that was Satanic ritual – and obey the orders of their superiors
rather well. Like any religion, Satanism had its ceremonies for its adherents and, like
any religion, miracles were the stuff of legend and what happened in different times to
other people. Few realised, as he did, the potency of some ceremonies and the genuine
powers they unleashed.
With sufficient concentration he could make object levitate and perform other basic
“magic” tricks. It was assumed that they were just that, tricks and illusions and it had
generally suited him and his ilk that the vast majority should believe that. The truth was
far more sinister. As with a few other elect individuals throughout the planet, Kyrell
knew the secrets that made illusion unnecessary. It didn’t always work – which is why
the more flamboyant had, throughout history, employed illusion to ensure they didn’t
fail at an inopportune moment. But he could do it. He did not fully understand the
powers he controlled – none did – but they were there and they were real, granted by
dark sources to those who held the knowledge.
Page 58 of 137
He wasn’t a wizard. There was no such thing. He couldn’t wave a wand – well, he
could, but it would have as much affect as a trick-or-treater on Hollowe’en. The power
he commanded required concentration, dedication and the exact enactments of
countless rituals. It required absolute dedication, fanatical belief and no small quantities
of blood. The powers he commanded had personalities and few did not accept that
universal, sacrificial currency for their services.
The Fiend returned, but this time with another creature in tow. It was obvious that
this second creature held a much higher rank. It was also clear that it was a completely
different creature.
It bowed its head in order to get through the nine-foot high doorway. Then it stood,
silhouetted by the light that sulkily leaked down from the entranceway, and it’s shape
had Kyrell through the surface of his liquid consciousness and straight onto dry land.
Muscular and hulking, small and possibly disused wings hanging limply from its back,
two enormous horns curling upwards and inwards from its forehead and a long, thick
tail that swished from side to side with a feline restlessness.
What he was, if it had a name, was a warlock. He had given most of his being,
dedicated as much of himself as he could, to the rituals of darkness. It was an inanity to
say he had sold his soul, since there really was no such procedure and it made little
sense to do so. In no ritual had he sold his soul to Satan or signed his name in blood.
But, put metaphorically, that was exactly what he had done. Every part of his conscious
being was committed to exactly the type of thing for which innocent women had been
burnt centuries ago. The Inquisitors had got the details completely wrong, and had, on
the whole, convicted entirely innocent people, but their general principles were
remarkably accurate. Indeed, Kyrell and others had made close research of their work
and had found much success in enacting what was, on the surface, simply the sick
imaginings of Catholically deranged and sadistic minds.
Kyrell could only see the silhouette. He could see no frontal details on the creature
with what meagre light there was coming from behind it, but he knew exactly what he
was looking at. Jesus Christ, he was in Hell!
And yet here he sat, one of the most truly powerful humans alive, quietly aware of
the raging forces he commanded, dying of thirst in Hell’s basement. No ritual told him
how to produce water from thin air. He had briefly considered drinking Kutulu’s blood
but, not knowing what had killed him – and knowing even less of his alien body makeup
– he had wisely chosen not to.
“How did you get here?” it’s voice rumbled. It was an immensely deep and guttural
voice and there was something about it that sounded like two stones of immense weight
being dragged across one another – a deep and resonant scraping – but it was quite
audible. It was a reflection on Kyrell’s mental condition that he was not at all surprised
to be addressed in English.
So he lay, dying in a place he didn’t understand, as thanks for freeing an ancient
demon from its (supposedly) eternal imprisonment. He wasn’t concerned at the fairness
of this situation – he, too, had repaid faithful service in the most diabolic fashion when
it suited him. He simply felt truly impotent for the first time he could remember.
Kyrell did not know who he was speaking to or what they may or may not know, but
he did know this was a Demon and therefore probably possessed of a great deal more
knowledge than any single human. Kyrell bowed his head in greeting and then struggled
to lift it again.
Consciousness came and went without really informing Kyrell one way or the other,
and so he wasn’t sure when first he heard footsteps outside the basement entrance. The
sound seeped into his mind with ridiculous slowness, so at no point did its presence
shock him. It simply came to be there, and, wading through the mud bath that was his
mind, Kyrell tried to attach significance to it.
Even the growl didn’t shock him at first. He remained just beneath the surface of his
own consciousness, aware of his surroundings and yet not at all affected by them.
A scaled, ape-like creature, stooped, with arms almost reaching the ground, loped
down the staircase. It was closely followed by another, then two more. It was clear that
this race preferred to walk on all fours and probably did when running, but they
remained upright when they required the use of their foreclaws. At the moment each
carried a small object which clearly performed the role of a torch. A beam shone out the
front of each as the four creatures surveyed the cave.
They found Kutulu first, since Kyrell was lying with his back to the same wall as the
doorway. The four beams converged on the body slumped near the centre of the room.
Then the beams continued their detailed and clearly ordered search of the room. As the
beams hit Kyrell’s face, he flinched involuntarily. He didn’t quite emerge from his
stupor, but consciousness came a few paces nearer. He felt like he was nearing the
surface of the lake of his unconsciousness. He wasn’t sure he wanted to break through.
A smart command was barked by one creature and another scampered back up the
stairs. There was a pause for a time Kyrell could not possibly determine and then
movement returned. All the while two beams were trained on Kyrell and a third on the
body of Kutulu.
There followed a brief conversation between the Fiend and the Demon, mostly from
the Fiend, in its harsh, barking language. The Fiend’s torch beam flicked from Kyrell to
Kutulu and back, clearly part of the explanation. The Demon grunted in response, then
turned to face Kyrell.
“I was sent by the great Kutulu whom you see before you.”
Silence came as an answer from the Demon and Kyrell could still make out no facial
details that could help him get an idea of expression.
Finally it spoke again.
“He no longer inhabits this body. How did he come to be free?”
“I freed him,” said Kyrell.
Again there was a long silence. The significance of the Demon’s words – not “dead”
but “no longer inhabits this body” – had just occurred to Kyrell when it rumbled, “You
will come with us.” This was followed by the grunting and barking which clearly formed
the Fiend language.
Two Fiends scrambled forward and grabbed an arm each, raising Kyrell to a low
stoop. If it stood upright, a Fiend would achieve a height of perhaps six foot, but in their
naturally hunched position stood about four foot six.
“I am thirsty,” said Kyrell, trying to resist being dragged towards the stairs by the
Fiends and failing utterly.
“Do you see water here?” growled the demon. “Either come with us or die of thirst.”
Kyrell stopped struggling. He braced himself.
Page 59 of 137
2
Book Two
“And Superheroes come to feast
To taste the flesh that’s here deceased
And all I know is still the Beast
Is feeding.”
- Richard O’Brien, “Superheroes”, The Rocky Horror Picture Show
2.1
2.1.1
Underwood and D’Arte start Investigation
Jason calls Underwood
As Jason D’Arte had suspected, Detective Chief Inspector Liam Underwood rather
liked what he considered to be “old fashioned detective work”. Had he been asked, he
would probably have been unable to articulate exactly what he meant by this phrase. If
he were to be absolutely honest, he would have had to admit that it had a lot more to
do with a certain amount of technophobia on his part than the more nebulous Dirk
Bogart image he liked to cultivate.
Underwood just didn’t trust things he couldn’t understand. For a detective, this was
a decidedly positive trait, but it did mean that Underwood was never comfortable with a
PHUD on his head and felt far more at ease taking notes with a physical pen on physical
paper. He understood how a pen and paper worked and therefore he trusted them. He
hadn’t a fucking clue how a PHUD could understand his words and then save them
somewhere on the internet in some far off place he could neither see nor touch and,
frankly, he didn’t want to know, thanks very much. By the end of any case, he had a
physical case folder full of physical case notes written with a physical pen on physical
paper. They might snigger behind his back, but he could certainly point them at one
little piece of physical evidence: he had one of the best damn case records at Scotland
Yard.
Which was why he could not quite work out whether he should be flattered or
bewildered to be put onto the Jackson case. The fact that the crime scene practically
had “utterly bizarre and unsolvable” stamped across the pentagram on the centre of the
floor meant that Underwood had either been chosen because the case was very
important and absolutely had to be solved or because it was utterly unsolvable but
politically important and therefore had to be given the best effort possible. Underwood
chose to believe the former.
Supporting this was the fact that Micky Jackson had been known as a rather senior
member of a Gravesend-based Mafioso-esque criminal organisation which was involved
in just about every crime they had a name for. He controlled prostitutes, he sold drugs,
he sold firearms (still illegal in the UK), the list went on. His name was associated with
rape and murder, theft and assault, protection rackets and white-collar fraud. Not him
personally, of course, but he had been known to be the kingpin of an organisation
responsible for this type of business.
There was no doubt in Underwood’s mind: this case was important. Solvable and
important. Fuck the boogaloo devil-worshipping crap: whoever had killed Jackson was
clearly a contender for the throne of his organisation. Not the monkey who had pulled
the trigger, of course, but the organ grinder who had sent him.
And it was for this reason that Underwood was exceptionally frustrated. Whoever
had actually carried out the hit had done so using an MO with which neither he nor his
most experienced colleagues were at all familiar. Put another way, whomever had
pulled the trigger was clearly not such a monkey after all. Maybe the monkey was the
organ grinder, or at least very close to him.
Underwood allowed his frustration to show verbally as his “fucking fuddy-duddy”
went off on his desk while he had photographs of the crime scene strewn all over both
the desk and the PHUD which was the source of his chagrin.
“Fucking piece of fucking shit,” he muttered, scrambling beneath neatly laid
photographs to find the offending piece of technology. “I’m busy! I don’t need to this
piece of cyborg shit beeping at me every five fucking –”
The call identifier icon eased his mood as he placed the PHUD over his head. “Well,
how about that,” he said to nobody in particular. “What do you want, my holy friend?”
Then, to the PHUD, “Answer.”
“Inspector Underwood?”
“Pastor D’Arte,” replied Underwood in a businesslike tone. He continued to
mispronounce the surname. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you still working on that ritual murder case?”
“Yes, pastor, as a matter of fact I am.” Underwood’s lens was showing him the
pastor seated at his desk. He recalled that previously D’Arte had used audio only. “I see
you have installed a camera.”
“Yah,” replied the minister. “I don’t normally have a camera in my study – my, ah,
congregation and I often prefer the privacy of pure audio. I brought this camera in from
my daughter’s room. Thought it might be nice to see what my face looked like.”
“Indeed,” said Underwood, who, to be honest, liked what he saw. The pastor looked
like a pastor, neat shirt and tie behind a desk and, behind that, rows of books. A Church
of England man himself, Underwood preferred his clerics in frocks and dog-collars, but
he prided himself in not letting his personal prejudices interfere with his work. Most of
the time. “You mentioned the Jack- the ritual murder case.”
“Detective, about two weeks ago my daughter returned from the UK. She’d been
staying in and around London for about a year. Well, she came back in quite a state. I
mean physically. I mean, she’d, well, she’d had some pretty nasty experiences. She’d...
well, detective, she’d…”
“Pastor,” Underwood leant back in his chair. He had heard very good things about
this man, had had one at least partly useful conversation with him. He did not want to
be too unkind – he’d let him down gently. Maybe pass him to another department to
report whatever this was properly. “Please call me Liam.”
“Thanks. I’m Jason.”
“Jason, look, I’m sorry about your daughter. I really am. But, you see, I’m a
detective inspector – I solve crimes. What you need to do, Jason, is get hold of –“
Which made the case important.
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“No, Liam, wait, hear me out.” Now that he heard Underwood’s misunderstanding,
Jason found the words he had been struggling to enunciate. “Liam, my daughter was
raped. Not just raped – she was gang-raped as part of some ritual. What she described
to me sounded exactly like the what you asked me about a couple of weeks ago.”
Underwood froze in his seat. Mentally he sprang into action, which, physically,
meant he remained utterly motionless. He started thinking rapidly. To cover his
thoughts he parried, “I thought you didn’t believe in any of this.”
“I don’t. That doesn’t mean they didn’t do it.”
“Sincerely wrong but wrong nonetheless?”
“Detective, this is my daughter. I’m telling you that she –“
“I’m thinking, pastor,” Underwood’s reply was almost abrupt. “Was she the altar?”
“That’s what she said, yes,” said Jason, surprised. “I didn’t think we –“
“We didn’t,” muttered Underwood, distractedly. No they hadn’t discussed it. “I
bought the books. See, that’s the strange thing. In the Jack- the, ah, fuck it – sorry,
pastor – the case I’m working on involved somebody called Jackson. In this case the
one thing missing from all the Satanic crap all over the place was a living altar. You’d
expect that – or at least that’s what the book says. There’s supposed to be a living,
breathing, stark naked woman acting as an altar. Now I know that sometimes the altar
is revered and other times – well, you know about other times. Only this time there was
no altar at all.”
Jason was a little annoyed at the digression. “What I’m telling you, Liam, is that my
daughter was quite brutally gang-raped in a ritual not at all dissimilar to the one you’re
investigating –“
“Except that mine didn’t have an altar and she –“
“- and she,” continued Jason, ignoring Underwood, “can give you names and places
where this happened.”
Both paused.
“I know where it happened,” said Underwood with slow and deliberate patience. “I
showed you photographs of the crime scene. I was there.”
“This was somewhere else, Liam. It happened after you spoke to me, and everybody
survived.”
“Just,” muttered Underwood. If Jason caught the sideways reference to his
daughter, he ignored it. “So you’re saying there’s some sort of link?”
“Very probably.”
Underwood paused for thought. There could be a link, although this was obviously
not the pastor’s reason for phoning. A crime had been committed, but, on the face of it,
it had nothing to do with the Jackson case except… well, except an awful lot, actually,
now that he considered it. Except that it seemed to involve a similar bunch of ritual
murderers running around the South East of England – and he hoped to Christ there
weren’t enough of those for this not to be connected. Except that this bunch may well
know what happened to Jackson. Except that this bunch may have been responsible for
what happened to Jackson. And except – like it or not – that solid feeling in his stomach
that told him these things were linked. His hunch. He liked that word. It was a cop
word. A detective word.
“How did your daughter get involved?”
“She was brought there as a guest,” Jason explained. It sickened his heart to say
these things and his temper was not what it had been a fortnight ago. “She wanted to
go. She wanted to be part of the ritual.”
“Just not that part,” surmised Underwood.
Jason grunted an affirmative.
“I mentioned the bloke’s name,” said Underwood. “This Jackson. Is that the person
your daughter, ah, met? Micky – Michael – Jackson.”
“No. That’s not the name. It was a –“ Jason consulted a notepad in front of him, “a
Craig Summerfield. There was also a Regan Helmsford – he seemed to be running the
show. He was the priest.”
Underwood jotted down notes. “Helmsford?” It rang a vague bell somewhere. “She
didn’t creep out over any dead bodies on the way out, did she?”
“I’m sure she’d have mentioned it,” Jason’s tone was terse.
“Was she staying near Gravesend?”
“Ah, no, I don’t think so. She never mentioned that place. Charming name.”
“What? Graves- hmm. Yeah, I suppose it is. Never thought about it.”
“Listen,” said Jason. “The reason I called was to say that my daughter has
information that may be useful to you. You can speak to her if you’re interested, but,
well, to be honest, I need something from you in return.”
Thought so. “What’s that?”
“Justice.”
Underwood paused. “You mean revenge.”
“I know what I mean.”
2.1.2
Jason prays for justice
Jason D’Arte forced himself to concentrate on the neatly handwritten notes in front
of him. While he knew it was utterly impossible to drive from his brain the wicked
imaginings his mind threw at him, constantly re-screening the ordeal his daughter must
have gone through, in beautiful Technicolor, wide-screen, interactive horror, he also
knew today was Sunday.
To be a pastor was infinitely more personal than simply having a job. Sometimes,
however, it did help to view it as a job, only Jason was working for the biggest Boss of
them all. He had chosen, of his own free will, to work for God, but now that he had
made that commitment, God expected nothing less than everything. Jason had
knowingly taken on responsibility for dozens of people – hundreds, maybe even
thousands over the years. Their spiritual and emotional well-being were, at least in part,
his responsibility. No, he could not make their moral decisions for them, could not make
them realise how simple solutions were to life’s most seemingly complex problems. He
could not make them pray, he could not make them believe.
But he could teach them properly. He could ensure that they had at their disposal
the tools to make the right choices, the information they needed to live their lives in
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accordance with God’s will – and what could be more perfect than functioning exactly as
the One who made you intended? Just as machines worked best when run according to
their operating instructions, so life was most rewarding and fulfilling when lived
according to the Manufacturer’s instructions: the Bible. Jason could not make them live
their lives that way, but he had the gargantuan responsibility of ensuring that they had
at their disposal the ability to understand the Instructions should they want to.
And so he sat in the small, Spartan vestry alongside the sanctuary of Meadowridge
Baptist Church. The room had two doors – one led into the reception area immediately
outside the sanctuary, the other led directly into the sanctuary, alongside the pulpit and
baptismal pool.
Both doors were closed, and Jason could hear the milling and murmured
conversations as members of his congregation arrived for the Sunday morning service
to be greeted by senior lay members of the church. Jason looked at his watch and saw
that it was ten-past-nine. The service would start in twenty minutes.
And so he focussed on the notes he had made for this morning’s sermon. Well,
actually he focussed on the notes he had made for a morning’s sermon many years ago
in a different church. Jason was meticulous about the filing of his sermons, for exactly
the same reasons as he was meticulous about all he did in the service of God. He knew
his responsibility – he held no less a power than salvation itself when it came to those
God placed in his care, and he would not be found wanting the day his Lord asked him
what he had done with the responsibility he had been given. Grace would cover the
errors his humanity caused – those things he could not help. But his conscience would
not allow him to be anything less than absolutely conscientious.
Which was why he regarded with dislike the sermon before him. It was a good
sermon – it challenged and it admonished, simultaneously inspirational and a little
awkward. Jason did not like the thought of his congregation getting too comfortable in
their pews – a little squirming was a good thing. Challenge them to think and live a little
better with each passing Sunday. It was the fact that he had drawn this sermon from its
neat file, though, instead of preparing one fresh for this Sunday which ate at his
conscience.
There were, of course, many times that he would take out and brush off entire
series’ of sermons and re-use them. This was often necessary when work did not allow
him time to prepare new or when he knew the people for which he was now responsible
needed to hear what he had said before to others, and there was no sense in reinventing the wheel. He also knew many of his sermons were pretty darn good, even if
he said so himself (and with appropriate gratitude to the One who inspired his pen). He
fully intended to publish the better sermons one day, if he got the chance to properly
edit the collection.
Yesterday he had been forced to pull from his archives this sermon because his mind
was simply unable to focus on the preparation of a new one. He was further irked by the
fact that his congregation – those who were paying attention, at least – would notice
the lapse.
They had been working through the book of Romans, week by week. Jason liked to
take an entire book of the Bible and study in as an on-going series, usually with a
theme running through all the sermons. Recently he had tackled Hebrews with his
congregation, dealing in detail with the mechanics of salvation. In between he had
presented various sermons, depending on where he thought his congregation’s
weaknesses and complacencies lay. Now he was going through Romans – except today
he wasn’t.
He had simply been unable to concentrate enough to put together anything he
could, in all good conscience, present to his people and the Lord. Kayleigh had arrived
on Tuesday, he had listened to her cry, comforted her at all times of night and day
while confronting his own demons. Then there had been the run-up to Friday’s
conversation with Underwood. Saturday he had tried – God knew (literally) that he had
tried. But he had found nothing. Staring at scripture, his eternal source of comfort,
instruction and peace, all he could see were dark figures ripping and tearing at the
fragile body of his little girl. For three hours he had tried. Eventually, tear-stained and
exhausted, he had given in and started referring to his files.
God understood. If He didn’t, what had Jason believed all these years?
Now he tried to focus again on the page before him, reading his neat, capitalised
script. His sermon notes were in a kind of personal shorthand. It was not necessary – in
fact he found it counterproductive – to write word-for-word what he would say.
However, point-form notes were insufficient. He relied on his ability to speak and
improvise to a certain extent, but some anecdotes were integral, even some jokes were
essential to the flow of thought. Forget them – even get the wording slightly wrong –
and the reference to them later in the sermon would be lost. At certain points there
were specific turns of phrase which Jason had chosen for their impact. His notes were
therefore almost nonsensical to others, but to him made perfect sense: different
characters used as bullets, capitalisation and lower case each had their own meaning,
indented text meant something different to that alongside a bullet point. He even used
Hellenic Greek lettering has shorthand for certain essential concepts: Alfa meant
starting afresh, Delta indicated a change of tone, Gamma meant to pause for a
meaningful look at his congregation and so on, such that, buried in his own script, he
not only had the outline of the sermon, essential anecdotes and actual wording where
necessary, he also had stage direction.
But his mind continued to wander. His watch told him it was nineteen minutes past.
The pianist in the sanctuary was warming up, and the body of the noise outside was
moving from the entrance hall to the sanctuary.
Leaving his notes on his desk, Jason rose and checked that both doors were shut.
He then moved around his desk to kneel in front of one of the chairs which faced his
desk. He placed his elbows on the seat of the chair, interlaced his fingers in front of his
face and closed his eyes.
“Father,” he began in a hoarse whisper, “I need your help this morning. Lord I thank
and praise You that You have chosen to remind me that I remain fragile – that this work
isn’t easy and that I need Your grace to accomplish it. But Lord,” Jason was unaware of
his grip tightening, “out there your people gather to hear Your Word, and all I can think
of…” he paused, swallowed. “All I can think of, Father, is my little baby girl and what
those… those… people did to her.” He spat the word “people” out in hateful expletive.
“Help me, Lord, please. I can’t do this by myself. I’m not even sure I can get up off my
knees right now without Your help. Father, what these people did was wrong. It was
evil. I know that vengeance belongs to You, and that I should wait on Your divine
justice, but I cannot bare the thought that these evil men walk free and continue what
they… what they do.
“Lord, I need to get up and go in there,” Jason pointed absently over his shoulder in
the general direction of the sanctuary, then re-clasped his hands, “and I need to focus
on nothing but ensuring that Your people hear Your Word the way You need them to.
They have their needs and their spiritual well-being is my concern. You gave me that,
Father, and I am grateful You trusted me with that awesome responsibility.
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“Father, please, I’ve never asked for anything in return, and I‘m not trying to
bargain with You. You have given me so much and I deserve so little. But, Father,
please,” again he paused to swallow, “please bring these men to justice. Help Detective
Underwood to arrest these men for what they did. Let me go in there knowing that You
will see justice done, that I can leave that to You, and that my little girl will see the
justice of the Lord and know that You are God Almighty and that nobody gets to beat up
on Your children without consequence and…” emotion stopped him abruptly. He could
feel his heart pounding in his throat and became suddenly aware that he was clasping
his hands so tightly they hurt.
He opened his eyes, staring vacantly at the tear-blurred window in front of him. He
left the tears stinging his eyes, swallowed, sniffed and then said, “Lord, you said, ‘If you
who are sinful know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your
Father in Heaven give good gifts to those who ask Him’. You know what it’s like to see
your children hurt. I leave this in Your hands and I thank You that You understand. Give
me Your strength to share Your Word as You want me to.
“I love you, Lord,” prayed Jason D’Arte. “Thank You for Your grace.”
Over tea and biscuits an hour and twenty minutes later, it was generally agreed that
it had been months – maybe years –since Pastor D’Arte had preached with such passion
and overwhelming conviction. Nobody remarked on the deviation from the book of
Romans.
2.1.3
Jason and Kayleigh talk to Underwood
The call identifier which sprang from nowhere in front of Liam Underwood’s right eye
reminded the detective that, yet again, he had neglected to remove his PHUD for a
considerable length of time. He frowned for a second, trying to recall the last point at
which he had used the damnable instrument. A good three hours ago. No wonder he
was getting a headache.
The symbol identified Jason D’Arte. Underwood looked at his wrist watch and saw
that it was already three o’clock in the afternoon. He cursed in mild surprise, then said,
“Answer,” as he searched through the rubble of his desk for his trusty notepad. Three
pens stood to attention in an ancient holder designed for the purpose.
“Pastor D’Arte,” said Underwood distractedly, locating his pad precariously held onto
his desk by the presence of an empty coffee mug. “How are – ah! Visuals. I see. Good
afternoon. You must be Kayleigh.”
The same scene as had greeted Underwood’s right eye during the previous
conversation now appeared in his monocle. The camera had been zoomed out to reveal
two chairs opposite the desk. In one seat sat a blonde girl, her legs crossed and her
head bowed. Jason sat in the other chair, rather than behind his desk.
The blonde looked up. “Hello Mister Underwood,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Right. Sorry, I’m just getting my notes together here. Lost track of time. There.
Okay. ‘Scuse the mess.”
Visuals of Underwood’s office from a camera mounted above the door frame entered
both Jason’s and Kayleigh’s PHUD. Underwood muttered, “PHUD control. Menu. Camera
control. Tighter. Tighter. Okay. Exit PHUD control.”
“Right,” Underwood grabbed one of the three pens from the top of his desk, turned
to a new page in his notebook and lent forward on his elbows. Jason reflected that it
was only when people (like Underwood) were so visibly uncomfortable in a PHUD that
the incongruity of the device became apparent. Fashion was notoriously scornful of how
silly one actually looked and had had people looking considerably more ridiculous than
they now looked with what appeared to be half a pair of spectacles on their faces. For
nearly two decades most of white-collar society (and a good majority of the remainder
of the first world) had been happily wearing the devices without undue embarrassment.
The images on the PHUD lens were only visible from the wearer’s perspective, being
clear to onlookers, and the lens was neither concave nor convex, so the eye behind the
device appeared the same as the other, unless the lens was particularly dirty (or the
user required the lens to perform the task of ordinary glasses, in which case they would
cover both eyes). Underwood, however, was clearly uncomfortable with it as he sat with
his left eye closed awkwardly and his right squinting to focus on the image in the lens.
Jason guessed – correctly – that any more than an hour’s PHUD use would give
Underwood a nasty headache.
“Now, your Dad has probably spoken to you about the case I am working on and
how we feel we can help each other, but I think it would be worthwhile for me to just
run quickly through everything. Would that be okay, Kayleigh?”
Kayleigh grunted an affirmative and nodded her head very slightly. Underwood
considered this a relatively typical response for her age. “Okay. I am investigating a
homicide – a murder – actually a number of murders – which appear to have happened
during some sort of Occult ritual. I am not able to share with you all the information I
have – frankly, I don’t think you’d want to know some of it – but the long and the short
of it is that seventeen people died together in an underground basement which had
been made out as a Satanic ritual chamber. It looks as if a small bomb went off in the
centre of the room, except that it only damaged the people and not the chamber itself.
“All those present have been linked with organised crime. Our records and
surveillance indicate that they were all part of a single crime syndicate, operating out of
Gravesend in Kent. They were involved in drug trafficking, weapons smuggling,
prostitution and other types of organised nastiness. The leader of this group, one Micky
Jackson, seems to have been singled out for some rather gruesome treatment. His body
was quite badly mutilated.
“Now, while you were still in the UK, Kayleigh, I contacted your father to ask his
advice on this case. Your Dad has helped us with cases involving ritual crime in the
past,” – a look of mild surprise flashed briefly across Kayleigh’s face. “And so we hoped
he could help us again. His input was useful, although we are still investigating this
crime and – well, to be honest, we’ve hit a bit of a brick wall. We’re not sure what
happened.
“After you came back from the UK, your Dad recognised the similarity between what
you had been involved in and what happened with Micky Jackson. He thought you might
be able to help us with our investigations. He also thought we might be able to help you
find those people who, ah, committed these crimes against you and bring them to
justice.” Underwood paused. “You’re with me so far?”
Again Kayleigh nodded her head slightly, this time without the grunt. She didn’t look
up, but Underwood knew enough about his PHUD to know that his image in her lens
would be looking straight at her no matter where she looked.
“Kayleigh, I know this may be painful for you, but it would help bring a number of
people to justice – including the people who did these terrible things to you – if you
could tell us everything you know about the group you were with.”
Kayleigh looked sideways at her father. Jason did his best to place a reassuring
smile on his face. Father and daughter had already spoken through a great deal of what
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had happened and Jason expected to hear nothing new. His presence was more for
reassurance.
“Firstly, where did this take place?” Underwood started with a question, the answer
to which he already knew. This was an accustomed tactic – it gave him time to acquaint
himself with Kayleigh without focussing on her answers and it established, at least in
general terms, whether her story and her father’s would marry up. Underwood watched
Kayleigh intently as she responded.
“Helmsford Manor.”
“Which is where exactly?”
“Kent. About half-an-hour off the A2 between Maidstone and Canterbury. I can give
you detailed instructions if you’d like.”
“That won’t be necessary right now. Why there?”
Kayleigh looked nervously at her father. He smiled what he hoped was an
encouraging smile. Kayleigh looked down again as she responded.
“I was interested in the occult. Satanism. Have been for years. Maybe it’s because
my Dad’s a pastor – rebelling against that. Whatever.” Underwood nodded as she
continued. “I’d been looking on the internet for contacts in the UK. I hadn’t been
involved here in Cape Town, but I thought it might be interesting to see what it’s like
over there.”
“Uh-huh?”
“There were quite a few net locales for occult organisations. I got the contact details
and made some calls once I got settled in London.” Kayleigh paused and took a breath.
Now that she was speaking she appeared more confident than she had to begin with.
Underwood noticed the yellowed discolouration down one side of her face, the aftermath
of what must have been serious bruising.
“I met up with a group who met on a monthly basis. They were based in Colliers
Wood, in London. Once a month they’d get together and perform a ritual or two at this
guy’s house. Nothing much – just playing around. It was fun. I started out as an acolyte
– sometimes I was the altar.” Kayleigh was studiously avoiding her father’s gaze. “Like I
said, it was nothing heavy. We just followed the rituals in the Satanic Bible and the
Rituals. Have you read – “
“Yes I have,” replied Underwood, anticipating the question. “The books mention
nothing violent.”
“Well, exactly,” Kayleigh looked up for the first time, appealing directly to the
camera. Pretty eyes, thought Underwood.
“Who were these people? Who was this ‘guy’ whose house it was?”
Kayleigh hesitated. “Just people,” she said. “They weren’t doing anything – “
“Kayleigh,” Underwood interrupted again. “I cannot help you unless you’re one
hundred percent honest. You’ve already said these people were not engaged in anything
illegal.”
Her head fell again. “The person on the net locale was the priest for the group. It
was his house. Cowles was his name. Nathan Cowles. He had some theatrical
background, I think – he liked all the dressing-up and the drama and stuff. He was a
nice bloke.”
“How did you get from there to Helmsford?”
“One of the other members of the coven – her name was Fiona… um… Fiona, Fiona,
Fiona,” Kayleigh shook her head slightly as she searched for the surname. “Fiona
Something. I can’t remember her surname. She told me about this other coven that
took things more seriously. You see, we’d been discussing the fact that this Satanism
we’d been doing was like Sunday Christianity. We just went and played around and
dressed up and then went home again. Nothing to it. No power or demons or anything
serious. Most of the guys there just laughed and said that was silly – it wasn’t any more
real than Christian angels and saints – but Fiona Yarmouth – that’s it! Yarmouth – said
that there were some covens who really did all that shi – all that stuff.
“She said she could arrange for me to be invited to a place in Kent where the more
serious rituals were held.” Again Kayleigh paused. She was approaching another
awkward point in her monologue. “They… that is, we… we had done a few drugs
sometimes after the coven meetings. Nothing serious,” she added hastily. “Just some
dope or some HDE, maybe a line or two of C. One of the guys had implants and he said
that the hallusofts were better than any chemo.”
“Pardon?” asked Underwood. Kayleigh had lapsed into slang with which he was not
familiar.
“Hallucinogenic software for implants. He said it was better than chemical drugs.”
Underwood briefly considered the implications of this new crime for which there was
not yet a law. The guys on the computer-crime side of things must have heard of this,
but he hadn’t. Hell, implants weren’t even commercially available yet! He wondered
briefly whether it would turn out to be a crime to get artificially high on computer code
after all, since it could be argued that it was not physically damaging, although it would
doubtless be addictive, but abandoned the thought as Kayleigh continued.
“So when we went through to this place in Kent, Fiona gave me something to calm
my nerves. Well, it was supposed to calm my nerves. It actually knocked me sideways.
She gave it to me just after we arrived, so I remember entering the manor and the
gates and stuff, but then it goes sort of blank for a while. I woke up just before the
ritual.”
“What else do you remember? Before you went to sleep?”
“Sleep? Narco-stungunned more like! We went into this room with couches and
stuff. I met somebody called Craig Summerfield – he was screwing Fiona, I think – and
then these other people came in. They sort of looked me over and said I was okay – it
was weird – like I wasn’t a person, just a thing, but a thing of value, you know? Two
guys and a girl. They were the ones who came in and looked at me. One guy was the
priest – he also owned the mansion – um… Ryan – no – Regan Helmsford. Same as the
manor. Probably some lord or something, I don’t know. The other bloke seemed to be in
charge, though – his name was Coral or something. Funny name. I didn’t get the girl’s
name at all.”
Underwood was expecting the reference to Kyrell, but had not dared hoped the girl
had met him. “Kyrell?” he asked. “Kyrell Trepan?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s it. Kyrell. Anyway, after that Fiona and I were left alone with this
Craig guy and we shot a bit of whatever it was – I thought it was just HDE. Then the
lights went out.”
“And when they came back on?”
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Kayleigh’s new-found confidence vanished and she stared at her shoes again. “When
I woke up I was the altar. I was naked. But instead of sitting on the table, or lying on it,
I was chained to it. Real manacles on my wrists and ankles. There were lots of people.
The women were on the other side of the room – they were watching and I couldn’t see
them properly. The men were with them to start with – that Helmsford bloke led the
ritual – but then they came over to where I was tied down.” Kayleigh paused for
considerable time. “Is it important we go into this?”
“No,” replied Underwood. It wasn’t. “We may have some identikits for you to look at
later, but it’s not important now.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be much help – the guys wore cloaks with hoods. I didn’t see many
faces. I know the first was that Coral guy. Kyrell. Things got a bit blurred after that.”
“Fair enough.” Underwood looked at his notes. “Nathan Cowles and Fiona Yarmouth
led you to Craig Summerfield, Regan Helmsford and Kyrell Trepan? Is that right?”
“Yah. Well, I’m not sure Nathan had much to do with it.”
“Do you know who these people are?”
“Who, Nathan or –“
“Trepan, Helmsford and the girl, who was probably Vivian Lancaster.”
Kayleigh shook her head.
“Kyrell Trepan heads up a very large and very nasty criminal organisation. He’s the
link. When your Dad mentioned Helmsford Manor I thought I remembered something so
I did some digging. It’s long been known to be one of the centres for Trepan’s
operations. There’s definitely a relationship between him and Jackson, although we’re
not sure what. Jackson had his own organisation, and so close to Trepan’s you’d think
they’d collide, but they didn’t. There was some sort of understanding between them.”
Underwood seemed to be talking more to himself than to Jason or Kayleigh. “Then
suddenly Jackson gets quite thoroughly murdered. Did he cross some line with Trepan?
What did Trepan say when you met him?”
It took Kayleigh a second to realise the question was aimed at her. “Um, no, nothing
really. He said hello to everybody and then said he was happy with me. ‘She’s nice,’
were his exact words. Arsehole. Like I was some shirt he was picking out. He then told
that Regan priest bloke the time for the ceremony and left with the girl. Regan left at
the same time.”
“How much of the mansion did you see?”
“The grounds. The way in. Reception hall, a corridor, a room. That was on the way
in. I came out a different way.”
Underwood’s mind continued to race. His eyes moved rapidly, unconsciously trained
on thoughts that streaked across his mind. Otherwise he sat still, almost rigid.
The file on Trepan had been impressive, perhaps mostly because of its brevity. Very
little was known about this man, although he clearly occupied a position of considerable
influence. For starters, his was one of the hundred most wealthy families on the planet.
He wasn’t wanted for anything in particular, since it was not clearly known how he fitted
into the organisation which seemed to be associated with him or how these dovetailed
with his countless legitimate operations. Was he an active leader, a sponsor, a
beneficiary? Nothing was clear. As for his involvement in occult rituals – that was new.
It made for an exceptionally interesting connection with the Jackson case. I’ll be
buggered! All little devil-worshipping voodoo pin-sticking… one little, two little, three
little Satanists.
“Kayleigh, I need you to do me a favour. I need you to agree that I report this crime
to the authorities here in the UK: your… your rape. I need you to submit a statement –
the recording of this interview will be enough – to start an investigation. I need you to
do this so I can get a warrant to enter Helmsford Manor. May I do this?”
Kayleigh was confused. “Do what?”
Underwood spoke more slowly. “I need you to make a statement to the police that
you were raped at Helmsford Manor. The recording of this interview will be enough,
since I am a police officer and you’ve agreed to this recording. I just need you to say
that this is a statement and that you would like to prosecute those responsible. Is that
okay?”
“Absolutely!” replied Kayleigh. “I want you to get every one of those fuckers!” She
spat the word without acknowledging the presence of her father.
It took about half-an-hour for Kayleigh to give Underwood a detailed statement,
describing her ordeal in the basement, the basement itself, the occult rituals in which
she had been involved and then her escape from the formaldehyde-smelling storage
room Kayleigh had been sure existed specifically for the purpose of disposing of victims
slightly deader than she had been.
“Fantastic,” said Underwood as he surveyed the copious notes he had taken.
“Kayleigh, Jason, I will come back to you later this week – probably – with any
developments or anything else. Kayleigh, if you think of any other details – anything at
all – please make a note of them. You can send them to my e-dress if you like.
Otherwise I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Okay,” replied Kayleigh.
“Thank you very much for your help,” said Underwood. “I really appreciate it. We’ll
speak soon. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Detective,” said Kayleigh and issued the instruction to drop the line.
Only after the call was terminated did she realise that her father was crying.
2.2
2.2.1
Kyrell at the Court of Satan
Kyrell is taken from the basement
“Your name, demon!”
The huge creature had already turned away from Kyrell and had started towards the
stairs. It had considered the matter of Kyrell’s co-operation resolved in terms of Kyrell’s
thirst and now spun angrily again to face his captive.
“I am Kyrell Trepan,” as the demon turned, Kyrell sought, found and held its gaze.
“I am not a little human for you to order about as you please. I am a High Magus, a
warlock who has summoned creatures far more powerful than you to make my
breakfast! I demand your name!”
“I know who you are, Magus,” replied the demon in its huge, granite voice.
Something in its voice was almost respectful. It inclined its head slightly, almost as if
greeting an equal. It paused, considering Kyrell for a moment. “I am Abbadon.”
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Kyrell did not reply immediately, but continued to hold the demon’s gaze. Abbadon!
Not many demons got their names into the Bible. Abbadon to the Hebrews, Appollyon to
the Greeks, this demon was mentioned by name as the Destroyer in the book of
Revelation. Abbadon was to Satan what Michael was to God: Lord of the Host. Kyrell
was staring down the supreme commander of Hell’s army.
“Lord Abbadon,” replied Kyrell after a moment’s pause. “I had no idea. I’m afraid I
do not know the protocol for greeting a Lord of the Host. Why have you come?”
“Because I was sent,” replied the Demon. “Your arrival and that of the body of the
Kutulu has certainly not gone unnoticed here.”
“Then I am in Hell.” Kyrell stated it as a fact.
The demon’s face contorted into an ugly grimace and it cocked its head to one side.
Kyrell imagined that the idea was a smile, although the expression he watched form
bore little resemblance to any human expression of humour.
“Where did you think you were?”
“My hands remain tied,” said Kyrell. “I did not think they would remain so if I were
dead.”
“You are in Hell, Magus. I did not say you were dead. Will you come with me?”
“I would prefer to do so without these cuffs,” replied Kyrell, doing his utmost not to
let his sincere elation at the demon’s statement show on his face.
“I’m sure you would, Magus. Perhaps we shall remove them shortly.”
Again the demon grimaced its hideous mockery of a smile. “Magus, the container is
for your protection.”
Kyrell turned to face the box. He could certainly feel the advantage of not having the
bloated, crimson sun bake down on his back. With infinite dignity, Kyrell straightened
his back as best he could against his cuffed hands and thirsty weakness and walked
between the assembled demonic menagerie towards the box. He walked as slowly as his
burning feet would allow, which became a slightly less than dignified trot by the time he
was halfway across the sand.
As he stepped inside the door he felt the blessed cool of the interior. He also saw
what he could not see from further away; that the box more closely resembled a small
stage-coach on the inside. A bench lay against one wall of the box and Kyrell seated
himself on it. The door closed without any apparent assistance from the creatures
without and Kyrell felt a slight jerk as the box began to move.
Despite the incredibly bizarre nature of his position, despite his captivity and
unknown destination, Kyrell succumbed to his exhaustion and a coma-like sleep swept
over him in seconds.
2.2.2
Kyrell arrives at the court of Satan
He had no idea how long the journey had taken. He awoke with a start as the door
swung open and the red glare invaded the cool comfort of the box. Kyrell, hunched
forward and leaning awkwardly against the side wall, turned his head slowly to face the
horrid brilliance. He closed his eyes again and allowed his head to fall forward as he
summoned the energy to stand and leave the dubious safety of his soothing cell.
“Lord Abbadon,” Kyrell began swiftly as the demon again turned to leave the
basement. Kyrell sighed and looked away before returning his stare to the demon. “I
have been outside a few times since my arrival. I’m afraid my – ah –human form does
not take too kindly to your extremes of weather. Right now it is far too hot – I will burn
and dehydrate in a matter of minutes. My naked feet cannot walk on the ground.”
Bending to leave the box and remaining upright with his hands clasped behind his
back was difficult and he nearly stumbled as he stepped into the scarlet blaze. He
looked down to watch his footing. Once both feet were placed firmly on the burning
sand he looked upwards. Despite the smouldering pain on the soles of his feet, Kyrell
stared in wonder at the sight before him.
“We know this,” replied Abbadon, allowing a slight hint of impatience to enter his
cavernous voice. “Please follow me.”
A vast outer stairway, thirty feet across and fifty (intimidatingly large) steps high,
rose away from him, the steps slightly curved to form a vast semi-circle at whose apex
he stood. The stairs were dusty red, and appeared to be carved straight out of the rock.
They were old, ancient, chipped and strewn with small stones and dust. On either side
of the stairway rose vast towers, each at least a hundred feet across at the base. The
outer walls of the towers were ornately decorated with the sharp features of howling
gargoyles, screaming fiends and tormented captives. Neither tower appeared to have a
window and the apex of each shimmered in the heat many stories above Kyrell’s head.
The towers, like the rest of the structure, seemed impossibly old, the grotesque
carvings eroded, their sharp corners rounded by aeons of slow corruption.
The demon turned and ascended the stairs, ducking its head as it did so. The Fiends
flanked Kyrell as he walked towards the entrance.
Climbing the stairs, Kyrell could feel the heat from outside and his throat screamed
its dehydrated agony. He turned on the landing and headed for the surface, squinting
his eyes against the red glare which tore at his retinas after the dim gloom of the cave.
He came out of the shadow and ascended the last of the stairs, feeling the terrible heat
bake down on his back. His narrowed eyes, barely open, surveyed the sterile desert
around him. What he saw furrowed his eyebrows in bewilderment.
A few yards from the entrance to the basement about twenty creatures exactly
resembling the Fiends which flanked him stood at ragged attention. In their midst,
floating unaided a few inches off the ground, hung a large box with an open door. The
box, an almost fathomless and uniform black, had small windows near the top of the
outer walls as its only features. A small door stood open on the side facing Kyrell.
At a command from Abbadon, the Fiends parted, forming a corridor leading to the
box.
Kyrell turned angrily on the demon lord. “Am I your prisoner, then?”
The rising stairway obscured whatever lay immediately beyond, but there was
clearly some open area before the main citadel, and this dwarfed the mighty towers
which flanked the stairway. Carved directly into red-brown cliffs that reached almost as
high as Kyrell could see was a Demonic cathedral of truly stupendous dimension. Above
where the entranceway must be, obscured from Kyrell’s view by the stairway, rose an
ornately embellished archway at least three stories in height. On either side, ranked in
stone legions, stood statues of hideous and grotesque demonic figures, exactly as the
disciples and kings would be displayed outside and above the entrance of an earthly
cathedral. Each statue stood in its own recess, glaring balefully at the desert.
The entire frontal façade of the cathedral shared the decay of terrible ages with the
stairway and the towers. Diabolical statues were missing horns and claws, pieces of the
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archway had fallen. Above the archway and the statues, raised high on either side of
the archway’s apex, vast and exceptionally ornate paneless windows looked out over
the desert world. About these hung statues of gargoyles, twisted imagery and sharp,
grotesque patterns.
In the centre, exactly above the entranceway arch, at least two hundred feet across
and entirely dominating the front of the structure was carved the Sigil of Baphomet, the
monstrous inverted, five-sided, circle-enclosed star. Within the star, again exquisitely
carved into the cliff face with incredible skill countless aeons ago was the skull of the
goat – his horns filling the upper two points, his ears the lower two and his chin the
downward-facing point. The eyes were carved with such craft that, even after such a
clearly appalling period of time, they still seemed to stare with malevolent life across
the haunted world.
Shimmering in the heat, mountainous heights above the carved symbol, the
windows and the surrounding gargoyles, two further towers climbed into the dusty red
sky. Continuing the blasphemous mimicry of a cathedral, these two square towers were
ornately encrusted with images of twisted, demonic imaginings, spires stabbing
crookedly into the horrid skies.
About the towers swirled dark clouds, spinning and tumbling in orbit about each
battlement. It was as if each tower had a dozen black comets that circled it, trailing
black smoke.
The entire structure, stairway, outer towers and cathedral façade, had been carved
into a cliff face, such that the rock itself formed a natural defence on three sides of the
cathedral. The two outer towers blended seamlessly into the cliffs and whatever outer
courtyard lay at the top of the stairway was overshadowed by miles and tons of hanging
rock. It was as if the vast edifice, towering hundreds of feet above the desert, dwarfing
all but the mightiest of human skyscrapers, had been created within its own cowl,
withdrawn into obscure half-darkness to hide its true intent.
And all was so unutterably ancient. Although the statues remained, and gargoyles
still glowered and the mighty pentagram still held its awful, mathematical precision,
surrounded by its perfect circle and inscribing the living skull within, there was
something about this dread palace that spoke of ages that spanned all the civilisations
of man. The Pyramids had sprung from the Egyptian desert floor only yesterday
compared to the appalling age of this place.
Ahead and slightly to Kyrell’s right, Abbadon stood waiting. The demon was allowing
the full weight of the sight of this place to bare down on his captive. Kyrell saw the
demon waiting and made every effort to remove the awe from his face. This was the
awful and wonderful seat of the high throne of evil – within its cavernous precincts the
Lord of Darkness himself held his court. More than almost any other human born, Kyrell
had faithfully served his master within this ancient and blasphemous cathedral. He
would not fear any minion of his Lord, no matter how powerful, and he would not show
any weakness, irrespective of his bound hands. Kyrell forced his back straighter, forced
himself to ignore his almost overwhelming thirst, blistering feet and physical weakness,
and, without a second glance at Abbadon, began to ascend the stairway.
As he rose higher, the outer courtyard came into view. More statues stood,
independent of the main building, depicting more twisted and diabolic figures. Kyrell
could see, as he came closer, that no two figures were alike, whether these individual
statues or those carved into the side of the cathedral. He also noticed that some
seemed to be relatively new (although still quite ancient), while others were cowed and
diminished by age. At the base of each statue, runes were inscribed, although Kyrell
could not see, at this distance, whether they were in any language he would recognise.
The effort of climbing the stairway was exhausting, but Kyrell fought to retain his
dignity. As he approached the top, he could see across the courtyard – perhaps a
hundred yards wide – the vast, metal door which guarded the entrance. It, too, seemed
ancient, corroded to a dirty black-green colour against the sandy red of the stonework.
The floor of the courtyard was paved with ancient stones, and as he reached the top
of the stairway, Kyrell saw that each was inscribed with its own rune or group of runes.
Some were indistinct and faded, others relatively clear. Some he recognised as symbols
of power. Most were beyond his ken.
The courtyard was also not empty. Other hulking demons were present, all similar in
appearance to Abbadon, and had turned to watch the approaching human with interest.
Abbadon climbed the stairway slightly behind Kyrell, and thus came into sight slightly
afterwards. On seeing him, the demons turned and bowed their heads in brief
acknowledgement, before continuing their appraisal of the diminutive man.
Behind Abbadon, Fiends marched in ordered disarray up the stairway. They reached
the top and made room for their companions behind them before forming up into
stationary ranks. Abbadon turned and growled a command to the nearest. It
acknowledged the command with a screech and loped off towards the side of the
cathedral. It disappeared into shadow then returned bearing an urn about the size of a
large vase.
“Magus,” called Abbadon, and Kyrell, who had walked a little way into the courtyard
to enter the shade of the cliffs, turned to face the demon lord. “Drink.” The demon
indicated the approaching Fiend. The creature slowed as it approached Kyrell then
placed the urn at his feet.
Kyrell had an opportunity to view the creature closely and he supposed it to be an
imp, a demonic worker-bee. Its dry skin was pulled tightly onto its face, giving the head
a skull-like appearance. Small scales, resembling those of a fish, began at the throat
and the top of the head and covered most of the body, reaching down the forearms and
thighs. The fore-paws had two sets of two opposing claws while the feet, of course,
were hoofed. A broad, scaled tail hung from its buttocks. Over the scaled flesh, the
Fiend wore rough armour of dirty metal, beneath which appeared to be some sort of
chain mail. Forearms and lower legs were bound by greaves. To the left, from a belt,
hung a scabbard containing a sword. To the right, also hanging from the belt, an axe,
somewhere in size between a tomahawk and a battleaxe.
The Fiend drew the sword and scuttled around Kyrell. Kyrell turned to follow it and it
looked up at him balefully, continuing to try and get behind him. Kyrell continued to
turn until human and demon had come full circle.
Abbadon emitted a grinding, roaring sound which must have been a distant cousin
to human laughter. “How can you drink with your hands tied, Magus? He’s trying to
remove your bonds.”
This time, when the Fiend moved, Kyrell remained still. He felt the hot metal of the
blade against his skin and then a searing pain as the Fiend pushed down against his
swollen wrists, but then the pressure gave and Kyrell heard the cuffs clatter to the floor
behind him. The Fiend gave a short, quiet grunt of satisfaction, picked up the cuffs and
scampered back to its position in rank. It fussed over sheathing its sword and then
assumed the rock-like stillness of its companions.
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Kyrell brought his hands around and examined the welts on his wrists. Each wrist
was severely swollen and the skin broken, bleeding and scabbed in many places. Still it
felt positively joyous to have his hands back, and he knelt to pick up the urn in front of
him.
The liquid was surprisingly sweet, even when it was taken into account that piss
would have tasted like nectar with the thirst Kyrell was experiencing. There was a
pleasant tang, almost like a cordial of indeterminate flavour. After the first few gulps
Kyrell coughed and choked and nearly dropped the urn. He laid it down as he coughed
painfully against the unaccustomed wetness inside his throat. He allowed the fit to
subside then drank more slowly. He paid neither demon nor diabolic cathedral any heed
whatsoever until he finished the entire urn.
“There is more, Magus,” said Abbadon.
“I am alright for now,” replied Kyrell, wiping his smile with his forearm. “Thank you.”
“Then we will go inside and speak with the Lord.” The demon lord raised his gravel
voice. “My Lords, please make your way to the outer chamber. You,” his eyes fell to a
nearby demon, “please inform the Lord that the Magus is present and we can begin.”
The demons all turned to head towards the large iron door. Fiends on either side of
the door heaved it open, inwards, and darkness yawned within. Kyrell left the urn on
the floor and turned to walk towards the entrance, Abbadon behind him.
Beyond the door, the cavernous interior was cool and dry. The huge area was dimly
lit, although the source of the light was not immediately apparent. The ceiling, wherever
it was, was lost in the gloom. The walls were as ornately carved as those on the
exterior, and they seemed to be in considerably better condition, protected from the
elements, images painted over to form three-dimensional paintings. The carved images
were more subtle than those on the outer walls, designed to be viewed from close
quarters rather than from a distance. Their content remained grotesque but contained
far more detail; as he entered, Kyrell admired a carving of what appeared to be demons
of a different race to the Fiends or the demonic lords who now accompanied him, each
impaled on large stakes, some decapitated, most mutilated, limbs missing,
disembowelled. The rendering of their hideous wounds and the facial detail of their
agony were quite disturbingly realistic.
Here everybody stopped and waited in silence, giving Kyrell further opportunity to
examine the walls. Alongside the fresco of impaled demons was another, this time
depicting some sort of battle. Creatures, of another race again from either those alive
with Kyrell or shown in the previous frieze, were arrayed for battle. The colours painted
over the carvings remained largely intact, and the detail of each creature was exquisite.
Smaller, crouching creatures, more insect than the reptile races Kyrell had thus far
seen, naked and unarmed except for mighty pincers, were gathered in vast numbers.
Alongside these were more insect-like creatures, these almost exactly resembling
praying mantises. Battle was ready to be joined, and across from the horde were
assembled the first human-looking carvings Kyrell had seen. The paintwork indicated
that these beings were bright white. Each carried a large broadsword, some held
shields, others were helmeted. No armour was in sight, although it may have been
beneath the flowing robes.
Kyrell frowned as he looked more closely at the carving. It seemed pretty obvious
that he was seeing some kind of battle between demons and angels. He looked
alongside this carving to see if the wall depicted an outcome to the battle, like some
mason’s cartoon strip, but instead it showed another race of demon – what seemed to
be a portrait of a bird-like creature with twisted features, three red eyes and heavy,
almost scaled feathers. Its beak was lined with chipped and jagged teeth.
Kyrell continued to look around the walls. He found one other carving depicting a
pitched battle against human-looking creatures, but these looked different. They were
not dressed in white, but seemed to be some ancient, genuinely human army – chariots
and swords and even siege weaponry – catapults, siege towers and battering rams.
Strangely for the immaculate detail of all the work, and different from the angel beings
of the other fresco, the human figures were represented rather vaguely. While each
demonic creature had its own personality, unique armour, aspect, weaponry and
expression, the humans were all identical. They were also not well drawn. It seemed as
if the artist, intimately familiar with the race of demons he illustrated (again a race
Kyrell had seen nowhere on the walls or represented in the room – these beings having
the heads of various wild animals and as many as eight pairs of arms each), was not at
all familiar with humans and was drawing them from second-hand descriptions. They
were flat and featureless. They also appeared to be winning the battle.
This fresco was large, at least three yards high by eight or ten across. From the left
came the badly-drawn humans with their badly drawn weapons. Many sat astride what
must have been horses – or possibly camels. They were four-legged, at any rate, with
reasonably long necks, but it was hard to tell. It was strange to look at, because the
artist’s skill was clearly still present – he or she (or it) was doing their very best to
represent what they appeared never to have seen properly.
The humans were arrayed in regiments. The siege weaponry was held at the rear,
while archers and cavalry – whatever it was they were riding – were up front. They
were engaging the well-drawn and hauntingly clear images of the animal-headed, multiarmed demons. The demons appeared to carry swords, some axes, a spike or two.
While the human columns seemed to be attacking with discipline in ordered, regimental
assault, the demonic attack (defence?) was chaotic – a huge crowd hacking and
slashing; as much at each other as at the enemy. Kyrell saw clearly a demon with six
arms and the head of some sort of big cat – tiger, perhaps, or leopard – impaling the
demon in front of him, also a feline-headed creature, but with slightly different colouring
and longer ears. Their expressions could easily be interpreted as over-excitement, their
eagerness or desperation for battle overflowing with fatal consequence.
As he approached the centre of the battlefield, Kyrell was awe-struck by the
terrifying detail of the painted carvings. The artist who had created the masterpiece
may not have been familiar with the race of humans, but he was horribly intimate with
the violence of battle. The carnage was grotesquely detailed, although, again, the
humans were not as well-conceived. Red blotches seemed to indicate spilled innards
while a disembowelled demon howled the loss of its bodily contents, frightening in their
anatomic accuracy. Well, it seemed accurate – Kyrell could hardly be called an authority
on demonic anatomy.
Above the battlefield flew easily-recognised creatures. Dragons soared over the
human ranks, breathing fire behind the enemy lines. Even if they had not been
breathing fire, they could have been mistaken for no other race, and these were the
first creatures Kyrell recognised. It seemed strange that he should recognise them from
his own, human mythology. He could not recall having seen any dragons during his
short time outside his basement, the box or this cathedral. The human archers, it
seemed, were making short work of the dragons, arrows tearing into wings. A number
were depicted falling from the sky training flame and smoke, not at all dissimilar from
some World War Two Spitfire, spinning helplessly into the channel after being shot down
by a Messerschmitt.
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From the other side of the room came a loud, metallic rattle, then the creaking
sound of great doors opening. The room hushed at the sound, and into the silence came
the violent crash as the doors beat the heavy beams and metal fittings against
stonework walls. The huge sound echoed around a chamber beyond. The assembled
company stood motionless for a few more seconds, then began to file between the
mighty doors.
Kyrell was among the last leave the chamber of carvings. Just next to the left door,
he caught a glimpse of an insect-like creature – vast pincers, fly-eyes and distended
abdomen – raised up in challenge whoever was passing this entranceway.
The hall beyond dwarfed any Kyrell could ever recall seeing. Although the source of
the light was no clearer than in the previous chamber, it was brighter and lit the interior
of the cavern enough to give an overwhelming sense of the its scale. It continued the
vaguely cathedral theme. Two rows of mighty columns, reaching fifty yards or more
from floor to ceiling, ran from the doors to the opposite end of the chamber. From side
to side, the walls must have been as far apart as the columns were high, ornately
decorated although Kyrell was too far from them to see any detail.
Each column’s base was as wide as two men lying head-to-foot. Carved straight
from the rocks of the mountain that surrounded them, the huge columns were arrayed
with sculptures of gargoyles and demons, violent tableaux of scraping, clawing, biting
creatures, fighting for purchase on the stonework. No column was completely straight –
each was deliberately crooked, out of line, twisted, yet the overall impression of the two
lines of columns leading away to the opposite end of the chamber retained a form of
symmetry.
At the opposite end of the great hall, Kyrell could make out the form of a demon not
at all dissimilar to Abbadon. At this distance it could have been the Destroyer. The
hulked form sat on a huge, stone throne at the top of a rock-carved dais. Steps identical
to those at the front of the cathedral ran up to this elevated platform.
Hundreds of demons, all of the race of Abbadon, lined the hall. They stood as
spectators, not entering the central pathway created by the two rows of columns. They
stood alongside the columns or behind them, and Kyrell saw those demons which had
accompanied him into the hallway peal off the one side or another. Kyrell looked left
and right to see which way he should go, but the bulk of Abbadon appeared beside him
and laid a clawed hand on his shoulder, indicating with firm respect that Kyrell should
remain exactly where he was.
Thus far, Kyrell had had little opportunity to question his surroundings. The trip
inside the box had passed in a sleeping, thirst-haunted semi-coma, and he realised that
the drink he had had in the outer courtyard had refreshed him to a much greater extent
than he would have expected. He had a perfectly clear head, was completely aware of
his surroundings, felt neither hungry nor thirsty. Indeed, he felt entirely himself. It
occurred to him that he should, perhaps, be afraid of his surroundings. It certainly
appeared that he had just entered the court of Satan himself. Yet Kyrell had little fear –
indeed he found himself idly wondering which of the assembled dignitaries he had
summoned, in one form or another, over his years as a practising warlock. The only
reason he had not summoned the being he now assumed to occupy the throne at the
other end of the cavernous hall was that, by the time he knew himself able, he had
found different fish to fry. Kutulu had been a far greater challenge than Satan.
The demon at the far end of the hall stood from his throne, and the low murmurings
and shufflings ceased. The silence seemed to echo with the sound that had preceded it,
and therefore came slowly rather than instantly. The figure at the far end of the corridor
of demons and crooked, twisted columns waited for complete silence to fall – or waited
for theatrical effect. Kyrell watched.
The voice, when it came, was clear and almost human. It lacked the heavy gravel of
Abbadon; instead it carried a deep resonance, an accustomed authority, with absolute
clarity. If Kyrell had closed his eyes, he would have believed its source human.
“Destroyer, you have found the Magus.”
“I have my Lord,” for all its earthen depth and rasping, gravel roar, Abbadon’s voice
seemed somehow to carry less authority than that from the other end of the corridor.
Kyrell also noticed that the demon beside him bowed his head as he made his response.
“Well, let us see what he looks like.”
Abbadon’s claw, still on Kyrell’s shoulder, pushed forward and Kyrell started to walk
up the centre of the column, the Destroyer a pace or two behind.
Kyrell looked from left to right as he walked up the great hall. As he had thought, all
present represented the same race – the archetypal human concept of a demon. Each
stood between seven and ten feet tall on cloven hind legs. Pointed tails hung limp
behind massively muscular calves and thighs. Each was dressed differently, some in
warlike armour, others draped in tunics of varying colours. Bulky and muscular arms
ended in claws quite similar to human hands except that each digit was sharpened to a
bony point.
Their heads seemed to come from necks which were slightly to the front of the
torso, such that the head was held forward of the body rather than above it. This gave
the creatures a hunched appearance. Intelligent, cat-like eyes watched Kyrell from
beneath scaled brows and huge horns, as thick as Kyrell’s arm, twisted like those of a
goat, only dramatically larger relative to their head size. These alone seemed ample
weapons, and Kyrell saw that not a few were chipped or broken.
Kyrell had summoned few demons who had this appearance exactly. He knew that
shape-shifting was among the least of demonic abilities in the human realm and that
their appearance here should bare little relation to that he had seen before. He also
remembered Kutulu, how he had appeared human to Kyrell, yet his body had been
dramatically different when it had faded into the basement.
Kyrell blinked suddenly at the memory. Kutulu’s body had looked similar to those
before him now, but nowhere near similar enough. The void-black eyes were the most
obvious difference, but the horns had been straight not twisted, the tail absent, the
head far more reptilian. The ears had been almost human, rounded on the side of the
head, while these creatures had small, cat-like ears hidden behind their horns. Kyrell
was sure Kutulu’s clawed hands had had more than five digits.
Wondering what this meant, Kyrell turned to face the approaching throne. The being
that stood in front of it was obviously larger than his fellows, although not grotesquely
so – as one would expect a medieval warrior king to stand a head taller than his
subjects. It watched with no expression Kyrell could interpret as he and Abbadon
reached the foot of the steps that led up to the dais and throne and stopped.
“Magus, welcome,” said the demon. “As you may have suspected, I am Lucifer.”
The Lord of Darkness surveyed his guest for a brief moment, then he bowed his
head and dropped to one knee.
And all Hell bowed with him.
Page 69 of 137
2.2.3
Kyrell in the court of Satan
Kyrell watched amazed as every demon present dropped to its knee as the Lord of
Darkness had done. The rustle of clothing, the metallic scraping of weapons and armour
stopped briefly and silence returned to the vast hall. Then the Lord of Darkness stood
and the sound returned as everyone else stood also.
He had no idea how to react. He realised he must possess some advantage – and
that was a comforting thought, standing naked in front of Hell’s aristocracy. But this
was Satan! Lord of Darkness, King of Hell, contender for the throne of God! Kyrell was
thunderstruck.
“Magus, welcome to my court,” Satan said again, his arm sweeping to include the
entire room. “We are honoured by your presence.”
“My Lord,” Kyrell bowed his head then looked back up. “It is I who am honoured. I
did not expect this when I, ah, arrived.”
“Indeed. We are puzzled by the method of your arrival. No human has set foot on
our planet since the Beginning.”
“The ‘Beginning’?” asked Kyrell. A second later the word “planet” registered, but he
held his tongue.
“Yes,” said Satan, without explanation. “Of course we see your world through your
eyes whenever we can, we try and be present as much as possible, but it is difficult to
remain in your realm unless one of you acts as a focus. We did not see your coming into
this realm until you arrived, closely followed by the body of Kutulu.”
Kyrell remained silent.
“Just who is Kutulu?”
This was incredible! Suddenly Kyrell found himself doubting his surroundings. Satan
was unfamiliar with what occult lore insisted was one of the most powerful demons ever
to exist!
“My Lord, surely you know?”
“I know the stories,” replied Satan. “ ‘Dead but dreaming’, the fifty names of
Marduk, lord of the waters. This does not tell us much except what your mythology has
created. I need to know who he is.”
“He is a demon, my Lord. He has been held captive for… well, millennia. I freed him
by first summoning his captor, Leviathan. I destroyed Leviathan by releasing Kutulu.
Was Leviathan not one of your demons?”
“No,” replied the Lord of Darkness. “I have heard the name often enough, of course.
Some of your mythologies use the term to refer to me or other demonic deities, but
there is no demon by that name. You say he was guarding this Kutulu?”
“Surely Kutulu is one of your generals?” asked Kyrell, his bewildered curiosity finally
getting the better of him. “Have you not been missing him in your fight against the
angels?”
Satan laughed deep in the back of his throat. “We could use any help we can get in
that struggle, Magus. But, no, this Kutulu is not known to me. I have read your
Necronomicon and have some interesting theories regarding this creature, but he is
certainly not one of us. His body has returned empty. Did you destroy him?”
Kyrell considered lying for an instant, then remembered the handcuffs. “No. He said
he was fading, that faith sustained him in the human realm, and that, without faith, the
best he could do was some sort of sacrifice. I was that sacrifice. Sent here to bolster his
strength in our world. It seemed not to work for too long.”
Pacing up and
We’d need faith to
simply have killed
This is new to us.”
down the dais, Lucifer paused and considered. “That makes sense.
sustain our real bodies in your world. A sacrifice would help, but we’d
you. This Kutulu has transmitted you, body and soul, to our planet.
Again that word “planet”.
“It won’t last long, though,” Satan continued. “For either of you, actually. You don’t
belong here any more than he belongs there. I’d imagine you will fade from here as we
fade from your realm. Why would he have sent you here?”
The question seemed rhetorical, and Kyrell made no attempt to answer it. He was
struggling more and more to come to terms with what he was part of. Frankly, the
whole thing was completely absurd!
It suddenly dawned on Kyrell that, if he had been transferred bodily from one realm
to another, he should still retain his neural implants. On the back of this thought came a
further concept, this one frightening in its consequence: Was he actually here at all, or
was this audience with the Lord of Darkness entirely the product of virtual reality
software, his neural implants deceiving his five senses into believing he was somewhere
he wasn’t? As his mind began to race faster and faster, he realised he had had these
implants installed only a matter of weeks ago, and while they had been pilfered from
the very highest echelons of British Xenix, the manufacturer themselves insisted they
were still in development and that their full capabilities and impact on the human brain
had yet to be established.
If this interview was the product of some programmers’ imagination, it would make
the absolute absurdity of it somewhat more palatable.
It then occurred to him that Kutulu had hacked into Xenix with at least partial
success on two occasions. Could the demon have accessed his neural implants directly
and be responsible for this hallucination? From there it was a short distance to
wondering whether Kutulu himself was real, since the demon had been summoned
following the neural implantation. Kyrell instantly realised that that line of thought
headed away from anything particularly helpful: he would be forced to doubt everything
that had happened to him since the implants had been inserted.
Kyrell closed his eyes and accessed his implants. There was a brief pause, then
behind his eyelids an error message was displayed: “Network not accessible. Work offline from locally stored data?” What did that prove exactly?
“Magus,” Satan was continuing as Kyrell closed his eyes to inconclusively test his
implants, “I wonder just how well you understand our position. We need help, and it is
our belief that you have been sent to assist us. It was on my instruction that you were
brought directly to this court, naked and bound, exactly as you arrived. I believe, as I
have just said, that your time here is probably limited and we need to take maximum
advantage of it before you fade back into your realm. I have summoned as many senior
members of our race as possible without jeopardising the many plans we already have
in place.
“I wonder, Magus, if you have heard of Armageddon?”
Again Kyrell assumed the question to be rhetorical. He had missed most of what the
demon had had to say, staring at the error message which appeared to be hanging in
mid-air before him as he opened his eyes. He cancelled his access to his implants.
Page 70 of 137
“Magus?”
“The final battle between good and evil,” answered Kyrell. He was becoming
increasingly assured that this entire experience was, in fact, virtual as opposed to real.
“At least according to Christian mythology. It’s named after the valley of Megiddo, a
favourite site for battles in Old Testament Palestine. Why?”
“Who wins?”
“Sorry?”
“Who wins Armageddon?”
“They do, obviously. Christians and angels beat the pagans and the devils. They
can’t lose because they have God on their side.”
“Precisely. Does that not make you a little nervous?”
“I do not believe in God. Nor do I believe the Bible. I also don’t believe in some sort
of impersonal fate, some destiny to which we’re all doomed no matter what. I believe in
free will.”
“So do Christians. But you believe in me?” said Satan. It was both a question and a
statement.
“So do Christians,” replied Kyrell.
Satan’s face formed the same grimace he’d seen Abbadon perform. So that was a
demonic smile. “Well put. And thereby, I believe the saying goes, hangs a tale.”
“I’m not with you,” said Kyrell.
Satan again stopped his pacing and now started down the stairway towards Kyrell,
taking each step singly. He spoke as he descended.
“Magus Kyrell Trepan, right now I would not be at all surprised if you are doubting
your senses. You have had sufficient experience in the arcane arts to know that demons
are real, to know that they can be summoned, that they can be asked to do your
bidding, that they are their own, sentient entities with their own agendas. But it is
stretching the bounds of credibility a tad to suddenly be transported, bodily, into Hell
and, within less that a day, to find yourself having an audience with Satan himself. It
just seems a little too incredible, doesn’t it? You can’t believe it, can you?”
The towering demon had now reached the floor where Kyrell stood. It looked down
from a height of over eight foot, continuing to grimace in the demonic equivalent of a
smile.
“That, Magus, is precisely the dilemma we face. It’s exactly why you’re here.
Because this is unbelievable. In a Universe based entirely upon faith, the unbelievable
has occurred.”
“I don’t… what did you say? Universe based on –“
“On faith, Magus. Faith. We exist only because you believe we exist.”
Kyrell instantly forgot all about his neural implants. He suddenly remembered
Kutulu’s harangue that had preceded his descent into Hell. “What?”
“We exist because of your faith, Magus. We are the products of faith.”
“You’re not real?”
“Of course we are real. You’ve seen what we can do to your world. We are
absolutely real, exactly what you believe us to be, because you believe us to be it.”
Kyrell opened his mouth to speak and found nothing to say. He shut it again.
“Now along you come, confronted by something you find difficult to believe. A
challenge to your faith, if you like. One demon summoned in an arcane ceremony is
alright, but standing as an honoured guest in the court of Satan himself? Impossible!
But we have not disappeared, have we? We remain real to you and to ourselves.”
Kyrell held up his hand against the verbal assault. “Stop!” He breathed deeply,
trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “You exist only because we believe in
you?”
“Yes,” replied Satan.
“And if we stop believing?”
“We don’t know. It hasn’t happened yet.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you have entered an unbelievable situation and we are therefore able to
tell you the truth without risking our own agendas. To come out and tell you that we
exist only because of your faith in your world would be to suggest that we don’t exist at
all. It would be the same as saying we are just the products of your imagination.”
“But that’s what you are!”
“Yes,” admitted the Dark Lord. “But it is more complex than that. We are real
because you have made us real. You have believed us to be intelligent, sentient, selfdetermining. So that’s what we are. However, because you have made us evil and
therefore the side that always loses, we’re immediately presented with a dilemma: if
you continue to believe as you do, we are doomed. We have only one option, and that is
to follow the script exactly. We need to try and destroy mankind.”
“But that will destroy you. If mankind created you by their faith and then cease to
exist, so will you. Won’t you?” For all his considerable intellect, Kyrell was barely
clinging to this conversation.
“We don’t believe so. We believe we will continue to exist. But if we can stop you,
mankind, believing that good always triumphs and that we are evil, maybe we have a
chance to win. Without human interference, we can take on the angels and win.”
“Win Armageddon?”
“Or avoid it entirely, yes.”
“That’s the master plan!” Kyrell was incredulous. “To wipe out mankind! You’re not
doing too good a job, are you?”
“No, because we remain bound by the rules of your faith that created us.”
“Bollocks!” shouted Kyrell. “My faith is entirely different to Christianity. I believe you
to be deities, god-forces with different powers and personalities. You are not subject to
some absolute rule of moral law.”
“You are in the minority.”
“So faith is a democracy, is it?” said Kyrell with heavy, angry irony.
Page 71 of 137
“In some ways, yes. Faith is a powerful, creative force. The stronger your beliefs,
the stronger faith becomes and the more it influences our Universe. The more who
believe, the stronger the force becomes. A small group deeply devoted to a certain faith
can be a great deal more powerful than a larger group who do not believe as
vehemently, but it does even itself out.”
“So where are the others, then? Where’s Kali or Vishnu? Where’s Zeus and Apollo?
Come to think of it, where are Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny? There’s plenty of
people who believe pretty strongly in them.”
“They exist also. At least we think they must do. They do not exist on this planet, or
in this system, but, other than the angels, we have no idea what lies beyond the Gate.”
“The Ga – Kutulu mentioned a gate.”
“Did he?”
“What is it?”
“When you leave this building, you may be able to see it. It is a vast tear in the
fabric of our Universe – it hangs in our sky, visible from this planet, although it is
millions of miles away from us at the outer reaches of the solar system. We believe it to
be some form of link between our world and others like it. We have never been able to
reach it.”
“And the angels come through it?”
“Yes.”
Kyrell’s mind was starting to feel muddled. It had been assaulted with far too much
information. He felt physically tired again.
“Right,” he said. “So you exist because we believe you exist, although, now that
we’ve created you, you might – might – continue to exist whether or not we stop
believing or even stop existing. This planet of yours exists in a system devoted entirely
to you lot – there are no other gods or creatures we believe in. Only you demons.”
“Well…” Satan interrupted.
“No, let me finish, please,” said Kyrell. “You believe that Armageddon will destroy
you eventually, so to avoid your destruction you have chosen to eliminate mankind,
only you can’t eliminate mankind because enough people believe in more powerful
angels and more powerful gods than you. Am I right so far?”
“Close enough,” nodded the demon lord after a pause.
“You can’t tell mankind about this because it would undermine your plans.”
“Well, again that’s not strictly true. Many have always believed that religion is simply
the product of imagination. Us telling you would be nothing new. But it hasn’t tipped the
balance.”
Kyrell considered that for a second. “Fair enough,” he said. “But now I’ve come
along and there’s something about my being here that gives you new hope that you
might just be able to succeed after all. And this hinges on the fact that I don’t believe
what’s happening right now.”
“We don’t really care what you believe about this right now, Magus. The point is, it
shouldn’t be possible.”
“People die every day. We have no more idea than you do where they go.”
Both paused for a brief moment.
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” asked Kyrell.
2.2.4
Satan tells Kyrell of multiple Armageddons
“Did you notice,” asked the Lord of Darkness, looking down at Kyrell, “in the room
before you came in, all the paintings and carvings on the walls?”
“I did.”
“Come with me,” said the demon lord and started to walk back down the colonnade
towards the entrance hall. Kyrell turned to catch up. As he walked, Satan continued the
conversation. “Strange, aren’t they, those carvings? Races we’ve never seen before.
Battles against angels and humans – battles the non-human protagonists appear to be
losing.”
“Yes?” Half an hour ago, Kyrell’s curiosity had been aroused. Now it was utterly
saturated, but the demon lord seemed determined to continue.
“Would it surprise you to learn that we didn’t make those carvings?”
Kyrell wanted to say that it wouldn’t surprise him if the Lord of Darkness dressed in
a frilly little frock and danced a polka before kissing a frog and marrying the resultant
prince, but he remained silent, walking swiftly to keep up with the demon’s steps.
“They were here when we arrived. What do you make of them?”
“They’re very detailed,” replied Kyrell. “They seem to show different races getting
beaten by human-looking people.”
“Indeed. Would it be too great a stretch of the imagination to suggest that they
depict previous Armageddons?”
“Previous Armageddons?”
“That is what they seem to suggest, Magus. It seems to us that, for some reason, at
regular intervals during your history you humans physically confront the demons of your
religions – you actually physically fight evil on a battleground. And because you have
absolute faith that you will win, you do, wiping out the demon races you have created.
Created for destruction, if you like. But you remain confronted with an evil Universe and
a need to explain the existence of this evil, so you re-invent religion, along with new
demons who are evil and will ultimately be defeated and so the cycle continues.”
While he’d been speaking, he had passed between the large doors which had been
swung open by the Fiends who were now nowhere in sight. The dimly lit room with the
carvings on the walls appeared deserted.
At a hand-signal from Satan, the lighting became substantially brighter. Kyrell now
saw the room to be round, the doors leading outside on one side, the doors leading to
the great chamber on the other. Around the circular walls were many more painted
carvings than Kyrell had seen when he entered.
Satan moved across the room to stand beside a painting Kyrell had not seen. As he
approached, Kyrell saw the large tableaux of the aftermath of a battle. Human and
demon remains were scattered everywhere. This time the human race was relatively
well represented by the artist: human corpses were painted in detail, facial expressions
“People go to Hell every day.”
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faithfully detailed the agonies of death. Severed heads and limbs were drawn with
astonishing anatomical detail.
The demonic hordes which also lay scattered were not entirely dissimilar to those
Kyrell had seen in the great hall. Small crouching creatures, not unlike the Fiends, only
hairy and carrying battle-axes strapped to their backs, lay in disarray about the
battlefield. Rhino-like animals ridden by similar creatures were also scattered in welldetailed, lifeless disorder.
In the centre of the panel, surrounded by a ring of shining, white human creatures,
stood a single human and two demons. One demon lay severed in half at the human’s
feet, the other was bound but appeared alive. The human held a sword which was
shown as white, although the other discarded weapons on the battlefield were done in
grey-blue to indicate their metallic composition.
Kyrell started at the sight of the live demon, then leant in for a closer look.
“What do you see, Magus?”
“I may have seen him before,” replied Kyrell, recovering swiftly. “Is he among those
present today.”
“How do you know he is still alive. His corpse came back with me.”
“We cannot die, Magus, since faith never dies. Not until Armageddon.”
“How poetic.”
“Quite, but no less true. If he weakened to a point where he could no longer sustain
his existence in your realm, he’d have returned to ours. So far he must have been
successful in remaining in your world.”
“By sacrificing me?”
“Yes, but that won’t be permanent as I said. Without a body his options are limited.
He has probably possessed somebody.”
Kyrell thought of this, then thought of Vivian, standing so silently with that damned
smile as Kutulu had raved about his dying people while Kyrell was tied to his pole. He
looked back at the carving, into the black eyes of the demon who remained standing,
and hoped fervently that he now possessed that bitch.
2.3
Second Kutulu Hack
“No,” replied Satan. “We think he may be your Kutulu.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Judging by this panel’s position in the room and the age of the work itself, this
would seem to be the most recently completed of the carvings. It shows a single human
survivor surrounded by angels. He has executed one demon, but another remains. The
myth states that Kutulu was imprisoned but not killed, while Tiamat was severed in two,
his legs becoming the land, his body the sky. We believe that,” Satan pointed to the
picture of the living demon, “could be Kutulu.”
“So?”
“Do you realise the meaning to us if Kutulu is alive? It would mean that a demon
survived its Armageddon. A demon that has not been known for millennia, let alone
believed in, has survived in some earthly prison – guarded, we believe, by angelic
forces – for the better part of ten thousand years.”
“How do you know it’s that long?”
“That is our age.”
Kyrell frowned. “Christianity is barely two thousand years old. How can you have
been here that long?”
“Our form changes over time, depending on human faith. We have not always
appeared as we do now. We are not simply Christian demons, Magus. We are a
conglomerate of embodied evil – the summation of the bad guys of human faith.”
“So if Kutulu survived, so can you?”
“Yes, but it’s more important than that. If he can sustain himself in your realm,
independent of human faith as it presently stands since so few believe in him, he can
bring down the human race far more effectively than we ever could.”
“And if he returns here?”
“Then we’ll discuss with him what to do from there.”
2.3.1
Rune’s team review Kutulu hack
Xenix had done its best to approximate sunshine in the various bunkers within the
Armageddon facility beneath the Simonstown mountains, but the best lighting
technology had to offer could not properly recreate the warmth, the natural brightness
– frankly, the health – of the real thing. The offices Rune and his staff occupied were,
thankfully, above ground and Rune’s office itself took in a breathtaking view of False
Bay.
Nearly two hundred years ago precious stones had been mined on the site of Xenix’s
above-ground offices. Arguably the arrival of the South African military and their
nuclear plans had greatly assisted this industry by presenting it with millions of tonnes
of gem-rich soil to sift through. A lucrative little business in the sale of the stones
(mainly in the form of sculptures of one kind or another or jewellery) had thrived for
many decades.
A favourite haunt had started as a distraction for the children of adult patrons to the
exclusive shop that had existed alongside the refinery site. The Scratch Patch was
effectively a sandpit filled with gems rejected for sale at the shop. For a small fee,
children would be given a bag (the size of which depended upon the fee) which could be
filled with these second-rate stones.
The arrival of Xenix and the reanimation of the subterranean bunkers had briefly
enlivened the dying trade of this refinery, but not for long. Within less than two years
the shop and refinery had gone out of business and Xenix had bought the land. Now,
over a decade later, a gleaming twenty-story office block grew out of the mountainside
across the Main Road from Simonstown train station. It looked thoroughly incongruous
next to what remained a small town at the end of the line, but few complained. The
Scratch Patch was about the only local business to suffer following the arrival of
hundreds of highly-paid employees of the Xenix corporation. Few complained –
primarily environmentalists who complained about just about any structure erected
anywhere on the planet, since it interfered in some way with what remained of global
ecology (or, if not, local history). It was a pity that what should have been a genuine
Page 73 of 137
issue had been sidelined because of the enthusiasm of its supporters – they were just
too vociferous and the planet soon tired of their unending tirades.
And suffered accordingly.
Between Rune’s office and Janice’s office was a shared meeting room – a standard,
boardroom-style room with a large central table surrounded by chairs. Around the table
sat Rune’s team of administrators – the senior programmers from within his team. Each
AI team leader was present: Liol, Nils, Herman and Lisa, whose AI remained in the
developmental phase. Her research team reported to Nils but didn’t share the
operational status of the other three teams. They were rarely involved in Live Fire or
other operational exercises and had not been present during the hack attempt of the
previous week.
The weekly departmental meeting had finished, and it was now up to Nils and Liol to
report on their work on the hack attempt. They looked at each other, then Nils began.
“Okay, we’ve had a lot of fun trying to piece together what happened last week.
We’ve had some review meetings in between, so, Lisa, your guys are pretty well aware
of what happened. Somebody gained access through Bart’s Primary and Secondary. We
dropped one and the hack moved to the other. We dropped both and the hack remained
alive in the intervening network connection. It appeared to have its own sentience. It
moved to find a live connection. It then disappeared without our doing anything.”
“Liol and I have been over and over the remains of Bart’s configuration at the time.
Following the hack, we followed standard procedure for a compromised server: we
installed completely new servers outside of the existing ones and then removed the
existing ones for testing. We’ve had Bart, Bart PBS and Bart SBS on the workbench for
a week.
“Neither of us have ever seen anything like the capabilities of this hack, and we
believe it represents a new type of virus. It actually represents the most successful
attempt thus far in the creation of semi-sentient programs. Perhaps even more than
semi-sentient.
“What we have is a program that supports itself. It’s a virus, inasmuch as it is code
which replicates itself, but the code itself is effectively sentient.”
The silence in the room grew suddenly deeper. The implications of a sentient
computer virus were astounding.
“Firstly, replication. Unlike a virus, which just replicates onto every new item of
media it finds, this virus retains a connection to previous iterations of itself. Effectively,
it moves and grows along the route of its movement – we imagine this is so that it
retains contact with its source. When we guillotined the two links between the three
Barts we effectively split the virus chain into three pieces. The central piece died without
power, but the outer two strands continued to function independently of one another.
They both went in search of another gateway – they tried to join up.”
Liol took over. “They look like Hansel and Gretel’s stones through the forest. The
virus leaves a trail of itself behind itself. But each piece is sentient in itself, it doesn’t
need to be connected to its source to make decisions. Normally, we’d expect the
guillotine to have closed any hacker outside the cut gateway. This would be true if it
were a hack. A virus would just replicate itself all over the show or infect given
machines. This one tried to get back together with the other parts of itself.”
“It did get together with the other part of itself,” Rune pointed out. “It succeeded.
But that proves nothing. We could program a virus to burrow into a system, collect
information and then burrow out. That does not imply AI or sentience.”
“True, but this virus didn’t do that. As soon as it was severed it went hunting for
itself. As far as we can see, it didn’t collect any information – it certainly didn’t grow in
signature size as it went. No data collection. It’s main priority was finding itself.”
“So it was programmed to re-establish connection if lost,” said Rune. “Cute, but not
intelligent. It’s a rather neat idea, using a virus to regain a lost hacker connection, but
it’s still not AI.”
“It learnt to hack the server,” replied Nils. “Without growing in size – without
seeming to take on any data – it learnt from its mistakes on Bart and hacked clean
through Daffy like a knife through butter. It learnt without growing in size.”
“It had storage space.”
Nils was becoming agitated. “It was 239 bytes big! The original piece of code which
survived inside the network was 239 bytes in size – that’s all that got through. And it
stayed that size. It hacked Bart from the inside at that size.”
Rune considered this. “It’s far too small to have sentience or AI. It’s too small to
have any functionality except replication. But it definitely hacked it’s way through Bart
SBS and met up with itself at Bart BPS. You’re sure of that size?”
“Yes. It replicated instantly in multiples of 239 bytes, the original file size. I agree,
it’s too small to do anything. But it found the shortest route to an outward-facing server
and then successfully hacked that server, demonstrating that it had learnt from the last
time it hacked one of our servers – seconds previously. Thing is, it headed straight for
Daffy, making sensible routing decisions as it went. If I wrote code to find a way out of
the network I’d just multiply in every direction at once until I found the nearest exit,
taking whatever data I had stolen with me – that makes the most sense to a nonsentient program. This thing made decisions as it went, routing itself through file
servers, switches and routers – anything with a processor to query. It’s as if it was a
single entity and could only go in one direction at a time. It wasn’t replicating so much
as reproducing.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Herman.
“Well,” replied Nils, “maybe ‘reproducing’ is the wrong word. It was leaving a trail of
itself behind itself, whereas replicating implies pushing copies of yourself ahead of
yourself. It’s like it was growing – a single cell of 239 bytes growing into an organism of
exactly the same cells.”
“Like a tapeworm?” suggested Lisa.
“Yah.”
Rune cleared his throat. “If we had copies of this code, you’d have mentioned it by
now. What happened to all these cells?”
“They followed their leader out of the network.”
“They what?”
“They left in neat single file, one behind the other. For every extra packet at one
end, one was deleted at the other. Like a little train.”
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“This hacker could have left a virus on our network to report back later and he took
all his code with him?” Rune was astounded. “That makes no sense!”
to what it must be like to be possessed by a foreign spirit. She had, after all, an almost
unique level of exposure to the concept.
“It makes sense if he wants to hide his code from us,” Liol pointed out. “Maybe this
was just a successful test of his technology.”
Since she had started working with Kyrell, and especially since their relationship had
moved on from the purely professional, Vivian had been exposed to a vast amount of
what almost the entire human race would consider the realm of children’s (and adult)
fantasy and the paranoid delusions of fundamentalist religion. Vivian had not been
unfamiliar with dark ritual – her father and, later, her guardian, had both been active
members of an occult-based organised crime syndicate. To them, however, the
Satanism had merely been a distraction, a cheerful diversion and entertainment.
Freemasonry for the hedonistically corrupt.
“He’s testing it!” exclaimed Herman. “On the most secure network on the planet?”
“Got to start somewhere,” muttered Nils.
“So there’s no code left on our systems?” asked Rune.
“None that we can find, and we’ve accounted for every byte inside the network,”
said Liol. “We’ve had worms running all week.”
“But we do have a copy of the signature?”
“Yes,” said Nils. Part of the defence programming acted in almost identical fashion to
human immune systems. The defence software recorded an image of all incoming
traffic. It was not always able to create copies – well-written code remained mobile and
mutated, finding and erasing copies of itself as it went – but the file had a signature
which could be recognised, in the same way that the body’s defence created an inverse
image of invading bacteria or viruses. This allowed the software to recognise new
attacks from a similar source (by matching similar signatures) and build up data on it
from the multiple attacks.
“Unique?”
“Uh-huh,” Liol nodded.
“We’ll recognise it when we next see it?”
“We’ll know who it is that’s pillaging all our data, yes. We need to work on some way
of stopping it. All that seems to work is physically severing the connection while it’s still
outside. We’re talking milliseconds between recognition and guillotine. That puts
guillotining into the domain of the AI. We’ve always kept that as a human decision
because it’s so drastic – it puts us out of communication completely through the given
gateway. If all three make the same decision if hacked together, we lose contact with
Armageddon. We lose the satellites.”
All eyes turned to Rune.
“I’m loathe to do that, Nils, for exactly those reasons. We’re maintaining the outer
ring that encircles Armageddon. Without our security wall they’re blind – nobody can
see in, but they also can’t see out. Can’t see their control dishes, their RF antennae,
nothing. There’s a point at which the need for minimum functionality overrides the loss
of secure data. I’ll speak to Janice about it, but I need you to work on stopping this…
tapeworm from a software perspective. Circulate the signature to everybody, get them
all working. And Nils?”
“Rune?”
“Back-hack this bastard. I want to know who he is.”
2.3.2
Vivian trapped within her body
Given the life that she had lived, and some of the arcane rituals (and their bizarre
results) in which she had participated – and given that she was not at all without
intellect and imagination – Vivian had, as expected, given no small amount of thought
As a child, Vivian had participated in some aspects of the crime side of her father’s
activities – as a pretty little girl she was useful as a thoroughly unlikely means of
delivering various clandestine goods – but she had not been exposed to the religious
aspect of her father’s life. From an early age Vivian had understood that what she was
involved in was illegal, and she had swiftly come to the realisation that the planet was
made up of a majority of followers, happy to obey the rules in the vain hope that
everybody else was doing it or being justly punished for their disobedience, and those
who had the will, intellect and vision to break them. Vivian despised the vast majority of
her race, whom she saw as sheep. They followed the rules, expected others to do
likewise, they did as they were told, worked out their boring little lives with their boring
spouses and their boring jobs and raised boring children to lead the same boring lives
and take over the mantle of boredom once they had gone to their petty little heaven of
clouds and harps and halos. It was far too high a compliment to say they lacked vision –
it would assume they had the vaguest idea what vision was.
She was part of the select few able to think for themselves. This was a world of
excitement and no small amount of danger. These people interpreted the rules as they
best suited their needs and, where the rules did not suit their needs, they simply got rewritten or broken. Vivian soon understood that the difference between breaking and rewriting rules was based entirely upon the extent to which you got away with it.
From delivery girl, Vivian’s role grew with her abilities. Her father had ever
emphasised the need for sharp intellect, swift wit and physical fitness. For a growing,
teenage girl in her environment, the latter became ever more advantageous. Vivian had
inherited her father’s lean height, but had nonetheless worked hard to ensure her body
was capable of all she needed it to do. This was, of course, divided into two, not
necessarily mutually exclusive categories: sex and strength. Her attractive sexuality,
which she actively cultivated, assisted greatly when it came to negotiation, whether
used in the form of flirtation or downright overpowering dominance, her preferred
approach. She knew what her gender had known since the dawn of time, and used it to
devastating affect: in most areas except brute strength, true power rested with strong
women.
Neither did she neglect the other aspect of her physical fitness, and following the
death of her father Vivian found herself increasingly involved in the physical work of
crime. Vivian had taken her combat training seriously and had become an extremely
useful part of her guardian’s security staff / private army. Theodore “Teddy” Lovebury,
had, unlike her father, also involved her in the ritual side of the life of the organisation,
although this remained as relatively tame as it had under her father. Girls were raped
and people got hurt – sometimes killed – but this was merely an extension of gang life
and discipline. A means of enhancing fear and the hierarchy.
Kyrell’s uncle had been responsible for the violent takeover of the organisation which
had been run first by Vivian’s father and later by Teddy Lovebury. A swift and timely
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betrayal of her colleagues – and a cunning insight which informed her (correctly) that
true power lay with Kyrell and not the figurehead of his uncle – ensured that Vivian saw
from a survivor’s perspective the new and awesomely powerful rituals performed by this
new organisation. This was not simply Sunday Satanism – this was not petty evil for the
sake of enforcing discipline or sating dark lusts. This stuff worked!
From Kyrell’s side she had seen her erstwhile colleagues possessed and then
mentally torn asunder by the ensuing insanity. She had watched as they had beaten
themselves senseless against walls and floor, impaled themselves, stabbed themselves.
She had made a deep understanding of Kyrell her absolute priority and her initial
revulsion swiftly turned to admiration of what it was that Kyrell was up to. Yes, he was
destroying his enemies – all very necessary and admirable – and yes, he was doing it in
a somewhat bizarre and grotesque manner – perhaps slightly less necessary and
admirable. But how he was doing it had a great deal more to do with his own research
and developing power than it had to do with the demise of his puny opposition.
Vivian’s understanding of Kyrell – a necessity for survival – had two consequences.
She had swiftly come to admire and then understand at least part of the arcane art
Kyrell practised. And, despite her best efforts, she had fallen in love with him.
Such affections aside – as they usually were – from those first rituals onwards,
Vivian had been exposed to the absolute reality of evil spirits and their ability to possess
the living. For nearly five years she had seen their consequence as, for one reason or
another, Kyrell summoned beings to take control of his less co-operative colleagues.
Only on rare occasions did Kyrell summon demons in their own form as he had done
with Kutulu. It was far more usual to see a victim tortured into mental submission and
then overrun by the force or deity or entity (Vivian had no absolute mental image of the
beings which did the possessing) of Kyrell’s choosing. She had given the phenomenon a
great deal of thought and had not lacked the imagination or courage to realise that it
could, conceivably, be her in that position at some point in time.
She was therefore surprised to find herself completely unprepared for the reality of
that of the demon lord – when suddenly every ability to fight had been taken from her.
She had at first assumed that Kutulu had simply overridden her ability to fight, but then
the black eyes had rolled in their sockets and the body had slumped away from her and
she had fallen ungracefully to the floor, no longer supported by whatever power Kutulu
had been using. She had lain there for the briefest second, thinking herself to be
catching her breath, when suddenly she had been forced upright by her own limbs and
was walking purposefully out of the ritual chamber.
In that instant all her energy had been focussed on regaining her body, or stopping
the action of walking, of just raising a hand or performing any physical action. She was
completely powerless over her own body.
Now she had been walked out of the basement, up the rear staircase, along the
passage that led down the side of the building, past the white door which led to the
holding cell, and on to her own room near the staircase that led down to the marbled
entrance to Helmsford manor. She had opened the door and now stood before her own
cupboard, the doors open, looking at the clothing neatly piled and hung.
She stood staring at the inside of her cupboard for more time that she would have
expected for such a mundane sight. In the interim it occurred to her that she may yet
have control over her neural implants. A few attempts to access the Net revealed this to
be a vain hope.
Suddenly a voice detonated within her head. It was the cranial equivalent of a .45
going off in her ear. Mentally she reeled from the impact, although physically she
remained exactly where she stood, no thanks to her own volition.
“We are cold. What is best to wear?”
Jesus Christ! The sound slammed into her consciousness and reverberated about her
brain. She desperately wanted to shut her eyes against the pain and hold her hands
over her ears.
it.
“Think the words and I will hear you. What is best to –“
She had imagined she would be stuck in some dark corner of her consciousness,
expelled from her own mind. She had doubted whether she would have any conscious
awareness of her existence at all. She had expected a kind of limbo, neither dead nor
alive, since she expected to be robbed of her senses and therefore, unable to interact
with her Universe, effectively dead. Either that or she would be aware of the possessor
– have senses, but only within her own head – largely unaware of her surroundings.
She expected to be captive within her own mind, caged in some mental dungeon.
Quieter! Quieter! You’re tearing my head open!
In reality, she retained all five of her senses perfectly. She could see exactly as
before, hear, touch, smell, taste. The world looked the same as it had ever done. There
was no mental jail holding her. She had simply, and quite completely, lost all
autonomous control of her body.
She felt herself walking, watched as she stepped over the dissolving corpse of the
entity which now controlled her movements. She walked to the basement exit, swung
the door open and ascended the staircase. This was similar to some of the interactive
training simulations she had used, similar to full-emersion games which used extended
PHUDs to cover the entire head and gloves and boots to record motion. She was
watching what she was doing while having absolutely no say in whether or not she did
it.
Initially she had had little will to challenge her newly ungovernable body. Kutulu had
been raping her and she had been fighting with all her strength – puny in comparison to
“Then tell me what to wear.”
Despite the deafening mental voice that smashed through her thoughts like a
landing asteroid, a tiny part of Vivian could also see the funnier side to this. The most
powerful demon lord she had ever encountered – and how many people had
encountered demons at all, let alone be able to count demon lords? – consulting its
captive on fashion tips.
Altogether, however, the mental effect was one of reeling disorientation, made
worse by the presence of an ordered, static Universe which did not reel with her.
Ordinarily, she would bow her head, close her eyes, sit down, do something to relieve
the mental invasion. Assuming the term “ordinarily” could be applied in this case. Now
she could do nothing, trapped as a spectator behind her five senses.
What to wear?
“We are cold,” Kutulu’s thunderous voice exploded in her consciousness.
Wild and nonsensical thoughts flittered at the edges of her mind, like echoes after
the explosion or ripples on a beach caused by a huge bolder thrown into the lake.
Kutulu could make her walk, climb stairs, turn her head, focus her eyes. How much
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concentration did that take? Surely he was plundering her own memories and
experiences in order to achieve this. Yet he did not know how to dress himself?
autonomous control of her mind – had to think the words to communicate with Kutulu.
Did he only control her body?
Vivian’s mind rushed to reply. She could not stand too much more of that voice
splitting her head.
Thoughts don’t come in words. They come in concepts, mental pictures. It is an
effort to translate thoughts into words, even mentally. The mental equivalent of talking.
How could she establish whether Kutulu could hear her every thought, or only those she
thought “aloud”?
Underwear. Second drawer down. One pair of knickers, one pair of socks. As she
spoke, she knelt and her arm moved to open the drawer she indicated. She felt slightly
dizzy, trying to think while being moved, but she dared not stop.
Right, um, jeans. They’re in the hanging part of the cupboard. Then a sweater.
That’ll be – no, jeans! That’s a skirt. The blue ones. Same colour as the – yes, those.
Undo the button, pull the zip down. Yes. Turn them around so – wait, hang on – so the
zip faces away from you. Right, now put one leg down the – fuck!
As Vivian’s leg lifted she toppled sideways and crashed onto the floor. Whether or
not she was responsible for her movements, she certainly felt her own pain as the
tender hip joint collided with the carpet. Jesus! You could walk me, for God’s sake! Can’t
you compensate for standing on one leg?
Fortunately, Kutulu did not reply. Instead he lifted Vivian up by rolling onto her
stomach, awkwardly straightening both arms and then bending her knees up under her
chin. He straightened her legs and waved his arms about for balance. Then he kept her
quite still for a short time.
He knelt her down, picked up the jeans and stepped effortlessly into them, doing up
the zip and the button. He even managed to do the right leg more gently to ease the
pain he had caused earlier.
Nice, muttered Vivian sarcastically, except that you forgot the knickers.
Another pause as she did nothing. Then Kutulu removed the jeans, grabbed the
knickers and the socks, donned both perfectly and then stepped into the jeans. Vivian
remained silent inside her head. She did not want to let on her suspicions that Kutulu
needed to access her memories – even her almost autonomous motor-related memories
such as putting on clothing – before he was able to perform the required operation.
“We remain cold.”
Ow! Can’t you speak more softly? Silence. Okay, you’ll want a bra – the drawer
below the knickers and socks. Then the sweatshirt I was telling you about. Top shelf,
above the drawers.
This time the pause came first and was shorter. Vivian reckoned that a bra must be
the most complex item of clothing for her to out on, but it went on first time. Vivian had
the habit of fastening the band of the bra around her waist beneath her breasts, before
putting her breasts into the cups. She had seen others do it differently, but this worked
for her. Kutulu did it the way she had normally done it, not the way she had seen others
do it. Kutulu was not examining the object and applying logic: it was accessing her
memories directly. She wondered how he was doing this.
While her body reached for the sweatshirt, Vivian reached for a memory. Any
memory. Carrying the drugs in her shoulder-bag as a child. The memory flashed up in
her mind exactly as she would have expected. So she still had access to those parts of
her conscious thought. She remained herself, with her memories. It was just her body
she could not control. It then occurred to her that Kutulu could probably read her
thoughts. It made sense if he was inside her head. But was he? She retained
The world reappeared above the neckline of her sweater as Kutulu pulled it over her
head. Vivian realised that Kutulu may need a jacket if he was planning on leaving the
mansion, but left the thought unspoken. Her second reason was a test of Kutulu’s
invasion into her own mind. Her first was that an unasked question received no answer,
and her mind was battered enough by the power of Kutulu’s voice.
Kutulu turned her body to leave, then stopped again. The stop was shorter. He
turned and headed for the bathroom, and Vivian realised that she actually needed the
toilet. This should be interesting.
2.3.3
Kutulu prepares to hack again
Kutulu had said nothing since issuing his instructions for Vivian to get dressed.
Trapped behind her senses, Vivian watched Kutulu walk her out of Helmsford Manor,
past the car parks and into the light forest that surrounded the estate. Here he stopped
and remained still.
Vivian was searching her mental environment, which was a rather lofty phrase for
finding exactly what functionality was left to her. She had tried to move every muscle
she could remember and none had responded. She had tried to speak to no avail. She
had tried to access her neural implants, also without success.
What she could do with accustomed ease was access her memory and think. It was
also quite clear that while the demon controlled her body and was also capable of
accessing her memory, he was unable to read her thoughts unless she spoke them in
words. There were now two people in her body – two separate entities – both able to
access her memories. This made Kutulu a quick learner. Going to the toilet had been
interesting, as had been the first itch to scratch, the first negotiation of a staircase
(when leaving the manor) and the first attempt at running. She hoped Kutulu had no
need of a car. Her body was never ordered to repeat a mistake – at least it hadn’t been
yet. But she saw no reason to tempt fate.
Kyrell ignored her thoroughly. She was unaware of his presence within her, except,
of course, that she had lost all motor control. Presently she stood completely still, which
she assumed meant that Kutulu was accessing her memories or involved in thoughts of
his own.
Without warning her neural implants sprung online. Exactly as if she were controlling
them, their output appeared before her eyes, like an transparent overlay in front of
reality. Her implants accessed the Net – entirely without her volition – entered a search
faster than she was able to read and then accepted the return data that swept before
her eyes. It blazed past far too swiftly to be read and then stopped. Again she stood
motionless for about five or six minutes, the overlay in front of her eyes, her body
completely stationary. She was satisfied to note that she could shift her focus from
reality to the implant output. This did not mean she could refocus her eyes, but meant
she could change her attention from one to the other. This was useful, since the world
had been frustratingly out of focus for the past half-hour, Kutulu apparently not
requiring the use of her eyes for the time being and having last focussed on her hand
which now lay at her side.
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It dawned on her that Kutulu was learning to read from her memory in order to
access the data on the document. The search had returned nonsensical data, having
searched for “WHGETUYIJHB”. Vivian smiled. The Lord of Demons was illiterate!
At least in English.
She had been standing for well over ten minutes when the search results
disappeared. In that time she had worked out that the neural implants did not respond
entirely to text commands or their equivalent. The commands were received in a
manner which was semi-auditory, which was why certain commands had been
understood by the interface and certain had not. She found this mildly interesting
although no possible help. Whether she thought in text or sounds, she was unable to
make the slightest impression on the interface. It was the first time she had realised
that she had been doing this when interacting with the implants.
Now what must have been sensible search results began to ream across her vision,
but they came and went far too fast for her to make sense of them – slower, though,
than the first barrage. She picked out a recurrence of the company name “Xenix”, not
exactly surprising when you considered the vast fraction of the Net the company
controlled, sponsored or supported. She thought she recognised a map of Africa and
images of space – were those comets hanging in the void? – but most was a blur. Now
that he could read, Kutulu’s vastly superior mentality was obvious. She supposed that
should have been the case based on the fact that he had learnt to read in ten minutes.
The swiftly scrolling images vanished and Vivian was left staring at out-of-focus
trees, feeling the wind cold against her cheeks, blowing her hair to the right. She had
found she could focus on different parts of her body and register more keenly the
sensations felt there. This was much the same as she had been able to do previously –
as all people are able to do – only the sensation was somehow exaggerated by her
inability to move. She could feel the weight of her watch on her wrist, the cold against
her cheeks was almost painful. If she focussed on any area for too long, the sensation
became irritation, irritation swiftly became pain, vastly over-emphasised by her inability
to do anything about it.
For a bewildering split-second, her implant overlay returned, but it was a black void.
A see-through, black void, and it twisted, as if she were rushing down an utterly dark
tunnel at incredible speed. The dizziness was intense, a stomach-churning sense of
vertigo, and she did not realise she had regained control of her body until she had fallen
forwards, grazing her knees and bruising her forehead on the rocky ground.
2.3.4
Second hack
This time he knew where he was going and had an absolute sense of how to get
there. Pure energy once more, leisurely flying down infinitely narrow corridors at the
speed of light, flying through junctions, dancing off magnetic trampolines, hurtling
towards his goal.
He berated himself for not having learnt to read sooner. He had not needed it. When
travelling down these energetic highways, his sense was all he needed to guide him.
While Kyrell had been around, all information he did not already possess had come from
that source. Now the simple task of checking on the relative positions of the orbiting
satellites had delayed him by frustrating minutes because he could not understand the
information that appeared before Vivian’s eyes.
entirely temporary. The awkward, dull slowness of controlling her physical movements
would have been too great a distraction and he would not be gone for long. Besides, he
truly didn’t care what she got up to. It was her implants he needed and he retained
absolute control of those. He had existed in her mind, existed now in the energy of this
energetic labyrinth and would again exist inside her mind. These were simply forms of
energy he could inhabit – the present network vastly more powerful and crude than the
subtle sophistication of the human mind.
He had not been able to establish what had caused the severing that had happened
during his previous entrance to the Xenix control systems. He guessed that somehow
the connection had been physically cut – perhaps this was a tactic used to disconnect
intruders, although what he had thus far learnt of human computer technology told him
that this was hopelessly crude and counter-productive, since the gateways were, after
all, communication devices. Gatekeepers existed to keep the unwanted out, but close
the connection entirely and Xenix was effectively blind, deaf and dumb. At least that’s
how he figured it.
Previously he had been forced to retain a link to his physical body. Without his soul’s
life-energy residing in the body Kyrell had summoned, it would have died, leaving him
in the electrical matrix he now inhabited. That body had slept, but a part of him had
been forced to remain, stretching out the link between his body and the Xenix network.
He had realised that this had actually proved a decidedly fortuitous set of
circumstances. Had he been able to leave his body, he may well have found his entire
consciousness trapped within the severed network. Whether the humans would actually
have powered it down and killed him he didn’t know – he doubted they realised they
had a living demon which required killing in their network, nor that the stake through
his heart would cost them the trouble of powering down their entire systems. In fact, he
doubted very much that they would have powered down their systems, even if he had
been trapped. The point was, they could have. Linked to his body, Kutulu risked losing
the information he had been after. Without the link, he was in mortal danger.
For this reason he stretched himself out along the labyrinth of electrical pathways,
retaining a link with the implants in Vivian’s head. If this attempt failed, he could at
least return unscathed. Part of him at any rate. He retained the nagging suspicion that
part of his severed connection had been lost between the gates – that part of him had
actually died. He retained his entire consciousness simultaneously at all points along the
connection, so nothing could be lost except memories created by that section and not
returned to the rest of the consciousness, but that still left an annoying gap. Had he
missed something important?
He reached the first gateway and stopped briefly. He knew there were three gates
than guarded this electronic citadel and he knew that, if all else failed, the severed
connections would effectively drop the drawbridges. Actually, that was an inaccurate
metaphor: they would simply remove any and all roads into the castle.
Previously, Kutulu had accessed the network through one gateway. He had not
known of the other two until inside. It was likely that normal attempts to gain access
happened in this way – he doubted that the connection would be physically severed on
all three gateways simultaneously, especially when it was considered that these
gateways were just that: gateways. They were there as much to grant as to deny
access.
He stretched out from the implants in Vivian’s head, reaching forwards towards the
energy sources that controlled what amounted to highly sophisticated bombs that now
circled the planet. He had left Vivian to her own devices, but this was unavoidable and
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Although an artificial intellect, it was difficult to discern the difference in
communication between Alice, Betty or Charlene, the three governing AI programs, and
normal human communication when they access the neural implants. It wasn’t that the
AIs were that markedly human as much as the neural communications lacked any
intonation to add intelligence to communication. Everybody, human and computer alike,
simply stated facts in a monotone.
Which was why Betty’s statement, Tapeworm identified accessing Snoopy, did
not register as terribly important when it first reached Nils’ implants. Nils had been
concentrating on the back-hack of the Tapeworm virus – designing code to get out and
identify the source of the hack and then trace it – ideally to its human (and therefore
arrestable) source. His mind simply registered another hack attempt.
Nils stopped, thought for precious seconds as his mind tried to make sense of the
apparently random words. He reached his horrifying conclusion just as Alice repeated
the statement. Tapeworm identified accessing Bart.
Nils body physically jolted into action. Adrenaline seared his veins. He accessed his
implants, thought for a brief second of trying to identify a receiver for his call and
instantly rejected the time-consuming thought. He open all channels and wished he
could shout blue murder into his implants.
Impassively the message was broadcast to the entire data security staff:
Tapeworm accessing Snoopy and Bart. Everybody, Tapeworm accessing
Snoopy and –
Tapeworm identified accessing Daffy, said Charlene.
Fuck! thought Nils. All three. I repeat, all three. Everybody get onto this.
Rune?
Rune’s visual identifier appeared as a flashing icon to the left of Nils’ vision as he
responded, Analyse and report. The command essentially meant, “Stop whining and
give me information I can use to make a decision.”
Throughout the Xenix complex, data security staff stopped what they were doing
and sat or stood rigid, accessing their implants. Most were at their desks, two were in
the cafeteria, one was on leave and had been accessed anyway as Nil’s initial broadcast
had not taken into account team members not on site, and one was on the lavatory. All,
including the one presently half-asleep in his Tahiti hotel room, focussed on their roles
with practised efficiency. They did not rehearse scenarios like this at least five times a
month for nothing.
Without physically moving, each team member’s virtual self set to work on that
aspect of the security drill which concerned them: what past generations may have
called their battle station. Xenix senior management studiously avoided war-like
metaphors – it has been decided that such things gave the incorrect impression to staff.
For this reason, the official title for where each team member found themselves in
virtual space was their Personal Skill Centre. It meant battle station.
Nils was co-ordinating the Bart team, watching and listening. The operation now
approached the speed of thought. Each operator decided whether what he was reading
was worth sharing on the general band. If he thought it was, he simply shared exactly
what he was examining with his team mates. A single word might accompany a shared
piece of information – as often an expletive as a useful descriptor – in order to draw
attention or inform team members that the information may be required by all.
Again, a sense of frenetic activity was entirely absent. At a table in the cafeteria,
two bewildered Communications Software Design Programmers sat opposite two
completely immobile – apparently catatonic – Data Security Programmers, utterly failing
to engage them in conversation or illicit a reason for the sudden termination of a rather
entertaining discussing which had focussed almost exclusively on the secondary sexual
characteristics of the cafeteria staff. Communications Software Design Programmers did
not get neural implants, nor did these particular Communications Software Design
Programmers know that Data Security Programmers did.
First to report was Jeanette, now heading up the snoopy team. Snoopy
compromised, she said into the general band. Primary holding… holding… shit!
Primary compromised.
Daffy compromised, interjected Nils. Primary down. Secondary holding…
holding…
Donner, cursed Liol in Afrikaans.
he’s in. Security compromised!
Bart compromised. Primary… Secondary…
He’s in on Snoopy, came Jeanette’s blank thought voice. Only by icons was it
possible for Rune to discern who was speaking at any one time – a process now pretty
close to second nature despite only having had the implants for a matter of weeks. It
was now as close to a unique voice sound as was necessary.
Guillotine, it was Janice’s identifier that blinked simultaneously in everybody’s
vision. GuillHe’s through Daffy, Nils reported. Guillotine confirm?
Without intonation, a question sounded just like a statement. What Nils actually said
into the band was Guillotine confirm query.
Confirm, replied Janice.
Kutulu encircled the citadel before he stormed it. He knew there was a chance that
he could be stopped while assaulting a single gateway, and that all three could
therefore be alerted to his presence and he could be locked out. He doubted whether all
three gates could be shut in time to keep him out of at least one. He therefore spread
himself in three directions and approached each gate as simultaneously as was possible.
In doing so, Kutulu understood the value in approaching by three very different
routes. In this way any counter-attack could be defeated individually, rather than
allowing a combined attack from all three gates on his position. From his consciousness
in Vivian’s mind, Kutulu used a few extra seconds to route the scions of himself in three
very different direction, each independently assaulting a different gateway.
This time the response to his presence was swifter and far more thorough. Where he
had entered the network in milliseconds on his first attempt, he now spent nearly ten
seconds on each gate. Clever walls had been erected and were erected even as he
approached them. The electrical equivalent of brute force was not available to him, but
each wall could be circumnavigated or persuaded to disintegrate. Some were churlishly
simple, others fiendishly complex. For this reason his personality did not enter the
network at the same time. It took nearly five seconds for all three of his personalities to
meet up again within the network – an electronic eternity.
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He now knew what he was looking for. He felt outwards around the interior of the
citadel he had just stormed. He lacked physical control of the machinery that made up
this electrical labyrinth, but now that he had no obstacle to his path he had free reign
over the data.
He knew where the satellites were in space. He knew their exact configuration. He
sought that layout in the data through which he now sliced with lightening speed. Data
which held that pattern would lead him to the operating system which controlled the
satellites themselves.
With a sharp sensation that would have been pain in the real world, and with
shocked surprise, Kutulu felt all three gates close simultaneously, instantly truncating
and trapping him within the network. His consciousness outside was lost to him, but he
was inside and instantly decided that this did not matter. He would still proceed to the
satellite control systems and gain control. His survival after that point would be useful –
information gained would doubtless be interesting to ruminate upon throughout the rest
of an eternity without the interference of mankind – but it was not essential. He would
survive whatever happened.
continued to exist. He needed control of those satellites, had not have control of those
satellites and this was the best chance yet. He could not allow it to be compromised.
Three different personalities – three identical ghosts in the machine – spread
outwards from the Xenix network, heading through switches and across networks in
search of other access points to the satellite control network. Something somebody had
missed. An overriding force within him knew he had to ensure he survived to bring
down the satellites. Nothing mattered but them. Nothing at all.
The most tenuous contact was retained with Vivian’s implants – simply his Hansel
and Gretel stones to ensure he could get back. Vivian meant nothing.
Report, commanded Janice. Her real self was striding down a corridor towards the
suite of offices where the majority of the Data Security staff sat. Her physical position
made almost no difference, but she wanted to be as present as possible, physically and
mentally.
We have continued activity, said Liol, watching his implants and readouts. It’s
spreading from server to server. Here.
Vivian stood slowly and shakily. She examined the palms of her hands, turned them
over, assuring herself that she had control over her movements again. She then
touched her face with her hands. She smiled against her palms – she was herself again.
She looked around furtively, wondering what had happened to Kutulu. The last
visuals her implants had given her – the dizzying swoop down a vast, dark tunnel – had
disappeared leaving her without input from the implants, and she gave them no
immediate thought. What she wanted to do now was get away, although she had no
idea where she should go. She considered returning to fetch the coat she now wished
she’d told Kutulu to bring, but decided against it.
Moving as swiftly as she could through the undergrowth, Vivian encircled the estate
and moved with feline grace towards the entrance gates. The fences were electrified
and she did not want the inconvenience of having to negotiate them when, with a
command, she could open the main gates and simply walk out.
She approached the road. The gates were a few yards to her left. She stood up
straight and with the elegant and easy authority to which she was accustomed, she
strode out from the bushes towards them.
In three separate parts of cyberspace, three separate Kutulus recoiled in electrical
agony as they were amputated from themselves. Memory informed them that their
probing frontal personalities had made it into the network and had joined up to form a
unified whole. There was now absolutely no way of telling what was happening within
the network. Was there?
Was there?
Kutulu had spent sufficient time free in the electronic pathways that made up the
network that encircled the globe to know that there were always other ways to get
somewhere. Now it was exceptionally urgent. He did not know what was happening to
him within the network – he had to get in there to ensure that he succeeded – that he
Liol shared his image of the activity layout of the internal network. It was laid out to
show the activity of the recognised signature of Tapeworm. It was moving at lightening
speed to each server and computer.
What’s it doing? asked Janice.
It’s searching, said Nils. I’m sure it’s searching.
But it’s trapped. There’s no way out. Amazing that it still –
Janice did not complete the sentence. Rune, Janice, Nils, Liol and over half the Data
Security team said the same word into the common band at the same time. The
satellites. The combined effect of nearly a dozen people saying the same thing
mentally actually did approach a shout.
Okay, said Nils, taking charge irrespective of Janice. It’s looking for a way out.
The satellites are the only way out of this network and I’m fucked is this thing
is replicating itself onto our satellites. Permission to drop the control servers.
Without them, Xenix would have no control over their satellites – but neither would
Tapeworm.
Granted, replied Rune and Janice simultaneously. Rune looked up as Janice strode
purposefully into the open-plan office where he stood above Liol’s desk. She smiled at
him, turned to head towards Nil’s desk and dropped into a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Continue!” shouted Rune and he ran across to Janice. “Drop that server. I’ll worry
about her.”
Kennedy, said Nils as he watched Rune sprint across the office to Janice. Take a
data dump of satellite positions, speeds and trajectories. Report.
There was a brief pause as the programmer collected the information. Rune stood
from his desk and sprinted towards a fire-retardant door at the end of the office. He
held his head as steady as he could while the retina-recognition scanner identified him
and unlocked the heavy door. Liol, said Nils, charging past the door and into the cool,
dim computer room. It’s 42C6 query.
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Yah, replied Liol, confirming the position of the server box in the rack of physically
identical computer cases.
Positions, speeds and vectors tracked and locked, reported Kennedy.
Gotcha. Nils raced into the room and slammed the ball of his hand onto the power
switch of the outgoing control server. There was a sigh as the fan behind the computer
slowed to a stop. There were backup control servers, but they were physically removed
from Armageddon for safety reasons and required Daffy, Bart or Snoopy to access
them. They were uncontactable, even by Tapeworm. Until one of these computers came
back on, or until somebody activated the backup servers, the satellites were in the
hands of Sir Isaac Newton and nobody else.
realise what she had done. Before reviewing the implications of her ability to access her
implants, she broadcast on the security band: Vivian Lancaster. I have opened the
outer gates at the head of the driveway. Acknowledge.
After the briefest pause, five icons flashed simultaneously and her head resounded
with five acknowledgements. Most of the security staff, perhaps more accurately
referred to as a small private army, had not received implants yet. They wore lefthanded, military grade PHUDs, leaving the right eye free for aiming an automatic rifle. A
military grade PHUD held a microphone against the user’s throat to allow for
whispering. The lens also provided thermal vision, Infra-red vision and automatic
weapons targeting for the computers that controlled the heavier artillery nearer the
main house.
I’ve – Nils’ eyes blanked over and he fell where he stood in front of the rack,
smacking his head onto the corner of the mounting plate as he did so.
The five responses, fed directly to her auditory senses but processed in order to do
so (thereby translating spoken word into the inflectionless monotone of implant speak),
were essentially identical: Acknowledged. Please proceed. Vivian walked as slowly
as she could, slid between the opening gates, issued a close command behind her and
started running.
The satellite control data was proving difficult to find. There were many information
sources throughout this network, far too much data for even Kutulu to digest. He
ignored all that was not specifically relevant, but the search was still taking far too long.
Now she focussed on her implants. While she ran, she brought up an activity report.
It was a relatively standard function; it helped when repeating tasks recently
performed. She saw that her implants had been accessed to search for positional data
on the Xenix Mars project satellites – the units which were built for travel to the red
planet. This did not make immediate sense, although she knew from her eavesdropping
that Kyrell and Kutulu had discussed the Mars project.
As he probed outwards he realised that there were people attached to the network –
humans who had the same implants as Vivian had. If nothing else, that was a way out –
he could leave possessing a human and make use of their implants if necessary. He also
knew from Vivian that the implants and the human minds behind them contained
memories. It may be useful to access those rather than searching blindly through the
data labyrinth before him.
He chose a set at random and was mildly surprised to find he had chosen the leader
of the humans who presently stood against him. He forced control down her implants
and into her body, ignoring entirely the control of her motor functions and letting her
fall to the floor. He had no use of her arms and legs.
First he checked the storage on her implants, since this was stored in a simple,
electric matrix and was much easier to access that her personal memories. There were
many references to satellites and general references to a control server, but no
specifics. How could he access the control server?
He asked the question directly of her personal memories. She had no memory of it,
but knew where she could get it. Nils Middelkoop. Janice’s memories told him this
individual was on this team. In fact, he was over there.
Kutulu re-entered the network labyrinth in search of Nils’ implants. The humans
were using their implants to communicate and while Kutulu was not at all interested in
what they had to say to each other, he could follow the direction of their signals and use
their identifiers – now that he could read – to find Nils.
Kutulu sank electronic fangs into Nils’ implants and, through them, to his memory
directly. He swept so swiftly into Nils’ mind that he caught the programmer’s last
thought as it resonated from consciousness to memory: There, you fuck! Hack that!
The following line of the report was almost in code. It indicated Network addresses
and identity numbers. Vivian did not know she was looking at the text of a map leading
from her implants to the nearest server (in the mansion) and then towards London. The
descriptor, which should have indicated the nature of the function executed, was blank.
Vivian had no idea what the line of computer code meant, nor whether it was related
to the sudden departure of Kutulu. He had only held control over her for little over half
an hour – it had been no more than an hour since Kyrell had vanished in that cocoon of
twisted light that looked like a cross between the air behind a jet aeroplane and the
surface of a soap bubble. Vivian needed time to gather her thoughts and discern for
herself what was happening.
She ran up the long, private road that led from the manor, keeping to the bushes
where possible, although there was little cover this side of the hedge row. She was
considering climbing over the hedge row to run behind it when a call identifier from
somebody with the bizarre name of Nils Middelkoop presaged the sudden loss of
physical control.
Vivian piled bodily into the hedge beside the road as the soul of her demon keeper
poured back into her mind.
The server – whatever that was (or served) – was now without power and useless:
any direct link to the satellites was lost. Nils’ mind was absolutely sure of this. There
was a sense of defeat associated with this in Nils’ mind which Kutulu realised was
related to the failure to keep him out of the network. Nils, it seemed, was accustomed
to greater success.
The gates were closed. Without conscious thought, she accessed her implants to
issue the open command at the gate, and only once they started creaking open did she
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Kutulu reached out phantom electrical fingers and found that Nils’ implants linked
him to the outside network. Nils was his way out. Before he left, however, it made
sense to gain as much information as possible from this troublesome personality. Kutulu
searched Nils’ mind and memory, looking for ways to get back to the satellites. Images,
senses, smells, sights, sounds rushed over him and he effectively replayed weeks of
Nils’ life in seconds. It was incredible that the human mind stored everything so well
and so accurately and yet humans themselves had trouble accessing even the most
recent of memories. The human consciousness, Kutulu knew, needed to keep memories
removed from its present self if it was not to drive itself insane.
employees were entirely absent with the London Metropolitan Police. This remained the
land of fluorescent strip lighting.
It made little impact on Kutulu to discover that Nils was homosexual, but it was this
fact alone that brought an inconsequential memory to the surface. It seemed that Nils
was rather fond of another team member whom his memory identified as Liol
Bredemkamp. Associated with the name was intense personal attraction along with a
sense of burdensome frustration, since, it seemed, Liol was not only quite straight but
also quite homophobic. All these impressions and memories came instantaneously, as
they would have come to Nils, instant and complete thoughts coming as an entire
whole.
To Campbell Andrews, therefore, who was committing the cardinal sin of entering
the Detective Chief Inspector’s office without knocking (his PHUD call had gone
unacknowledged as it always did), the room exactly resembled a cartoon of Bugs Bunny
when the lights went out: complete darkness with two exactly spherical, glowing eyes
peering out of it.
The memory was of Nils and Liol alone, a wonderful feeling of excited closeness
coupled with the frustration. They were working on the previous hack – the word
seemed to denote a breach of data security, although Kutulu had not heard it before.
The intensity of Nils’ emotional state at that point highlighted the memory in Nils’ mind,
and Kutulu looked over it with immensely swift intensity, searching, probing.
They were discussing lost data… stolen data… what remained was unimportant…
Kutulu’s focus almost moved from the memory at that point. It examined the data they
shared – Nils’ mind laced the memory with the unrequited wish that the sharing was
more intimate than it was. Unimportant as the data was to Nils and Liol, Kutulu saw the
digital photograph of the almost priceless and archeologically incongruous sword and his
entire personality swooped down upon the thought with an intensity that nearly cracked
Nils’ mind as it reeled under its possessor’s domination.
Kutulu read the inscription then looked back at the sword. A fraction of a second
before he regained conscious control of his body, Nils’ mouth twisted into a grotesque,
diabolical smile, his teeth stained with shining red blood from his head wound.
Kutulu sought and found the call identifier for Vivian Lancaster. It took a second or
two longer than it would normally – Vivian’s implants had apparently been obtained in a
less than legal fashion – but he knew the connection codes. The link was there and
Kutulu jumped from Nils’ mind, from a sideways view of a rack of computers in a halfdark room and sliced into the mind of a girl whose running he could not control in time
to stop her rushing full-tilt into a roadside hedge-row.
In the disorientating few seconds that followed, neither heard the drone of the
helicopter gun-ships as they flew overhead.
2.4
2.4.1
Underwood’s Investigation
Underwood’s Search Warrant
Ordinarily – in fact with a regularity that annoyed his colleagues – Underwood
complained about the fact that his office (his “fucking shoebox”) at New Scotland Yard
was about twenty yards and at least two walls from the nearest natural light. The
moneyed attempts at recreating sunlight ventured by Xenix on behalf of their
However, the advantage of an office so removed from sunlight was the ability to
exclude all light if necessary. Rarely was this necessary, except when Underwood
needed to review camera-recorded data using a PHUD with a second lens attached.
There was no way Underwood could possibly have reviewed the days’ worth of
surveillance footage on Helmsford Manor in anything but total darkness. Not unless he
was prepared to be violently ill thanks to towering headaches. Which he wasn’t.
For the three days following his conversation with the D’Artes, Underwood had
worked solidly on the approach to Helmsford Manor. The statement provided by
Kayleigh D’Arte – the accusation of ritual gang-rape – was sufficient on its own to
assure a search warrant for the premises. The fact that this statement also provided a
link with the multiple homicide at Micky Jackson’s headquarters outside Gravesend
made the grounds for the warrant considerably stronger.
Underwood had so immersed himself in the challenge of gaining access to the Manor
that it had honestly not occurred to him that the process of obtaining a search warrant
– something which would ordinarily take less than twenty-four hours – had so far
produced no fruit in nearly a week. To Underwood, the formality of the search warrant
simply made entry to the Helmsford Manor legal. It did not in any way make it possible.
The footage he had reviewed covered weeks of surveillance carried out by a mole
they had had on the premises about six months previously. This spy had been placed on
the premises after obtaining proper legal permission in order to gain evidence on the
criminal activities of the organised crime syndicate associated with Kyrell Trepan and his
operation out of Helmsford Manor. The investigation had been undertaken by a different
department altogether – the Kent County Constabulary rather than the Metropolitan
Police – and had had nothing to do with Underwood, so he had been unaware of it
before his request for surveillance material.
It was quite dauntingly obvious that one did not simply walk through the gates of
Helmsford Manor, ring the doorbell and ask the butler to call Mister Trepan, please,
there’s a good chap. The police plant – who had disappeared quite suddenly about five
months previously (Underwood refraining from contemplating the end he doubtless met
at the hands of Kyrell) – had been a member of what was euphemistically referred to as
the security staff.
As a junior member of the staff, their man had carried laser-guided, ballistic
weaponry of the highest, military grade. He carried a side-arm which could fire standard
ballistics from a magazine of thirty rounds or discharge high electric voltage from a
distance of up to ten feet to incapacitate. He wore a black uniform with black flack
jacket, black helmet with bullet-proof visor and sufficient spare ammunition to hold his
own against a small platoon. He had been issued with a seriously upgraded PHUD which
retained contact with artillery which was housed elsewhere.
The gates were permanently manned and under observation from the house. The
few visitors who had come to the house while the KCC man was operational had been
recognised from a distance of over two miles thanks to surveillance camera strategically
placed on the narrow and winding country road which led to the manor house. The
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registration had been checked, photographic identities of those in the cars established
(tinted windows achieving nothing in the face of X-ray and thermal imaging technology)
and even then the cars had been ordered to proceed from the gates at walking pace,
escorted by armed guards.
Underwood was presently reviewing the only firing exercise carried out during the
tenure of their mole. Cannon the size of deck-mounted naval guns fired on targets given
by security personnel into a field seven hundred yards distant from the main house. The
cannon were mounted on platforms built into the roof of the manor house itself and
appeared to be either remotely operated or computer operated. Their accuracy was
astonishing, as was the devastation of targets – mostly car chassis – on the field.
Security staff pinpointed areas no larger than a handprint on the doors of the cars to be
hit, and slow-motion replays showed armour-piercing, explosive cannon rounds hitting
the targets exactly as sighted milliseconds before reducing the chassis to red-hot
shrapnel. In spite of himself, it was obvious that the police mole had been enjoying the
spectacle.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Andrews in his broad Glaswegian accent,
silhouetted in the suddenly open doorway. The comic eyes flashed around as
Underwood jumped in surprise.
A stream of expletives greeted Andrews as a response, followed by, “This had better
be more important than shoving my hand up your arse, ripping your heart out and
feeding it to you, and right now that’s my number one priority!”
“The search warrant you applied for, sir,” replied Andrews, unfazed by the tirade to
which he had become immune over years of working alongside the colourful detective.
“You’ve got it?”
“That’s the thing, sir,” said Andrews. “It was refused.”
From the black room came a blacker silence. “Turn the lights up, Cammy,” said
Underwood. “Slowly.”
Andrews located the wall-mounted rheostat that operated the lights (after only
briefly fumbling against the wall) and brought the room to a dim semi-darkness to allow
Underwood’s eyes to adjust. He continued to bring the lights up incrementally as the
conversation continued.
“Refused?” asked Underwood, removing the PHUD awkwardly and placing it on the
desk in front of him. “By whom?”
“Kendo,” replied Andrews, referring to Justice Justin Edward Kenwright. Without
appealing to the House of Lords, no higher criminal authority existed within London.
“What’s he doing processing search warrant requests?” asked Underwood. “He’s a
high court judge.”
“That’s where the refusal came from. Here,” Andrews offered Underwood the piece
of paper he had come in with. It was the form Underwood had completed three days
previously. The bottom section had been completed by Kendo and the application
denied on the grounds of –
“Breaching individual privacy!” exploded Underwood after ripping the offending
sheet from Andrews. “Breaching… Jesus fucking Christ, I’ll give him individual privacy.
I’ll shove this up a very private – where’s my fuddy-duddy?” In the seconds since
putting it down, Underwood had managed to cover half the communications unit in
paper.
“Sir, I’m not –“
“No, you’re not,” snapped Underwood, wrestling the PHUD onto his head. “Shut up
and fuck off, you useless git.”
“Aye, sir,” said Andrews with a smile. He knew somebody was about to get the raw
end of Underwood’s considerable temper. Well, he’d tried to warn him.
It took a few moments for the connection to be established between Underwood’s
PHUD and the office of Justice Justin Edward Kenwright – moments that cost Underwood
the remains of his frail temper. He finally got a voice – no visuals – from a woman who
was apparently the good Justice’s personal assistant.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said in an altogether unreasonably friendly voice.
To Underwood, she almost sounded American. “How can I help you?”
Fortunately, most police forces (and most other organisations) had, by the middle of
the twenty-first century, long outgrown the paroxysms of politically correct recruitment
drives aimed at exactly representing numbers from various genders, races and
backgrounds from the community they served. It had been discovered, to nobody’s
surprise, that young men were more likely to want to become policemen than others,
and now the system let them without trying to match the same number of girls, older
people and handicapped. Girls were welcome, as was anybody else able to do the job,
they just usually found other pursuits more interesting. Underwood therefore, as a
career policeman, was something of an unintentional chauvinist: he just wasn’t too used
to working with women.
“Hello, dear,” said Underwood, temporarily forgetting his temper and remembering
his manners. “I was wondering if I could speak to Justice Kenwright.”
“I’m afraid Justice Kenwright is in chambers right now,” replied the syrupy voice.
“Perhaps I can help you.”
“I’m not sure you can. I’m phoning about a search warrant that the Justice was
declined.”
“Is that the one for Helmsford Manor in Kent?”
Underwood was a little surprised at the swift response.
“Yes, that’s the one. It’s just that I have at least two crimes linked to the Manor and
I was wondering why the request had been denied.”
“Lack of evidence,” the response was actually quite abrupt, although the voice
remained almost painfully happy.
Since the terrorist threats posed first by Ireland and later by the Middle East, laws
regarding the issuing of search warrants had been somewhat relaxed. Where previously
it had been necessary to show sufficient evidence to link a residence to a crime, it was
now enough – especially in cases or organised crime (which was legally
indistinguishable from terrorism) – to have a well-backed accusation. By modern
standards, Underwood had plenty and he knew it.
“Look, dear, I really don’t want to be rude and I’m quite sure there’s no need to go
into the details of this with you, but I would really appreciate it if you could ask the
Justice to contact me as soon as he is available so we can discuss this issue.”
“Detective,” the voice was sounding progressively less happy-dappy and more
businesslike. “As personal assistant to Justice Kenwright, I am a qualified solicitor in my
own right. I understand the process you have been through. The Justice has examined
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the documentation you submitted and concluded that there are insufficient grounds for
the issuance of a search warrant for the Helmsford Estate. There is no need to bother
the Justice further with this matter. His decision will remain unchanged until further
evidence can be produced.”
Underwood was off before his brain had time to kick in. “What the bloody hell do you
call a room full of corpses and an allegation of gang rape!”
“Corpses, Detective, below a warehouse in Gravesend. A rape allegation from a girl
in South Africa. These are relatively flimsy grounds for a –“
“With the greatest respect,” interrupted Underwood with almost no respect, “there
are known connections between the Micky Jackson operation and Kyrell Trepan. Kyrell is
known to operate out of Helmsford. Six months ago Kent County had a plant on the
estate. The D’Arte girl is coming over here and will subject herself to medical
examinations and interviews to establish her story, but waiting until her arrival may well
compromise what little evidence – Jesus!” Underwood stopped. His anger could not
maintain the long sentence he was trying to construct. “Even without the girl, this is a
multiple homicide in the context of organised crime,” he shouted. “What the fuck is the
problem?”
“Detective, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that that sort of abuse is completely
unnecessary.”
With infinite effort, Underwood managed to bite back the curse he wanted to yell
into his PHUD. “I have grounds to search the premises,” he said with slow deliberation.
“Grounds that link organised crime with multiple homicide and gang rape –“
“Alleged multiple homicide and gang rape,” corrected the solicitor, primly.
“Of course they’re bloody alleged,” shouted Underwood. “We can’t get to court
without evidence and we can’t get evidence without a search warrant and we can’t get a
search warrant because Justice Fucking Kenwright wouldn’t know organised crime if it
gunned him down in a fucking drive-by shooting!”
The line went dead and the icon representing the office of Justice Justin Edward
Kenwright disappeared. Underwood took a breath to continue his tirade before he
noticed the connected had been severed.
2.4.2
Underwood’s Reprimand
The remainder of that Friday afternoon, Underwood had not achieved a great deal.
He had submitted his application for the search warrant on Wednesday morning,
following his afternoon conversation with Jason and Kayleigh on Tuesday. The
remainder of Wednesday, Thursday and Friday had been spent reviewing the
surveillance of the Helmsford Manor and preparing for a search which would amount to
an assault on a well-defended citadel.
He had contacted SWAT team leadership and had been working alongside a team
leader designated to his case. This was certainly not the first time Underwood had
worked with SWAT teams in gaining access to buildings, but his review of the firing
exercise and the calibre of the artillery mounted on the roof of Helmsford had certainly
given him and the SWAT team leader reason to pause. By the time Cummins had
interrupted his review of the visuals of the manor on Friday, Underwood and Kendal, the
leader of the SWAT team, had been pretty far advanced in the planning of the
operation.
Underwood had been forced to contact Kendal, already planning the assault with his
teams, and order the stand down. Kendal had not been too happy and nor had
Underwood. Exceptionally heated words had been exchanged, but both men
communicated almost exclusively in expletives and well over a dozen pints of lager
between them that evening had smoothed out any misunderstandings.
Now it was a rather chilly April Monday morning and Underwood was again in touch
with Kendal.
“Look,” the younger team commander explained over the audiovisual connection.
Kendal was dressed in fatigue trousers and a white vest, apparently standing in a
gymnasium. “We have already been allocated to you. We’ve nothing else to do and the
guys need the training to keep them in shape. The assault is in the planning stages.
What I’m saying is that we can continue to train for it while you get a second warrant
pushed through.”
Underwood considered the proposal. They had discussed it at length and with
alcoholic enthusiasm on Friday evening, but in the sobriety of a Monday morning,
Underwood was not so sure.
“You’re welcome to continue the training,” replied Underwood. “I’m certainly not
giving up just yet, but this guy is the senior Justice for the South East. Officially, my
only recourse from here is to appeal to the High Court or the Law Lords and that could
take months.”
“Which is unacceptable,” said Kendal.
“Which is unacceptable,” agreed Underwood. “I’m not sure – hang on.” With one eye
closed behind his cupped hand, Underwood looked through the image in his PHUD to
focus on somebody entering his office. The effect was mild nausea. Commissioner
Stephen Williamson stood framed in the doorway.
“Mate, I’ve got to go. You do what you do and I’ll do what I do. I’ll be in touch.”
Underwood didn’t wait for the line to drop before removing his PHUD. He stood to
welcome the commissioner into his office with a handshake.
It wasn’t that Underwood had any particular regard for authority. As far as
Underwood was concerned, people earned respect and he therefore respected people,
not titles. But Underwood knew Stephen Williamson. The man was ruthlessly brilliant at
his job. There were few people for whom Underwood had a higher professional regard.
The handshake was returned with an unexpectedly cold formality.
“Steve, please, sit down,” said Underwood, walking around his desk to remove
seven inches of paperwork from the seat of his only extra chair. He stood for a second,
holding the shambles of paper and looking around for a suitable place to put it. He
decided upon an already burdened shelf and then returned to his seat.
While Underwood was packing the shelf, Stephen began, “Liam, what’s the story
with this warrant for the Helmsford Manor house?”
Underwood walked around his desk and settled himself a little fussily into his seat.
He leant back in his chair, touched the fingertips of each hand to the corresponding
fingers on the opposite hand and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. “I
requested a warrant to search the Manor. It’s been turned down even though we have
plenty to go on.”
Then little Miss Tight Arse had dropped her bombshell.
Page 84 of 137
“Yes, I know,” said Stephen pointedly. “I know you think you have plenty to go on,
only you didn’t put it quite so delicately when speaking to Corina Davidson QC on
Friday, did you?”
“Who? Oh, Kendo’s secretary.”
“Well, the fully qualified solicitor who acts as legal liaison and personal assistant to
Justice Kenwright, yes. I’m afraid she has complained about your abuse.”
“Abuse!” Underwood leant forward in his chair. “Stephen, I need that warrant. I
have a multiple homicide and a gang –“
“Liam, I know exactly what you have. Do you know what you’re going up against if
you search the Helmsford Manor?”
“Yes, Kyrell Trepan, but this is England not bloody Bogotá! The man can’t barricade
himself away from the law!”
“You’ve seen what he’s assembled at this manor house.”
“Yes,” replied Underwood, “I have, and I’m pretty surprised at what he’s been able
to put together in terms of infrastructure without getting into trouble for it. Are you
telling me I’m being denied a warrant because the Metropolitan Police are afraid to take
on a criminal? Stephen that’s –“
“That’s not what I’m saying, Liam. I just need you to know what you’re up against,”
Stephen used the same phrase again. Underwood cocked his head to one side.
“’Up against’, Stephen?”
“You have been denied the search warrant, mate, and you’ve shot yourself nicely in
the foot by mouthing off at Kenwright’s PA. You’ve won no friends, there. I’m here to
bollock you and tell you never to do it again, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. I
know how you work, Liam. You work well and you walk in straight lines, which is why
you’ll never make commissioner and why you make a bloody excellent detective. You’re
too damn direct. You cannot go speaking to ladies like that – did your mother not teach
you any manners?”
Underwood smiled at the jibe. Stephen’s tone was not confrontational. It was almost
conversational.
“Just stay away from Justice Kenwright and Miss Davidson, Liam. That’s all I’m
saying.”
“Stephen, I’m not giving up on this warrant. That Pastor D’Arte in South Africa has
been a great help to the force over the years. His daughter’s been raped – hell, I’m
pretty sure she wasn’t even supposed to survive! Not from what she’s told me and her
dad. I’ve got a pretty damn weird basement in Gravesend with occult shit all over it full
of dead guys, including a pretty senior gangster with his guts in his hands. Now I’m just
supposed to pack it in because Kendo says so? I’ll have more evidence soon, but not
soon enough. I need to get to this place to secure evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“I want to find this basement the D’Arte girl described. I want to see if there are any
similarities with the Gravesend chamber. It’s a crime scene, Steve – I’ll find the
evidence when I get there!”
2.4.3
Underwood travels to Deal
The two arterial motorways running from London to the East Coast of Kent remained
the M2 and the M20. Both had been well-maintained over the years and continued to
transport an incredible amount of traffic.
The traffic they supported also remained largely unchanged. By now well over a
century out of date, the combustion engine remained the source of power for the vast
majority of road traffic. The car Underwood drove down the M2 towards Dover would
have been quite familiar to anybody with a driving license fifty years previously. Cars
were considerably more fuel efficient and as environmentally friendly as anything that
burnt petrol could hope to be, but the basic idea remained the same.
It was about an hour-and-a-half journey from the Met in London to the town of Deal
on the East Coast of Kent, a few miles north of Dover. Liam drove alone.
The senior police commissioner for Deal, Richard Fredericks, had been at police
college with Underwood and both had remained in touch over the years. They were not
so close as to be friends, but they certainly shared a professional relationship of mutual
respect and affection. Every few years one or other needed a favour. Now it was
Underwood’s turn.
Deal fell just outside of the two primary local jurisdictions, Dover and Canterbury,
from a policing perspective. While the entire county of Kent was united under the Kent
County Constabulary, responsibility for policing was broken down into smaller areas.
Deal and the neighbouring town of Sandwich, along with smaller nearby towns and
villages, formed their own separate area. It was one of the smallest in Kent.
As such it lacked a chief justice – the senior magistrate for the area – instead
appointing a police commissioner. Any cases for trial would be tried in neighbouring
areas or in London, depending on their seriousness. Lesser judicial duties were carried
out by the commissioner.
Duties such as approving search warrants.
Underwood looked at the digital map displayed on the screen above the stereo and
saw he was coming up to the first Canterbury turn off. He knew he was also passing the
turn off for Helmsford Manor, which lay on acres of country estate somewhere between
the M2 to the North and the M20 to the South, East of Canterbury and West of Deal.
Miles of farming area, much still owned by the aristocratic families who had lived there
for centuries, stretched out on the flat and fertile lands of the Garden of England. Even
Helmsford itself was a properly functioning farm: a winery.
He had contacted Richard briefly before getting into his car. He had not been terribly
specific about the reason for his visit, except to say that he had needed a favour and
would Richard be available this afternoon?
Richard Fredericks was all Underwood wasn’t – a large part of the friendship
between the two men was based on their respect for their opposing styles of policing.
Both were tall and lanky, but Underwood’s habitually dishevelled hair, untidy overcoat,
two days’ facial growth and dirty fingernails contrasted against Richard’s impeccable
neatness. The man looked like he had been born in his commissioner’s uniform. Richard
handled the politics of policing at high level exceptionally well, was the picture of the
gallant gentleman and put Underwood in mind of nineteenth century army officers at a
ball.
“All I’m saying, Liam, is that you’re up against some pretty formidable forces here.
Leave Kenwright alone.”
Page 85 of 137
Underwood cracked the window open and felt in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes.
He opened the box one-handed, grabbed a cigarette with his lips and threw the box
onto the seat beside him. He then ruffled in his trouser pocket for a lighter.
He was grateful to Steve Williamson for the break he had been given, although, to
Underwood, the commissioner had also only been doing his job. He wondered what
would be done about Justice Kenwright who had clearly been corrupted into protecting
Kyrell’s operation, but knew this had little to do with him. There were other
departments that dealt with internal investigations. He hoped they were above that sort
of corruption. Although he did not consider himself naïve, Underwood considered the
possibility of more than one chief justice being in the pocket of organised crime as
simply absurd. The rest of the world was a hotbed of crime, but British police were the
best in the world and he would have words with anybody who said otherwise. In this
respect, Underwood lived in a simple world.
Twenty minutes from Canterbury and Underwood had arrived on the outskirts of
Deal. The town had changed substantially, although local authorities had gone to great
lengths to restore the old beachfront apartments and the pier. It all looked very typical
of a British seaside resort, pier and shingle, and Underwood turned South onto the
coastal esplanade towards the police headquarters.
Headquarters was perhaps an ambitious name for the building which existed just
beyond the humble stone tower of Deal Castle. Built during the 2040s, the thirty-yearold building was well-maintained, purpose built and relatively typical of the new
generation of police buildings.
Underwood parked in the small parking lot outside the front of the police station and
walked up the stairs towards the sliding doors that led into the reception area. Had he
been wearing his PHUD, he would have been greeted on arrival by a friendly voice
enquiring about the nature of his visit, but Underwood was not wearing his PHUD. He
strode into reception and looked for the traditional counter with a uniformed police
officer.
Just such a receptionist was present, doing her bit to reinforce Underwood’s sexual
stereotypes of the kinds of jobs women performed in the police.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I am Detective Chief Inspector Liam Underwood. I’m here to see Commissioner
Fredericks.”
“Is he expecting you?”
Underwood grunted an affirmative, already distracted by the electronic notice boards
which performed the same function as ordinary notice boards years before: lost pets,
petty criminals wanted, public notices, and so on. “Remember, your PHUD carries
personal details. Remember to security-lock your PHUD when removing it,” said the
present notice. Underwood had no idea the PHUD presently lying on the back seat of his
car could be locked, let alone that it should be.
The receptionist spoke softly into her PHUD and then said to Underwood, “He’ll be
with you shortly.”
“Thanks,” said Underwood, finding himself an uncomfortable plastic chair to sit in.
Richard appeared after a couple of minutes. He strode into the reception area with a
definite sense of purpose, his hand extended towards Underwood.
“Liam,” he boomed in his customary, friendly half-shout. “Excellent to see you,” he
pumped Underwood’s hand enthusiastically. “Come through. Come through.”
Underwood was led through a security-locked door which responded to a code
issued from Richard’s PHUD. Beyond, the charge-room-cum-reception was the standard
shambles, uniformed police officers catching up on paper work, detectives doing the
same or speaking on telephones. Richard and Underwood passed these as they headed
towards a row of offices at the rear of the building. Richard opened the door to the one
on the far left and ushered Underwood through.
“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be great, thanks.”
Richard stuck his head out the door and called an order to somebody unseen before
re-entering the office. “Be along in a second,” he said as he walked around behind his
desk. “Please, sit down. Sit down. Are you well?”
Underwood, feeling untidy in the presence of a fine, beautifully clean commissioner’s
uniform with shiny buttons and bright lapels, shambled into his seat. “It’s a professional
issue, Richard. I need your help.”
“Go on,” said Richard, eyes widened in energetic attention. It had occurred to
Underwood in the past that this man must have been hell to control at school, unless
they had some pretty heavy-duty attention-deficit drugs to hand. The man was a
walking whirlwind of energy. That or doing coke. Which was, he knew, utterly
preposterous.
Underwood explained briefly the nature of the Micky Jackson case and the charges
brought by Kayleigh D’Arte. Richard shook his head and looked almost theatrically
outraged at the descriptions of the crimes, clicking his tongue in disgust.
“The thing is, I now need a search warrant for the Helmsford Mansion. I’ve been to
the Gravesend site, but I need access to the Helmsford one. With the Micky Jackson
homicides and the connection with Kyrell, it should be a simple matter.”
“You know I’m going to ask you why you’ve come all the way out here for a search
warrant,” said Richard. “Do tell. Do tell.”
Underwood had already decided in the car that he would have to trust this man. He
had no reason to suspect him of having been bought by Kyrell or anybody else, but then
he would not have suspected Kendo of anything except the usual sexual deviance
either. He’d known Richard for years and while they were not close, he felt he had a
good handle on the man.
“I was denied by the Chief Justice in London.”
“Kendo?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Well, I spoke to his assistant – some solicitor woman. She said it was for lack of
evidence.”
“In a terrorist case?”
Again Underwood nodded. “Yeah.”
Page 86 of 137
Richard looked hard at Underwood for several seconds. “I’m still under his
jurisdiction,” said Richard at last, speaking slowly. “You want me to countermand his
instruction?”
“Richard, Steve Williamson came to talk to me afterwards. All he told me was that I
was up against some serious forces and to leave Kendo alone. I said I’d still go after the
warrant and he just repeated his instruction to leave Kendo alone.”
“So he told you to come to me?”
“No, I came of my own accord. You have the authority to – oh, thanks,” the tea
arrived on a tray, carried by an harassed-looking uniformed policeman. “You have the
authority to issue a warrant. If the Chief Justice has time to go through every warrant
you issue then he’s not doing his job properly.”
“He’s already not doing his job properly,” said Richard pointedly.
“Exactly – and you’re doing the right thing.”
“What’s going to happen about Kendo?”
Underwood sipped his coffee. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “That’s for greater and better
people than me.”
Richard took a long sip of tea, then replaced the cup on its saucer and leant under
his desk to open a drawer.
“You never mentioned Kendo,” he said, bringing up a blank warrant and reaching
across his desk for his official stamp. “And because Helmsford Manor is this side of
Canterbury, it didn’t occur to me to ask. Understood?”
“Understood.”
2.4.4
Underwood prepares with SWAT team
By five-thirty in the morning, Kendal’s team were assembled in the gymnasium –
the situation room was unavailable for reasons explained to and instantly forgotten by
Underwood.
Underwood had worked with SWAT teams before, although not on too many
occasions. He remained in slight awe of the capabilities of these teams; the minor wars
they were capable of spawning and controlling with such deadly efficiency. The largest
single operation of which he had been part had taken place in Liverpool three years
previously. As homicide detective, his case had involved the execution-style shooting of
seven people known to be involved in people-smuggling into the UK.
Similarly to the present case, Underwood had obtained the legal right to enter the
property, but obtaining the resident’s permission was another matter entirely. Twenty
SWAT team members had laid siege to a warehouse building on Merseyside docks. It
had lasted all of twenty-seven minutes. In that time, the SWAT team members had
assaulted the building, gained entrance to it and incapacitated twelve of the fifteen
individuals who had been holed up in the building. Only five were actual suspects. The
rest, under terrorism and organised crime legislation, were guilty of obstruction of
justice for not opening their front door to the police. Three had later died in hospital.
Enquiries found the SWAT team had used reasonable and legal force. They usually did.
The last fifty years had seen no major breakthroughs in weapons technology – at
least not on the scale of those weapons used by individual soldiers or policemen. At the
level of national governments, chemical and biological weapons technology had
progressed – one would hardly like to use the word improved – immensely; most
countries now capable of causing major pandemics at will. Much like a nuclear arms
race of a century previously, the idea remained deterrence: nobody really wanted to
release a deadly disease into the environment because it would be just as likely to wipe
out friend as foe. Fortunately, with the exception of one relative minor incident in the
Balkans (only fifty-five thousand people had been reported killed – the real figure was
barely more than triple that), terrorist extremists had chosen, as least for the present,
to share this view and use these weapons as bargaining chips rather than for their
primary purpose.
The growing technological ability of the United States, Britain and China to control
the weather was also muted as a type of weapon. All strenuously denied this, but the
ability to drop snow-storms on Arab countries or melt every flake of it on the Alps could
certainly be seen as threatening.
However the weapons carried by ground troops retained essentially the same
ballistic technology as their fifty-year-old predecessors. Unsurprisingly, the legendary
Kalashnikov AK-47 had become the blue-print for functionality. At the turn of the
century, there had been one AK-47 assault rifle in existence for every six people on the
planet. The simplicity of the design had been the weapon’s greatest strength – there
were fewer moving parts than in almost any other weapon. It was possible to use the
weapon to smuggle a not insignificant quantity of drugs by hiding them within the
weapon’s breach, while still being able to defend the smuggler by retaining its primary
functionality.
The more successful personal weaponry of the twenty-first century copied
unashamedly from the simplicity of the AK-47. The materials used were lighter and the
technology in the details improved; bullets travelled faster, caused less recoil, became
more accurate and did more damage on arrival. But their method of delivery remained
unchanged: after half a dozen centuries – more if you believed the Chinese –
gunpowder remained king.
The weapons and attire of the fifty-five men who stood at smart ease as Underwood
entered the gymnasium would therefore have been instantly recognisable to any visitor
from a century previously. Kevlar body armour had become much less bulky and
considerably lighter, making full-arm jackets and full-length trousers possible. With fullface, bullet-proof PHUDs, Kevlar helmets and Kevlar boots, the soldiers were essentially
walking tanks from a ballistics point of view. That said, improvements in ballistics meant
that Kevlar was no longer the final word in protection from personal firearms. Whether
or not it ever really had been depended on your definition of “personal firearms”:
shoulder-fired anti-aircraft rocket launchers were relatively personal, in that they could
be fired by one person. Experience taught that these could, put mildly, dent Kevlar.
All fifty wore midnight-blue uniforms made of the new, light-weight Kevlar. The body
armour remained considerably heavier than ordinary clothing. In absolute weight terms,
it was almost exactly the same as wearing a mediaeval suit of armour, only it was
substantially more pliable and allowed almost complete movement. Obvious weak points
were knee and elbow articulations.
Kendal stepped forward, holding his helmet under his arm. He wore no insignia of
rank and was dressed identically to his men. The Kevlar jacket came snugly under his
chin, second-skin black gloves tucked into the jacket’s sleeves. From his belt hung a
holstered pistol which combined the functions of a .45 with that of an electronic stungun. Magazines sat in pouches around the belt and were obviously contained in both
breast pockets, although not all were the pistol’s .45s. He seemed to prefer having his
hand-held weapon’s magazines on his right and those for his assault rifle on his left.
Page 87 of 137
The rifle, which he held casually in his left hand, was also multi-purpose – standard
rounds could be fired individually or at variable rates of automatic fire. The weapon
could double as a grenade launcher (at least five grenades the size of a child’s fist were
in evidence in trouser knee-pockets), had laser sighting and a fold-away stock. It, too,
was capable of delivering a near-lethal electrical pulse. A little tinkering could make the
pulse somewhat more lethal. Most present had done a little tinkering.
“Sir,” said Kendal as he approached Underwood, raising his right-hand to shake
Underwood’s.
“You look –“ Underwood sought a suitable adjective, “lethal.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Kendal, obviously interpreting the comment as a compliment.
Underwood had intended slightly more concern than compliment.
“What, no laser guns?”
Therefore, by the time any force approaching the house had reached the gate, that
force had been bottle-necked into almost single file, well within the range of the roofmounted cannon.
The idea, therefore, was to use shoulder-mounted, guided rockets to take out the
cannon from a safe distance. The catch was that these roof-mounted cannon appeared
to be housed within specially made, protective cases and would only be brought out
when needed. They had to be brought out.
The answer to this was helicopter gun-ships. These would form the first wave of the
assault. Although they would certainly come flying in six guns a’blazing, their primary
task was not shooting at things – it was to expose the cannon and achieve target lockon for the ground-to-ground missiles. In order to ensure they attracted enough
attention, the helicopters would have to come well inside the safe operational range of
their own missile, hence the need for the ground-based ones.
“They overheat, sir. And they cause too much damage. The weapons we’ve test fired
have only been capable of firing up to six times in succession, and they tend to burn
holes straight through combatants, sir. Hard to get approval for –“
Once the cannon were taken care of, a second wave of helicopters would bring in the
majority of the assault force, while a small remainder would enter the estate through
the gates. From here on it was a standard operation: surrender or get severely hurt.
“Thank you, Kendal,” Underwood interrupted. Military man, Kendal. No sense of
humour – unless it was marked Banana skin: this way up. The man was also amped –
ready for anything except a joke. Underwood felt more reassured than disappointed.
“Will you be able to provide me with body-armour, Francis? I’m afraid I don’t trust our
issue.”
The only obstacle to this plan was the legality of a surprise attack. Put simply, there
was no legality to a surprise attack. Underwood was only supposed to be entering the
property with the legal right to search. The fact that he expected resistance did not
legally entitle him to pre-empt it. The helicopter gun-ships would therefore be
broadcasting Underwood’s legal right to enter the property using powerful amplification
systems. If anybody asked, these would have been announcing Underwood’s legal
intentions loud enough and from a distance legally determined to allow all in the manor
and the grounds time to make clear their desire to offer no resistance. Reality would, of
course, be slightly different, although it was appreciated that the deafening roar of a
voice sufficiently amplified to be heard above the rotors of helicopter gun-ships was
almost a weapon in its own right. Previous operations had, on occasion, resulted in the
arrest of suspects close to helicopter landing sites whose only injuries were severely
ruptured eardrums.
Again, Kendal took pride in the compliment to the gear with which his men were
equipped and barked an order that an underling fetch the DCI full body armour at the
double. In truth, there was no difference in the armour issue between SWAT team and
plain-clothes police officers. Underwood had simply chosen not to check out armour in
his own name, lest it arouse Justice Kenwright’s attention.
The armour arrived promptly. As Underwood crammed his overweight body into it,
he asked Kendal to confirm the assault plan they had spent the week discussing.
In the Kyrell case, the search warrant was a doorway to the solution of dozens,
perhaps hundreds of crimes. The survival of Kayleigh D’Arte was an exceptionally rare
oversight in what was generally an inordinately slick operation. It was impossible to get
anything to stick to Kyrell Trepan – nothing good enough to get legal permission to
enter his premises. For this reason, the presentation of a search warrant was coming
with full military support and was expected to be met with considerable resistance.
Finally, thanks to a charge of rape, Kyrell’s abuse of privacy laws in order to hide his
operation could come to an end. Both parties knew what Underwood would find, starting
with an illegally armed private army. This was not a case of knocking on the door and
asking to look through his CD collection. This would be a military assault on Helmsford
Manor.
There was no easy way to approach the manor house: its defence had been well
thought-out. There was no open clearing where assault troops could establish a
position. On either side of the narrow lane which led to the gates, the foliage was
deliberately grown thick and thorny. The hedges had been grown in a ring that
completely surrounded the property. It seemed terribly primitive – almost Medieval –
until you realised that, without burning it down or blowing it up, it still represented a
pretty solid wall to intruders.
Underwood zipped the Kevlar jacket up under his chin and took the helmet offered
him by a member of the SWAT team.
“The second part of the operation,” Kendal continued, “will be the tricky part: we will
need to secure the manor, room by room. We do not expect much resistance and we
expect the majority of it to be outside the manor, not within, but this will remain a
time-consuming exercise. You, sir, are the only person authorised to carry out the
terms of this search warrant, so we do not want you to become a casualty.” Within his
newly donned helmet, Underwood allowed himself a broad smile of relief. “You will
therefore remain at your station on the helicopter transport, guarded by two of my
staff. When we have cleared the building and found the location of your basement, we
will notify you on your PHUD helmet. Your guards will then lead you to the basement,
using the nav guidance in their PHUDs.”
“Fine with me,” said Underwood indistinctly from within the bullet-proof, full-face
helmet. His throat microphone had not been engaged.
“Sir, can we run through the helmet’s functionality on the way?” asked Kendal with
infinite politeness.
“Sure,” came Underwood’s muffled reply.
Page 88 of 137
“Please bring along your own PHUD so we can use it to ensure the commands are
the same as those you’ve customised. You’ll be as comfortable as you are when using
your own PHUD.”
“Fantastic,” muttered Underwood.
2.5
2.5.1
Angels in Hell
Angelic Assault Reported
Kyrell’s mind reeled. The extent to which the nectar he had drunk had revived him
had been astonishing, but the assault on his sensibilities that had followed had all but
negated this effect. He felt tired, weak and humble. He did not like any of these
feelings.
With considerable effort, he drew himself to his full height and pulled his hair back
along the sides of his head with both hands, stretching the muscles in his arms, back
and legs, before turning to his diabolic host, who stood behind him, examining the
painted engravings on the wall.
That he stood before the Lord of Darkness was sufficiently incredible, although not
utterly bizarre in Kyrell’s world. Few warlocks of consequence had not attempted to
summon this entity, and most had succeeded. Kyrell considered the fact that he had not
done so and thought this irrelevant. He would have done, eventually. Kutulu had been
more important.
That he stood before the Lord of Darkness in Hell, rather than in his own ritual
chamber was slightly more perverse, but this, too, was not beyond the ken of his kind.
Many mages had written of their journeys to other worlds and the beings encountered
there. They had usually spoken in flowery language at best, unfathomably abstruse
riddles more usually, but then Kyrell supposed he would do likewise were he ever to
record memoirs of what was presently taking place – it was just too unlikely to capture
in straight prose! Nobody would believe you.
But now the Lord of Darkness in Hell had explained to Kyrell that the very existence
of all the arcana to which Kyrell had dedicated his considerable intellect was simply a
figment of the collective human imagination. Oh, that imagination somehow gave its
creation objective reality in this parallel place, but that did not change the fundamental
point: the only reason Satan existed was because Kyrell believed he did. Kyrell and the
majority of Christendom of the past two millennia.
Not only that, but the Lord of Darkness, the undefeated ruler of the minions of Hell,
commander of such devastating forces of evil as to crush all the armies of Earth with a
flick of a demonic tail, was absolutely resigned to defeat at Armageddon because that
was how the script was written. That was what was believed. There was no plan for
counter-offensive, no hope of a last-minute reprieve. Only the arrival of Kyrell and
Kutulu had even brought the suggestion of a tipping of the scales.
Frankly, as this information started to be digested within his mind, Kyrell realised
that he was deeply unimpressed.
Along with the realisation that the world of his dark learnings was nothing but a
well-defined figment of an awful lot of imagination came the realisation that this was
just one part of a much larger whole. Somewhere the Easter Bunny was down his hole
hording chocolate eggs, Father Christmas was on the snowy planet “North Pole”
ordering his elves about as they made millions of toys for the least possible whistle-stop
world tour ever dreamt up and the bloody tooth-fairy was sitting on top of a mountain
of milk teeth. He could look forward to bumping into Unicorns and Pegasus, Centaurs
and Pixies, hobbits and honest lawyers. Jesus H Christ! Click my ruby red slippers
together, Dorothy, and get me the fuck out of here!
It was the simultaneous confirmation and denial of all that he had worked for which
was nauseating in its disorientation. Even for an occult mage, a great deal was based on
faith. You had to believe – you had to believe with all of your being. Parts of what he
had learnt had cost him dearly in blood and pain and self-denial. His faith had been
absolute. And therein lay the evil irony: his faith had been rewarded, had it not? It had
been real. What he believed in really did exist, but only because he believed in it. It was
pointless – he might just as well have believed in little green men (who were doubtless
populating some planet swinging around this place somewhere, flying saucers et al). He
would have been just as right.
Falling down his rabbit hole, doubtless assisted by some form of narcotic, he had felt
like Alice in Wonderland. Now he thought again of Lewis Carol’s work: You’re all nothing
but a pack of cards!
Kyrell felt the familiar, terrible rage inside him, only now he had nowhere to quench
it. Anger management was relatively easy when you could get away with rape, torture
and murder – when they were tools of your trade both in disciplining criminal associates
and in immersing one’s self further into occult lore. If somebody pissed you off, you just
hurt them. Badly.
He turned away from the carving and rounded on Satan who stood behind him.
“This is all just a figment of my imagination,” his anger hissed between his teeth as
he spoke with theatrically forced calm. “I could imagine you out of existence and poof!
You’re gone.”
“Not – “ began Satan.
“Shut the fuck up!” roared Kyrell, his eyes bulging. “I could imagine you in a frilly
pink dress and there you’d be, looking like an alligator in a tutu! You are entirely at my
mercy and that is absolutely pathetic!”
Beside him two towering gargoyles, each at least a foot taller than their master who
stood before Kyrell, appeared and walked up to stand uncomfortably close to Kyrell.
Kyrell lowered his head dangerously, exactly like the cornered beast he was, and then
looked up from a lowered head, staring out the tops of his eyes at the Demon Lord with
smouldering malevolence.
Satan almost whispered, “I should be careful, Magus,” he emphasised the word with
sarcasm. “You are one little man. A very powerful little man by the standards of little
men, but contrary to how you may interpret my words, your individual imagination is of
no particular concern to me at all. I doubt very much I shall find myself pirouetting
around Hell irrespective of what your deranged little mind dreams up.” He paused,
allowing his words and the presence of what amounted to his demonic bully-boys to
sink in.
Kyrell breathed deeply several times, his eyes never leaving Satan’s. He was almost
staring through his eyebrows he held his head so low. His fists clenched and
unclenched.
“Doubtless,” continued Satan in a much lighter tone, “you are considering what
curse, what incantation would be most appropriate at this juncture. I would be very
interested to see the outcome, to be honest – mainly for the same reason that you
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hesitate. You would summon one of us, wouldn’t you? Or one of our powers? You would
do it in your realm, too, wouldn’t you? Would it work here? Should we find out?” Satan
cocked his head to one side in patronising mockery and regarded Kyrell with something
bordering on genuine curiosity.
“Your little men’s books teach you of our powers and principalities, how different
demons control different aspects of Hell and how to play one off against the other. You
don’t honestly believe that to be entirely true, do you? That I would allow my kingdom
to be divided against me? There are no demons who would dare stand against my rule,
and nor would they want to.”
“If we’ve believed it, demon,” whispered Kyrell, “then it is true.”
“It is true,” replied Satan, “that my kingdom is divided to allow for better rule. It is
not true that it is divided against itself. You may believe that you can summon some
water elemental to conquer a fire demon, and I allow it to be true, but I’m afraid there
are far more religious fundamentalists out there who believe my kingdom to be united
than there are occultists who try to divide it. Somehow we do reconcile your
contradictory beliefs into a relatively stable reality for ourselves. Still, I am actually
quite serious: I would be very interested to see what happens when you attempt a
summoning here.”
“Why?”
“I suspect your faith does not work here,” said Satan, spreading clawed hands to
include all about him. “However I am intrigued to see whether your ability to summon
us from your realm works in reverse now that you are here.”
“You want me to summon humans?” Kyrell’s anger subsided slightly in the face of
aroused curiosity.
“I’d love you to try.” It was not possible for Kyrell to tell how much sarcasm Satan
had intended in the sentence.
Commotion at the outer entrance drew Satan’s attention from staring down Kyrell.
Once Satan had looked away, Kyrell also turned his head to see a Fiend shamble into
the entrance hall. There was instant tension among the gathered demons – apparently
a Fiend entering this area was no normally tolerated.
The scaled creature fell face down on the floor immediately inside the door, long
arms stretched up and away from its head in a clear gesture of abject humility. The
sound of rugged armour crashing on stony ground echoed among the carvings and the
creature emitted a canine whimper as its body flattened against the stonework. It
growled once and was silent, ragged, heavy breathing raising and lowering the dusty
armour on its scaled back.
A demon lord near the creature turned savagely and growled with infinite menace at
the prostrate figure. There was a moment’s silence and then Kyrell was surprised to
hear the Fiend respond in English.
“White Ones,” it panted between ragged breaths, the sound muffled as the creature
did not lift its head from the floor. It sounded as if the mouth was not suited to forming
the words – they hissed and clicked. “White Ones. The Gate is open, my Lord. White
Ones.”
The demon lord who had roared its question at the Fiend now grunted threateningly
like a cornered gorilla and the Fiend fled the room with quite astounding speed. Kyrell
heard its armour clattering as it scampered away into the courtyard beyond.
All present turned to face their master. He, in turn, looked about the room at the
assembled lords for a brief moment before nodding his head very slightly – the bodily
equivalent of a whisper. It nonetheless represented an understood command: the room
emptied swiftly and demon lords strode from the room to whatever station their master
required. Within the briefest time the carving chamber was empty.
“It seems we may have to wait for your demonstration,” said Satan without malice.
“White Ones?” asked Kyrell, not yet placated but impressed by the swiftness of the
response.
“Come on,” replied Satan, again cocking his head to one side. “Even you are not
that stupid.”
2.5.2
Start of Angelic Assault
The skies beyond the entrance hall were a brightly dazzling crimson and Kyrell was
forced to squint against their glare even within the shadow of the mountain from which
the Cathedral was carved. He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked down the
curved stairway to the desert beyond.
The plain which had, half-an-hour before, been deserted except for his escort had
come alive: a swirling mass of dark creatures. From this distance and blinded by the
glare, it was impossible for Kyrell to tell Fiend from Demon, or whether other castes
which he had not yet seen joined the ranks. Dust plumed high into a sky of permanent
sunset hue.
The noise was deafening. Somehow the cathedral and its carving-decorated
entrance hall were shielded from the worst of the sound, but the cacophonic roar that
greeted Kyrell’s ears was just as much of an assault on his senses as the bright
skylight. Thousands upon thousands of Hell’s denizens were on the move, and the
clamour of armour, the shouting of orders, and drawing of weapons and the movement
of troops combined to form a truly staggering wall of noise.
As he watched, some form of order appeared to be emerging from the chaos.
Different areas of colour began to coalesce – regiments, separated by the hue of their
armour and by banners which hung limp in the fetid air, were coming together as one,
separating from their neighbours. It also began to emerge that each regiment was
made up of the same species. Regiments of Fiends were separating from regiments of
demon lords.
As Kyrell walked beside Satan and approached the top of the stairs, it became clear
that there were other castes or races which Kyrell had not seen before. At least, he had
not seen them during this trip to Hell. Otherwise they did seem relatively familiar.
Horned devils on goats’ hind legs with hairy bodies and spiked tails held dusty red
shields and strangely corrugated swords. They were naked, without body armour, their
shields small. Alongside these were fiends mounted on the backs of jet-black, red-eyed
horses. The horses were lightly armoured and the Fiends wore the armour Kyrell had
seen on his arrival. They carried larger shields, held lances and wore mis-shaped
helmets on their heads. On their shields, the image of the head of a howling wolf
shrieked mute challenge at their enemies.
Standing as tall on their feet at the Fiends on horseback, the demon lords stood
intricately armoured. They, too, held shields, these with the mark of a coiled snake.
Their mighty hands held, single-handedly, huge, double-edged broadswords with
grotesque images on hilt and blade.
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Behind and above him, Kyrell heard a shriek like a possessed eagle. He looked up in
time to see the dragons swoop down from their eyries above the cathedral. The sky
blackened as it filled with the pounding of their leathery wings and the shrieks from
their fanged mouths. They swooped low over Kyrell and Satan’s heads and then out
over the plains where Hell’s armies assembled. The howled their challenge at the sky
and Kyrell look to what it was they saw.
High above the far horizon, well to the left of the setting sun hung what seemed to
be a huge, black tear in the sky – like some truly monstrous creature and slashed the
heavens open with a mighty claw. The red atmosphere and the flying dust did not
obscure the empty blackness within this celestial scar, and Kyrell could not help gaping
at the awful presence of it. He had not seen it when he had stepped, dazzled and
blinded, from the basement and it had been behind him as he had approached the
cathedral. Kutulu had spoken of the Gate, so had Satan and the Fiend; now he saw
what must be the rent in time and space that allowed the Angels to pour through and
control the world of the demons.
There were no pillars and no wrought-iron embellishments, no guardian demons and
no great lock and key. Hanging in the sky above, millions of miles high and infinitely
deep: the Gates of Hell.
The blackness was not absolute. Kyrell could see streaks of white light emerging
from the centre of the scar, tiny but clearly visible. Already thousands more were
streaming like comets towards the surface of the desert planet. The clamour continued
beneath him as Hell’s armies lined up for battle, but, as each creature found his place, it
stopped and stared upward at the approaching enemy.
The vast flock of dragons continued to soar overhead, dividing in two as it reached
the battlefield and pealing off into columns which flew over the heads of the assembled
army and began to circle. As Kyrell stared from the Gate to the Dragons, he watched
then form nearly a dozen spirals, evenly spaced above the legions below, soaring lazily
and waiting.
Kyrell could not help but be impressed by the assembly of this army. It was small by
the standards of the carvings he had seen – perhaps five or six thousand troops
assembled – but they had done so in a matter of minutes. This must be just the
garrison held here at the cathedral, not the major force of Satan’s army. That said, just
how big was Satan’s army? How big was Hell? For all he knew, Kyrell may be staring at
the entire demon population. Or a mere scouting patrol.
Exactly like comets streaking across the sky they came. Thousands of them, turning
the horizon from crimson to dazzling white as they descended. From his point at the top
of the stairs, standing alongside Satan, Kyrell could see them land in tiny, far-off
plumes of exploding desert sand. As he watched, more and more landed and the
heavenly army started to take shape.
He was far too far distant to see the details, but the horizon began to look like it was
covered in snow as more and more angels landed and joined ranks with their fellows.
Kyrell cleared his throat. Without looking away from the spectacle before him he
asked, “Does this happen often?”
Something between a growl and a sigh rumbled from the back of Satan’s throat.
“We are at war,” he replied, “although it is a relatively stable war. Not even the dragons
can reach the Gate, so we have no way of taking the war to our enemies, but they bring
it to us often enough. Our defences hold.”
“Why do they come?”
Satan shrugged. “It’s what they do, isn’t it? They’re angels. They’re at war with
demons. Always have been. But the war remains a stalemate until –“
“Until Armageddon,” Kyrell completed the sentence impatiently. “Yes. But why
now?”
“I think they’ve come for you.”
2.6
2.6.1
Helmsford Manor Assault
Underwood and SWAT commence assault on Helmsford
One positive aspect of having to permanently wear a full-face helmet PHUD was its
ability to almost completely exclude the roaring whine of helicopter rotor blades. The
helicopter in which Underwood presently found himself was still grounded, but the
blades were swinging at full tilt, ready for takeoff.
The gun-ships had taken off about five minutes previously. For vehicles whose
primary task was distraction, they were quite formidably armoured. Water-cooled
machine cannon were mounted beneath each of the stubby wings. Inside of these,
against the helicopter’s chassis, were mounted four air-to-ground missiles, two per
wing. Similarly, outside of the cannon were mounted four air-to-air missiles, although
these were primarily used for decoys.
To Underwood the gun-ships looked like sharks. Jet black, flying sharks who’d just
spent the value of a London sky-rise building at an arms fair. There was something
sleek and sensual, sexually evil, about the look of these mechanical beasts. They shone
in the morning sun, their white Metropolitan Police decals glinting on each side. Five
took off together, in formation. Silhouetted against the sunrise, banking simultaneously
and then screaming away as their aft jets came on was a sight to stand each hair on
Underwood’s arms on end.
Little training had been necessary on his PHUD. He could hear the general channel
and any comms intended for him directly. Each team member was represented by an
icon on his display, and could be addressed by speaking the person’s name or number,
or by choosing the icon using voice commands. The PHUD microphone was placed
against his throat to allow him to whisper communications if necessary.
Each PHUD also had a resident camera, effectively recording and relaying what the
team member saw. It was therefore possible to access the camera of a team member
and see, overlayed on his own PHUD, what that team member was seeing.
He had the additional functionality of weapons targeting software and weaponsfunction-on-voice command, but since he was not trained to use SWAT team issue
weaponry, this was useless. He carried his own side-arm – a .45-cum-stun-gun – on his
hip. It was not at all different to those carried by the police troops alongside him, except
that it was not PHUD controlled. He did not carry a rifle. If everything went according to
plan, he would not have to fire a shot. If everything went tits up, he would be
evacuated in his helicopter and still not have to fire a shot. That was the idea, anyway.
He still felt a lot better for his weapon and the extra magazines in the breast pockets of
his Kevlar jacket.
There was no crackle as comms came through onto his PHUD – none of the static
and radio-speak that had been part of the previous century’s radio communications.
Conversations remained brief to the point of being in code and vehicles retained callsigns, but there was none of the “roger-roger, 10-4” shit. The lead gun-ship’s radio
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engineer simply announced into the general band, “Satan, this is Turkey One. We are
two minutes from visual range. Confirm.”
Kendal, who was leading the operation as part of the ground force which would
enter via the front gate, had been designated “Satan”. Underwood had told the SWAT
team little about his investigation and was not entirely sure how word had got out about
the ritual murders, but it had and call signs had been ironically established accordingly.
The transport choppers were Dragons, the ground team were Demons and Kendal
himself was Satan. The gun-ships had retained the call-signs handed to them when
their mission briefing was clear: go in there and deliberately draw all the fire you can.
The Yanks called that a turkey-shoot.
“Turkey One, this is Satan. Confirm two minutes to visual contact,” replied Kendal in
a theatrical whisper. His team had left immediately after the briefing and had headed
out in what appeared to be a refrigerated transports truck. They had left the truck three
miles from the turn-off from the motorway and quick marched down to a point along
the winding road that led to the gates. Kendal and his team of seven were now hidden
in as much hedge foliage as could be found to cover midnight-blue uniforms. “All
Turkeys check in.”
“Turkey Two, ASN,” reported the first radio engineer, confirming All Systems
Nominal.
The two minute to visual range confirmation was the trigger for Underwood’s
chopper to take off. With the PHUD helmet covering his ears, the subtle change in tone
from the rotor blades was lost on Underwood and the gentle rise into the air was hardly
noticeable. It only registered with Underwood on a conscious level that the aircraft was
in the air when the whole thing angled gently forward and headed off.
His was last in a line of three helicopter transports, flying in formation away from
the rising sun. As the remaining Turkeys checked in with Kendal, each gained height
over the outskirts of East London – the base itself was somewhere between Lewisham
and Bexley, South of the Thames – and headed out towards the East coast. As the final
Turkey finished checking in, the first transport helicopter said into the general band,
“Dragon One to Satan. Dragons airborne and ASN.”
“Dragon One, this is Satan, takeoff confirmed,” whispered Kendal. “Dragons check
in.”
“Dragon Two, airborne and ASN.”
“Dragon Three, airborne and ASN.”
There followed a brief moment of radio silence. Underwood would have enjoyed the
view over East London and out into Kent, however the doors of the transport helicopter
were closed and no windows were installed to afford such a view. He knew that the twominute signal from the gun-ships had also been an indication to Kendal to get his boys
with their shoulder-mounted rocket-launchers into position, but he was not privy to the
commands Kendal was issuing to those within visual range. The chances were that he
was not using voice commands at all, but relying on time-honoured hand-signals to give
orders.
“Turkey One, check targeting system,” whispered Kendal.
“Turkey One, Foxtrot One, lock,” replied the engineer from the first gun-ship, using
his PHUD to lock the gun-ship’s targeting software on to a tree that stood high out of a
farmer’s field.
A new voice, obviously that of one of Kendal’s men carrying a missile-launcher,
replied in a monotone, radio-speak voice, “Turkey One this is Demon Six, lock on
achieved. Privately-owned Dutch Elm trees are protected by conservation law and
should not be assaulted with ground-to-ground missiles until all other avenues of
diplomacy have been exhausted.”
Behind his face-plate, Underwood smiled. In response to what must have been a
dark look from Kendal, the same voice whispered, “Sorry, sir. Turkey One, lock-on
achieved.”
Turkeys Two and Five repeated similar exercises. These had obviously been
performed several times before takeoff, but repetition heightened the men’s confidence
in the technology and gave them something to do as they approached the manor.
Target tracking and lock from the gun-ships was being effectively communicated to the
missile launchers. That was nice to know.
“Satan, this is Turkey One, thirty seconds to visual contact. I am being pinged by
radar. Turkey Three confirm?”
This had been expected. It was unlikely that Kyrell relied simply on visual
observation to secure his perimeter. Not when he had English weather to contend with:
for three months a year he could probably see no further than his front gate.
“Turkey One this is Turkey Three, confirm radar ping.”
The five gun-ships were flying in an inverse “V” formation, the apex of the “V” facing
away from the manor. They were approaching at very nearly the speed of sound, and
each slowed to allow time for them to be spotted and for the cannon to be engaged. As
the braked, they flattened out their “V” pattern to form an almost straight line.
“Visual contact,” called the voice of Turkey One. “Repeat: visual contact. Coming in
high and – we’re taking fire. Enemy has engaged. Repeat: enemy has engaged.”
Figures dressed in black appeared in the grounds of the manor, some from patrolling
and others called from wherever they rested and running from entrances, wielding
hastily grabbed weapons. The radar warning had allowed two to take up a kneeling
position in the parking yard in front of the manor and both now fired shoulder-mounted
missile launchers at the incoming aircraft.
The “V” pattern was instantly abandoned. The ground-to-air missiles had been fired
at the incoming helicopters rather than allowing them to pass over and then firing them
after. This relied on exceptional accuracy of the original launch or a long delay before
the guided missiles could correct their trajectory. Both missiles missed on initial launch
and headed out west before turning in huge arcs to follow after the gun-ships.
The gun-ships flew low and fast over the manor house, attracting no further fire.
Those carrying machine guns knew better than to open fire on titanium-hulled
helicopter gun-ships and instead found cover and conserved their ammunition.
“This is Turkey Two, I have a missile locked on. Preparing evasion.”
“This is Turkey Four. Missile lock on. Preparing evasion.” Underwood marvelled at
the BBC Newsreader tone in which the pilots announced their very serious predicament.
Three of the five gun-ships banked and turned for a second pass over the manor
house. The two with missiles locked on continued their course East, gaining height
dramatically and forcing the missiles to head upwards and therefore more slowly
against gravity. It also removed the threat of collateral damage of missile explosion to
the unthreatened gun-ships.
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Both remaining gun-ships released small air-to-air missiles, barely a foot in length,
to intercept the incoming danger. The two explosions roared almost simultaneously,
bright flashes illuminating the post-dawn sky, as the missiles fired at the police
choppers were intercepted.
“This is Turkey Four. Interception successful for both of us.”
“Glad to hear it, Turkey Four. Get your arse back down here.”
This time the helicopters were approaching out of the west into the rising sun. The
windshields on each darkened automatically as photoreceptors compensated for the
glare. Pilots and gunners both invoked heightened resolution from their PHUDs,
augmenting physical sight with radar, sonar and Infra-red input signals.
It seemed as if the roof of the manor was sliding away in four different places.
Telescoping out from behind the retreating false roof came barrels which glinted in the
morning light.
“We have a loft conversion,” reported Turkey Three, now heading the first wave of
the gun-ships speeding towards the manor. “Repeat: loft conversion. Turkeys Two and
Four, attempt lock on. We’re too close to flyby.”
Three of the cannon barrels already faced West, away from the incoming gun-ships.
The fourth was swinging rapidly to join them. The cannon would allow the choppers to
pass overhead and then fire at their retreating backs. In response, the three incoming
Turkeys split up and started a rapid ascent as they howled over the roof of the manor.
launched from the lane. The missile snaked into the air and, once sufficiently clear of its
launching mechanism, it fired it’s own rockets and initiated its guidance mechanism.
“Satan, Turkey Four. Locked.”
The confirmation came back and a second missile trailed white smoke before firing
its own rockets.
To defenders on the ground, crouched behind cover and watching the aerial battle
overhead, it seemed for an insane second as if some third party had opened fire on the
police helicopters. From the East the second wave of two gun-ships whined towards the
manor house, and from the West came two missiles, now trailing dark grey smoke as
their rockets propelled them in a state of permanent acceleration, four side-mounted
smaller rockets adjusting trajectory as they flew noiselessly towards the jet helicopters.
In a deafening instant the true picture became clear. Seconds before the helicopters
reached the manor house, the missile slammed into one of the roof-mounted cannons.
An incredible roar shook the building and orange fire burst from the cradle holding the
cannon. Debris and shattered roof tiles spun away in all directions and while they
remained airborne, the second missile plunged into a second cannon emplacement.
As the second roar burst in orange fury, scattering bricks and incandescent fireworks
of unfired rounds igniting in the inferno, both gun-ships tore through the rising smoke,
a few hazardous yards from the exploding gun emplacements. Like the first three, these
two also split off, one left and one right, to avoid the incoming fire from the remaining
two cannon.
The air thumped and tore as the cannon opened fire. Hundreds of rounds per minute
ripped into the air, the tracer-fire nearly invisible against the glare of the sunrise. Each
looked more like a telescope than a cannon, there being no human operator and
therefore no requirement for a shield. Mounted on metal casings which were bolted into
steel plating fitted into the roof, each spat angry death at the sky without recoil,
muzzle-flares exploding.
There followed a few seconds of silence. All five helicopters were arcing around for a
third fly-by of the mansion as the roof became increasingly obscured by the smoke, ash
and dust that now rose above fires quite remarkably small considering the initial
explosions.
From their vantage point in the lane leading to the Mansion, Kendal and his team
could clearly hear the cannon slamming their deafening assault into the dawn. “How
come nobody’s heard them test-fire those things?” muttered Underwood into the
general band.
“Satan, this is Turkey Five. Visual confirmation of two direct hits on Lofts One and
Three. Standby for target status.”
He got no response. Kendal spoke clearly into the general band, “Turkeys, you’re
not there to draw fire any more. I want locks. Two and Four, report.”
In theory, it was possible to fly the assault helicopters upside-down. This had been
proved possible at sane altitudes, but was not recommended at roof-top height. The
outer two gun-ships, however, were flying with blades almost perpendicular to the
ground as they dodged the incoming flack from the four cannon. The third and central
chopper had gained ear-shattering height in a matter of seconds and was deliberately
flying into the sun. It was possible that humans remotely controlled the cannon, and
irrespective of whether they did or not, the sun would obscure and distort most input
signals, however they were interpreted.
“Satan, Turkey Two. Lock-on. Confirm.”
“Turkey Two, Demon Five, confirm,” replied a member of Kendal’s team. “Loft Three
locked. Missile away.”
Underwood’s transport helicopter was not yet within sight of the manor, and
Underwood’s pilot was therefore unable to see the white smoke trail behind the missile
“Report, Turkeys,” said Kendal. “What have we done?”
The first three helicopters had deliberately increased the size of their arc on turning
to allow the remaining two helicopters who had been chased by the ground-to-air
missile time to re-enter formation. Formation was now established: the forward two
choppers would gain locks on the remaining two cannon emplacements, while the aft
three would attempt to ascertain damage to the first two cannon.
Heavy fire was definitely still coming in from the roof of the mansion, although it
was not possible to discern whether this was coming from two or more cannon. Flack
burst around the choppers as they flew towards the ground and then flattened at a
height mere yards above that of the cannon.
“Satan, Turkey Three. Lock-on. Confirm.”
“Confirm. Loft Four. Away.”
“Satan, Turkey Two. Lo-“
The front, left gunship suddenly slewed drunkenly. It narrowly missing collision with
its companion before it began to cartwheel in the air, breaking up as tremendous forces
tore at the crippled aircraft.
“Turkey Two is hit!”
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“Pull up! Pull up!”
The stricken gun-ship continued to hurtle through their air, spiralling end-over-end
helplessly. No further radio traffic came from the craft. Its four sisters fought
desperately for height to escape the debris that flew in all directions as the rotors
buckled and snapped. The tail rotor caught the top of a hedge then the cockpit slammed
into the outer fencing of Helmsford Manor. The vehicle continued to cartwheel, shedding
debris as it went, ploughing through the forest of hedges and trees that formed part of
Helmsford’s outer defences. Before coming to a standstill, the fuel lines caught fire
igniting the tank to the rear of the cockpit. With a mournfully dull whoosh the gun-ship
exploded as it continued to carve its way through the foliage.
Underwood’s first sight of the battle ahead through the pilot’s window was the rising
column of thick, black smoke which was now rising from the downed aircraft.
“Turkey Two is down,” confirmed one of the other Turkeys.
Beneath the four ascending aircraft, the launched missile arrowed towards a third
cannon, but it, too, bucked and then began to cartwheel in mid-air. Flying at ridiculous
speed, jets now accelerating the random spiral but unable to completely throw off its
initial impetus, the missile slammed through a top-floor window of the mansion before
detonating on collision with something solid: a wall or a floor. Neighbouring windows
blew outwards in an incandescent rain of glass, followed by the shattered wooden
window frames and the masonry surrounding them. The structure of the building held,
but gaping wounds where windows had been vomited heavy brickwork and rubble onto
the neat flowerbeds that surrounded the manor.
“Repeat: Turkey Two is down and burning. Fly-by aborted. Going around.”
“Turkey Five, this is Satan. Do you have visual of the lofts?”
“Ah… negative, Satan, lofts are obscured by smoke.”
“Satan, this is Turkey Three. If I follow the tracer fire there seem to be only two
remaining. The outer two. The inner two don’t seem to be firing.”
“Okay,” replied Kendal. “I want that confirmed. I want lock on those two cannon.”
Kendal disdained silly radio nicknames at the best of times. Now, with three men down,
to him they were cannon, not fucking lofts. And he wanted them silenced. “I’m leaving
two launchers at my position A and heading for the gates. Dragons One and Two, give
me ETA.”
“Satan, Dragon One. ETA one minute thirty,” replied the radio engineer from one of
the craft ahead of Underwood.
“Confirm, one minute thirty,” replied Kendal. “Dragon three, you are not to land
without my command, confirm?”
“Satan, Dragon Three,” replied the radio engineer seated next to Underwood. “We
will not land without your command.”
Underwood noticed three personnel icons on his display were now dulled: tribute to
the crew of Turkey Two.
“This is Dragon One,” called the lead transport helicopter. “That third missile missed
the target. Repeat: Loft Four remains intact. I think it got hit by cannon fire. It hit the
manor, though. Blew out the top storey.”
With painful slowness, the remaining four helicopter gun-ships came around and
prepared for their third fly-by. Underwood heard Turkey One giving orders to the other
three craft. Two would fly in high to give the missile-launchers locks. Two would fly it at
tree-top height to confirm target damage. They had come around to fly in from the
West again.
Using telescopic gun sights, the radio engineer from Turkey Four surveyed the
damage. “Wowee!” he said into the general band. “Ah, this is Turkey Four. Confirm third
missile missed target and has done some serious structural damage beneath the target,
but target remains intact. Repeat: target remains intact. I am seeing no incoming fire
from Lofts Two and Three.”
“Fuck,” cursed Kendal. Their enemy may be holed up in it, but the mansion itself
was a grade A listed building – a recognised and protected part of Britain’s architectural
heritage. There was going to be bureaucratic hell to pay for blowing up the top floor.
Mind you, in for a penny… “Okay, Turkeys, this is Satan. Permission to open fire with
onboard missiles. Target is the mansion. If we can’t hit those cannon, we can sink ‘em.”
For all the technology of the helicopter gun-ships, the onboard missiles were unguided,
another reason for the ground-based guided missile launchers. The gun-ships’ first
missiles had been guided, but those had been fired months ago. Replacements had
been unguided. Budget cuts. “Primary task remains lock on remaining two lofts.
“And keep those ground-to-air boys’ heads down. It’s time to tell them why we’re
here.”
2.6.2
Vivian/Kutulu return to Helmsford, Kutulu leaves Vivian
Through eyes over which she had so fleetingly repossessed control, Vivian looked up
and down the small lane. Kutulu jerked her head from one side to the other. He was
trying to identify the source of the explosions.
As she had lain helpless in the hedge, the roof-mounted cannon had opened fire on
the helicopter gun-ships. The racket had clattered down the lane and both Vivian and
Kutulu suddenly realised that they had heard helicopters rushing overhead just seconds
before.
The rattle of the cannon had then suddenly been engulfed by the roar of two almost
simultaneous explosions. Vivian felt the sound in her stomach as much as hearing it
with her ears, and Kutulu had forced her body out of the hedge, ignoring the tears to
clothing and skin. He now stood on the road and searched in all directions for the source
of the noise.
There followed a period of brief silence. Immediately before the howl of helicopter
blades returned, Vivian and Kutulu heard the jogging sounds of approaching footsteps.
Kutulu turned Vivian swiftly and started sprinting back towards the mansion.
Her body was exceptionally fit, and Vivian’s sprinting pace was quick. Even so,
Kutulu pushed the capabilities of her body, and she felt muscles straining in protest at
the unaccustomed strength. As she reached the gate, calf-muscles complaining more
and more loudly at their abuse, a huge thud not twenty yards to the left caught both of
their attention. Kutulu turned her head in time to see the fifty-foot helicopter tumble
end-over-end through the forest at the other side of the gate. As it rolled, branches and
rotor blades careering dangerously in all direction, it turned from a disintegrating
leviathan to a roaring ball of smoky flame in a gut-pounding instant. It ploughed on for
several more yards, eventually coming to rest not far from the outskirts of the manor.
Kutulu stared at the closed gates for a second. “Open them,” his voice boomed
within Vivian’s mind.
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I need control of my implants, she replied.
“I know.” Vivian groped mentally for her implant interface and found she had
access to it. She issued the command to open the gate. As the gates began to trundle
apart she felt a searing mental pain slice through her mind and her implant interface
disappeared. She tried again to access it, but failed utterly.
As Kutulu began to run Vivian between the gates, the upper floor of the mansion
erupted. Brickwork and plaster followed glass and woodwork as it rained down onto the
parked cars and flowerbeds at the front of the mansion. Kutulu saw and ignored it,
running on towards the house.
Vivian was now in considerable pain. Her legs were whining bitterly at their abuse,
her head echoed with the pain of being severed from her implants and her skin was
laced with cuts and tears from the hedge, into which sweat now poured. Again she
attempted to access her implants, and this time there was a similar sensation to that
when Kutulu had left for the first time. Only with a miniscule and distracted part of his
consciousness was Kutulu controlling Vivian’s body – the vast majority of his intellect
was channelled at the implants. It seemed to Vivian as if a long corridor was opening up
in her mind, through the implants she could not quite access. The mental image was of
seeing a dark, endless tunnel through clear, bullet-proof glass.
The distinct sensation was one of searching. Seeking. Probing. Kutulu was looking
for something, but not by performing a normal implant search. He was out there,
physically looking. He existed in her and in the network simultaneously, and the
realisation rocked Vivian. That’s where he’d been when she had regained brief control of
her body. He had transferred himself into the Internet.
Suddenly there was a dizzying rush, the mental barrier between herself and her
implants shattered at the instant in which the dark tunnel caved in on itself and control
returned once more to her body. She tripped and stumbled, grazing her knees and she
tumbled onto the gravel, debris still falling from the ruined upper storey of Helmsford
Manor.
Training and instinct took over. She rolled and came upright, ignoring the pain and
temporarily shielding her mind from the questions it was begging to ask. She needed
every faculty to stay alive now. Helmsford was under siege – somebody with
considerable resources was trying to get in. In the absence of Kyrell – and he was truly
absent as only she knew – left her effectively in charge. She had to regain control of the
situation.
As she ran for cover from the falling debris, she accessed her implants and opened a
channel to all security staff.
Alright, this is Vivian Lancaster. I need section commanders –
“This is the London Metropolitan Police,” a monstrously loud voice boomed from the
direction of the returning helicopters. Even at a (rapidly closing) distance of over a mile,
the voice was quite clear and becoming swiftly louder. “We have the legal right to
search these premises. Stand where you are with both hands raised. Please drop your –
“
2.6.3
Underwood and Swat Team continue assault
“Satan, this is Turkey Four. Lock-on. Confirm.”
“Turkey Four, Demon Five. Loft On. Confirm. Away.”
The missile hurtled above the heads of the remainder of Kendal’s team as they
doubled towards the gates. They were making no attempt to remain covert – in the
general noise their equipment made as they ran they had not heard Vivian running
ahead of them. Unburdened by military paraphernalia, she had also unknowingly outrun
them.
Kendal looked up to watch the smoke trail behind the missile as it blasted itself
towards the cannon. The missile itself disappeared over the tops of the surrounding
trees a second before an almighty explosion rocked the ground they ran over. As they
felt the detonation, the second gun-ship announced lock-on.
Kendal ignored the brief radio chatter as Turkey One and Demon Six confirmed lockon. He was running towards a swiftly closing gate, twenty foot high and made out of
something that didn’t look particularly flimsy. He unslung his rifle from his shoulder and
issued PHUD commands at it as he levelled it. Firing from the hip he pulled the trigger
and two electrodes attached to filament cables fired from beneath the barrel.
Ordinarily used for crowd control, this was the electric charge of the weapon. The
electrodes poured relatively high voltage into whomever (or whatever) they hit,
temporarily stunning the victim but causing no lasting harm. They were regarded as
humane, although they were arguably more painful that a bullet wound. They just did a
lot less damage.
Nothing happened to the gates as the electrodes hit. Kendal cursed, issued the
command to sever the filaments that remained attached to the rifle, and slowed to a jog
as his team caught up.
“Rifle didn’t short it,” he reported on their team band so as not to distract his
airborne colleagues. “Take cover in the hedges, I’m going to try a grenade.”
The small group dispersed to the sides of the road. Kendal ran left and knelt behind
as much foliage as he could find without obscuring his shot. He removed one of the
small grenades from his knee pocket and attached it to the barrel of his rifle. He used
his PHUD to select the grenade launcher function, locked the gates as his target, called
the time-honoured, “Fire in the hole!” and pulled the trigger. As the weapon recoiled, he
ducked down into the foliage with his arm over his head.
A sudden gust of wind and dust followed the roar of the grenade and Kendal looked
up. While now scarred and charred, the gates remained intact.
“Fuck,” he muttered in frustration. He issued the command to his PHUD to change
channel and then addressed himself to the incoming transport helicopters. “Dragon One
this is Satan, do you have a fix on the front gates?”
“Ah… Satan, Dragon One, yes, what happened?”
“Nothing, just tried to open them with a grenade. Failed. Please change course to
fire your cannon on the gate.”
“Are you clear, sir?”
“We will be. ETA?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Back, double, now!” Kendal called to his group and all sprinted back up the lane to
avoid the incoming 65mm cannon fire.
The four gun-ships had reached the end of their arc and were returning to assess
the damage done by the last two shoulder-launched missiles. The roof of the mansion
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was now completed obscured by dust, smoke and flame. Neither infra-red nor heatdetection could discern cannon from brickwork, but there was now no incoming fire
from the roof.
“Satan, Turkey One, the lofts do not appear to be returning fire, but we have no
visual contact. I cannot confirm target status.”
“Lock on the building beneath,” puffed Kendal as he sprinted for cover. “And quickly,
the transports are coming in.”
Once again the radio chatter commenced in Kendal’s PHUD as the gun-ships and
ground troops negotiated the acquisition of target locks.
By now a hundred yards from the gate, Kendal heard the whine of the first transport
helicopter and dove into a hedge at the side of the road. He turned to look back and
saw between the railings of the gates the outline of a woman running towards the
building. She stumbled, fell, rolled and came up running again. It struck Kendal that she
had done so in a rather gymnastic manner. For some odd reason, in the middle of one
of the most cataclysmic gunfights of his career, he briefly admired whatever training
she had received.
“Satan, Dragon One, ten seconds, you clear?” came the engineer of the transport
helicopter in Kendal’s PHUD.
“Fire away.”
The air shook and tore as the transport helicopter swept in over Kendal’s position,
the sound of wing-mounted cannon fire battering at his innards. The helicopter was
slowing and coming to hover almost exactly above Kendal’s head, the sound of its
rotors, the downdraft, the recorded warnings and the firing cannon splitting his head
despite the protection of his PHUD helmet. He thought it deafening, but then the
missiles tore past – miraculously close to the hovering transport – and sank deep into
the upper floors of the manor house.
The explosion rocked the transport as it hovered above Kendal, the pilot struggled
briefly to maintain equilibrium. Plaster, woodwork and brickwork sailed through the air
and a mushroom of smoke began to form above the manor house. Smoke, dust and
flame engulfed the upper floor and Kendal’s ears rang as the explosion echoed away.
“Satan, Dragon One, the gates are open.”
Kendal looked up. So they were! They lay in tatters, flung inwards by the force of
the helicopter cannon, whose firing had been lost in the rage of the missile explosions.
“Excellent. Thanks, Dragon One. Turn off the radio, they’ve got the message.”
floors, however, seemed to be holding. The neatly manicured lawns around Kendal and
his troops were littered with the debris of the assault on the cannon. Kendal noticed the
barrel of a cannon sticking up out of the ground to his left, the twisted and blackened
metal smoking.
Kendal looked from the ruined gun back to the roof of the mansion. It was hard to
imagine any of the guns having survived, but Kendal had reached his elevated position
of SWAT team leader precisely because he lacked anything resembling an imagination.
He would have to see three more barrels buried in the garden to be satisfied.
He heard machinegun fire chattering to his left and turned to see his troops
flattening themselves against the ground. They were returning fire to a point within the
house he could not see. His troops and those to his right appeared to have arrived
unmolested.
“Turkeys this is Satan, one more fly-by. Repeat, one more fly-by. I want the best
visuals you can get on those cannon. I want status on those targets.”
“Acknowledged,” came the response.
“Dragon Three Leader,” called Kendal. The band for the transport helicopter was
shared by those within it, and the call-sign “Dragon” now referred to the disgorged
assault police returning fire on the mansion. “Do you require assistance?”
In answer a small explosion blew outwards from a ground-floor window opposite
where his troops lay. Following a brief pause the group leader replied, “Negative, Satan.
Target neutralised.”
To his right, Kendal watched the troops from Dragon One approach the manor in
swift bursts of movement without attracting fire. To his left, Dragon Three’s troops were
rising from their prone firing positions and doing likewise. Kendal turned to his own
group and signalled them to advance. Behind the five men who accompanied him,
Kendal saw the two who had remained to take out the last of the cannon doubling to
join him.
Kendal accessed local area map schematics using his helmet PHUD. Helmsford
Manor was essentially L-shaped. The longer arm of the L ran north-south and it was
above this wing that the cannon had been mounted. The gates through which Kendal
had just entered the property were at the south-western corner of the property, at the
corner of the L. The main entranceway was at the centre of the longer wing, in front of
which Dragon Three had landed and from which they had received sporadic fire. At the
corner of the L, to the rear, a staircase led to all three floors and down to the rear
entrance and parking lot, a gravel opening in the sheltered enclosure created by the L.
While Dragon One had been opening the gates for Kendal, Dragon Three had
reached its drop-off zone about two hundred yards to the left of the gate and was now
hovering a metre off the ground as a dozen SWAT troops leapt from the hull and formed
a protective ring. Now Dragon One was doing likewise, about two hundred yards to the
right of the gate. Kendal and his men ran between the ruined gateposts, over the gates
themselves, and knelt with rifles ready.
The plan, rehearsed during the week running up to the assault, had not accounted
for the partial destruction of the main wing of the building. Signalling to his men to
follow him, Kendal headed left to join the troops from Demon Three and asses the
structural condition of this wing. He was not going to send his men into a death trap. It
also occurred to him that the basement – the primary objective for this operation and
the one room not on his schematic – could be cut off should this wing take any more
damage. He cursed his impetuous decision to fire on the building beneath the cannon
but, in his defence, he had just lost a helicopter-gunship and had needed the cannon
silenced as swiftly as possible.
The manor house was quite remarkably intact considering what had just been done
to it. Kendal knew from reconnaissance photographs that it should have been three
stories high – four if you included the open cannon emplacements. It now appeared to
stand two stories high with a roof of smoke going up several more stories. The lower
“All teams will hold their position until I give the order,” Kendal announced into the
general band as he jogged up to where Dragon Three Leader, a six-foot-five constable
from Yorkshire with a kind face and shoulders built to carry an elephant, stood with his
back to the wall alongside the main entrance.
The engineer acknowledged the order and, a few seconds later, the recorded voice
stopped abruptly as the transport moved away towards the manor house.
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“How much damage have we done?” he asked the leader on closed band. The
conversation was not particularly private, but Kendal preferred not to offer his men
unnecessary distractions during contact.
The tall policeman lifted heavily browed eyes to the structure above him. The fall of
rubble had stopped and while the cannon had fallen into the top storey, they remainder
of the building appeared to be holding up.
“Made ‘em to last in them days,” he replied. “Can’t see proper, though. Wally,” he
said to his PHUD, indicating a member of his team to be included in the conversation.
“Wally?”
“Sir.”
“You still over by the hedge?”
“Covering you, sir.”
“Aye, well, tell us what you can see of the building, lad. How stable does it look?”
There was a pause.
“I shouldn’t like to say, sir, to be honest. It looks alright – no obvious cracks below
the first floor – but I wouldn’t like to say it’s all okay.”
Kendal said Underwood’s name and included him in the conversation. “Sir?”
“Uh-huh?” replied Underwood.
“Any idea where this basement of yours is?”
“No, Frank, sorry,” he replied. “Why?”
2.7
2.7.1
Heavenly Battle, Vivian and Kyrell arrested
Satan explains heavenly battle
It looked like an exceptionally localised storm of comets to begin with – points of
light streaking across the sky, their brilliance emphasised by the void-black backdrop of
the mighty Gate, trailing a white mist behind them. From this distance they remained
dimensionless points: no detail could be discerned of their appearance.
Kyrell, now more acutely aware than ever of his nakedness, stared for a moment at
the thousands of light points as they descended towards the arid desert plain. From the
elevation of the Cathedral entrance, he could see where they were landing, but their
gathering points were obscured by the heat haze.
His ignorance irritated him. He was accustomed to knowing at least as much as any
with whom he spoke, yet in this place – an area on which he should be a leading
authority – he was utterly bereft of the knowledge with which he desperately needed to
be armed. For starters, Kutulu had spoken of his race dying in their millions at the
onslaught of the angelic invaders, yet Satan had said that demons could not die until
they met their unavoidable demise at the end of their age.
“Explain to me how battle works when you can’t be killed,” he said to Satan without
removing his gaze from the storm of angels.
“A good point,” replied the Lord of Darkness who also stared at the incoming
invaders. “Your faiths believe in spiritually good and evil entities who battle each other
throughout the ages for the fate of mankind, yet they also demand a certain longevity
from their deities. Imagine, for example, if the angels you see right now were to break
through my lines and kill me. How would Christianity cope without its arch enemy?”
“We’ve blown the hell out of this place,” said Kendal. “I’m worried about the building
staying upright.”
It was a point Kyrell had debated previously – without evil, good lost most of its
power and appeal. That also worked in reverse.
Behind the main wing Kendal heard a brief stutter of gunfire from where Demon
One’s team had taken up their positions. He paused to listen, but the sound was not
repeated.
“I suppose,” said Satan, turning to face Kyrell and cocking his head to one side in an
easily understandable gesture of irony, “it argues the existence of God. Somebody,
somewhere has to try and reconcile your conflicting beliefs into a workable reality for
us.” He looked away, back towards the angels. “The truth is that we sleep. If you
imagine life to be the existence of life-energy within a body, then the result of a mortal
wound here is the removal of that energy from the body. The energy returns over time
– effectively we recover from death – but it excludes that combatant from the current
battle.”
“Demon One Leader?”
“It came from inside the building, sir. Can’t see anything at the moment.”
Kendal knew a decision had to be made. And they hadn’t come all this way for
nothing.
“Okay,” into the general band, “Turkeys, thanks very much. Return to base.
Demons, take up your positions for entry.” Most of the Demon One team left their
positions to move around to the rear entrance, leaving two men to cover the windows
and ensure nobody attempted to leave the building that way. Demon Three team were
already in position, two men covering the windows from the cover of the hedge and the
remainder prepared to punch in the front entrance.
“Demon Two, prepare to deliver Grim Reaper.” Underwood smiled: he’d wondered
what his call-sign was.
“So you lie down and count to ten,” said Kyrell, recalling childish games he had
played in his youth, imitating the deadly pursuits of his elders in the same way all
children did: playing cops and robbers.
Satan chuckled: a low, rumbling sound that appeared to emanate from his torso
rather than his throat. “Something like that.”
“And this happens often?”
Satan turned to face Kyrell squarely. His stare indicated that he had suddenly tired
of this conversation: his patience was running thin. “I do not know what it was like in
Kutulu’s time,” he said, a hint of anger behind his voice. “And I don’t know how much
he explained to you of what it was like in his time, but we are occupied, Magus.” He
pointed towards the Gate. “Those are our rulers. They took this planet by force aeons
ago – they have ruled over the races of demons for all the history of humankind – and
that is somewhat longer than your historians imagine. They ruled Kutulu, they ruled
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those that came before him and they now rule us. They come and go as they please,
they rape what remains of this planet, take what they want and then leave. We resist
them because we have pride, but your precious religions ensure that our victories are
sparse indeed and you,” he stabbed a claw towards Kyrell, “have caused as much
suffering in this realm as anybody.”
“Me?”
Satan glared at the Magus. “Satanists, voodoo worshippers, magi – those people
who summon us to do their work. We respond because we have to and because we
hope to find some way to take the battle to the enemy by harnessing the power of
humankind, but there are always consequences. Somebody finds out, some human gets
hurt, somewhere along the line the evil you unleashed gets out of control and in fear
you do what you always do when you’re scared and hurt and dying: you pray.” He
paused, allowing the concept to sink in. “Maybe not you personally, maybe somebody
who cares for you or loves you or wants to stop the evil you are summoning. But
somebody, somewhere starts to pray.
“And they unleash Heaven.”
Kyrell held Satan’s glare for a few seconds and then turned to look back at the battle
preparations below the Cathedral. “Somebody’s prayed for me?”
“Or against you. It’s the same thing, really.”
2.7.2
Decimation of Satan’s Guard, Kyrell returns to Helmsford
It did not require a vast understanding of spiritual battle to grasp the vital role of
the dragons in their swarmed flocks, circling above the assembled demonic ranks:
angels fly, demons don’t.
Ignoring their inhuman shapes, the demonic battalions could easily have been
mistaken for any ancient or medieval army assembling for battle. Regiments took up
either square of line formations depending on their position on the battlefield. The
centre warriors formed squares hundred of demons deep, while on the flanks the
formations were flatter, there to discourage outflanking rather than provide a point of
strength. The limitations of this army were abundant – no cavalry, no artillery, just a
few thousand infantry armed with swords, axes and spears. For all their grotesque
appearance and malevolence they bore worrying resemblance to a hastily assembled
middle-age peasant army. This could only be a defence, and a desperate one at that.
By contrast, the angelic battle-formation was a three-dimensional, dynamic and
living thing. With the exception of the dragons, the demons formed up in two
dimensions, the angels in three. The heavenly host was as high as it was deep and
broad, continually moving and coalescing between a sphere and a cube. The ultimate
union of infantry and air force: it was impossible (and, indeed, irrelevant) to discern
where one began and the other ended.
There was high level of cohesion to what could best be described as the angelic
cloud that appeared to float towards the cathedral. The dragons swarmed – at best they
flocked. The angels swam through space with infinite grace, somehow combining the
appearance of gentle beauty and military might.
There could only be one outcome to this encounter. Kyrell had spent his life
weighing odds in violent conflict – although admittedly not on this scale – and knew the
value of strategic withdrawal.
“You can’t win this,” he said. “It’s impossible.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Satan retained his tone of mild annoyance. “The point
is that we fight. Winning is a luxury.”
“You’ll be massacred.”
“We can’t die.”
“I’m not sure that applies to me.”
It was over in a truly appalling display of brutal efficiency. As it approached, the
angelic cloud coalesced and fell, such that, but the time the front ranks of advancing
demons encountered the enemy, it had formed a dome which completely encompassed
the black army. It was wider than the advancing ranks by a few hundred yards, taller
than the altitude of swarming dragons – a solid wall of incandescent light. It moved with
what appeared from Kyrell’s vantage point to be deliberate and unfaltering slowness,
advancing as a single entity, a united organism composed of thousands of points of
infernally bright light.
Little of the noise of battle reached the upper courtyard of the cathedral. The angelic
host ploughed inexorably towards the steps, showing absolutely no sign of weakening or
slowing, and the diabolic horde was simply and effectively overrun, consumed as the
cloud ground onward. Kyrell could not see through or behind it to make out what
became of the thousands of Hell’s legions who, for all the effect they appeared to have,
may as well not have been present.
To the final, rearmost rank the demons held strong and marched to their temporary
doom. Above them, dragons pealed away and flew with panicked speed from the fray.
They alone chose survival over conflict, and a healthy proportion of their swarm
disappeared towards the three visible horizons, leaving the warriors below to their fate.
Bats out of Hell, thought Kyrell bitterly, struck by their singular lack of commitment to
the fray once the outcome was even vaguely certain.
A few dozen yards from the lower steps the cloud came to a halt, having devoured
all of the satanic battalions. No attempt was made to chase down the felling dragons.
The objective was clearly the cathedral – indeed it seemed to Kyrell that the cloud of
angels had shown something bordering contempt for the skirmish they had been forced
to rout in order to achieve the position they now held.
At this distance, Kyrell could now make out the individuals that made up the
effortlessly victorious host. Just as the demons he had seen assembled in the cathedral
chamber had exactly resembled a classic medieval Christian idea of hell’s denizens, so
the angels seemed to come straight out of an early Renaissance painting of harpplaying, cloud-borne seraphim. Flowing blonde hair, long white robes, dazzling bright
swords and six-foot, feathery wings. Each a paragon of heavenly conformity to the
angelic ideal.
Satan turned his head to face Kyrell. He then bowed it slightly and took a single step
backwards. Kyrell had time for one last glance at his defeated master before the
contrived reality of humanity’s fervent hopes and fears twisted, took on a nauseating
translucency and dissolved into impenetrable blackness. The void surrounded him, and
he looked up into the same vortex tunnel that had brought him tumbling to Hell’s desert
stronghold.
2.7.3
Vivian and Kyrell in the basement
Vivian lay partially obscured by a car parked outside the mansion. She crawled up to
it and tried to huddle herself into as small a space as she possibly could. She considered
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hiding beneath the vehicle, but abandoned the thought on the basis that it would
seriously hamper her mobility. She may need to move in a hurry.
slid and he cursed as he grabbed it and straightened it so the image from his PHUD was
again visible.
Looking under the car between the wheels, she could see the gates and the
approaching SWAT assault policemen. She watched them approach the gates, fail to
open them and then retreat. The deafening roar of approaching helicopters grew louder
on both sides and then the gates were blown inwards, ripped apart in a hail of highcalibre gunfire. Smoke obscured the gateway, but she knew the men would advance
through it and from both sides as she heard the helicopter transports hovering above
the grounds to her left and right. The mind-numbing assault of the broadcast
announcement ended abruptly, to be replaced by a brief chatter of gunfire to her left.
She could not leave the grounds – not immediately at any rate – and she would
definitely be discovered where she lay. With the briefest glance at the smoke that still
obscured the gates, Vivian leapt to her feet and scampered in a crouched run for the
main doorway entrance to Helmsford Manor.
He looked from the ruined gates to the smouldering remains of the roof artillery.
“Had fun, did we?”
She dashed through the door and closed it behind her. She even took the time to
lock it before she raced across the marble-floored reception hall towards the
passageway that led off to her half-right. It led to the large kitchen/dining room area
and, further along, to some of the accommodation rooms used by the security staff.
The third door on the left of the passageway was slightly ajar. She flung it open,
scuttled into the gleaming white room beyond and again shut the door. She was
breathing heavily from the exertion and she coughed dizzyingly as the ammonia burnt
the back of her throat.
This was the holding room where bodies were processed, prepared for disposal. It
was kept scrupulously clean in order to prevent infection for those who handled the
corpses and to eradicate any smell should they be forced to hold onto the dead longer
than was ideal. Vivian had long become used to the concept that a room existed within
Helmsford for the processing of the dead. It was a necessary function given the nature
of Kyrell’s operation and his occult delectations and it made sense to have a facility at
the manor. As many bodies were brought to the manor for disposal as were generated
by its grim activities. It was not a steady stream either: Vivian could probably count on
two hands the number of bodies that had passed through this room since she had come
to know Kyrell five years previously.
Across the room was a large cupboard and Vivian dashed for it. She opened it to
reveal laboratory coats hanging from a rail. Vivian pulled down hard on the rail and then
let go as the inner space of the cupboard opened away from her to reveal a small room.
In the centre of the room a stairway led down into the basement of the Mansion. Again
Vivian took time to close the door behind her before allowing herself to bend over,
hands on her knees, to catch her breath.
The last thing she expected to hear as her ragged breathing slowly became more
even was a winded grunt followed by a vague moan from the chamber below.
2.7.4
Kendal and Underwood find the basement
“Welcome to Helmsford Manor, sir.”
Underwood could not see Kendal’s face beneath his PHUD helmet to tell whether the
comment shouted above the howl of the rotor blades, and the accompanying casual
salute, were intended as ironic. Maybe the man did have the rudiments of a sense of
humour. Underwood landed heavily as he jumped from the transport helicopter
hovering just over a metre above the lawn outside the manor. As he landed his helmet
“The perimeter is secure, sir,” replied Kendal. “So is the entrance hall and the
ground floor.”
“Found anything?”
“Like what?”
“Never mind,” Underwood looked beyond Kendal to where nearly a dozen of Kyrell’s
guards were kneeling in the gravel with their hands behind their heads, watched by four
SWAT team members carrying rifles.
Kendal led Underwood past the kneeling captives, through the large, double doors
and into the mansion’s entrance hall. The door closed behind them, shutting out a
decent proportion of the noise. He reached up to remove his helmet.
“Please leave that on, sir,” said Kendal.
“I thought…”
“There may still be targets within the building, sir.”
“Okay,” muttered Underwood. The sweat was running down his temples and into his
collar. Ordinarily this would have severely dented his notorious temper, but today he
was having fun. “You haven’t had a chance to talk to any of them, have you?” he asked,
pointing with his thumb towards the door.
“The targets? No, sir. We’ll want to separate them first.”
“Of course. Schematic. Map. Floor plan.” Underwood paused. “Shit! How do I get the
layout of this place on my PHUD?”
“That would be a code 356,” said Kendal. “Just say, ‘Code 356’ into your PHUD.”
Underwood did as he was told and an overlay appeared in his PHUD monocle,
exactly overlaying the outlines of the walls and doors in front of him. Written in small,
inconspicuous script were notes as to what led off where. He turned to face the corridor
that led off to his right and words appeared alongside the entranceway. Lounge.
Drawing Room. Recreation Area. Access to upper floor via staircase.
The effect was a little dizzying, but Underwood had used this technology before and
he persevered. He knew it to be invaluable in time-critical searches. To the best of his
knowledge this search was not time critical now that the building had been (partially)
secured, except for the fact that the building could very possibly collapse around all of
them at any moment.
He turned to the opposite passageway entrance. Kitchen. Sleeping quarters.
Room function unspecified. Access to rear entrance and upper floor via
staircase. Underwood frowned. “You looking at this, Frank?”
Kendal nodded. “The source couldn’t have known about that area,” he said, referring
to the mole Kent Police had had in the building and whose files Underwood had
reviewed in London. “The schematic knows of the room because we’ve entered it, but
does not know the room’s function.”
“Should we start there?”
Page 99 of 137
Kendal opened a channel to his troops. “East ground floor corridor,” he said. “Third
room on the left. Is that room secure?”
After a pause, “Yes, sir. Looks like a surgery or operating theatre or something.
Smells of bathroom cleaner. Medical tools and white gowns in the cupboards. Also some
chemicals.”
“Okay, we’re coming.”
Underwood entered the room ahead of Kendal and looked around it. It was small,
perhaps four yards down each wall, and what looked for all the world like an operating
table dominated the centre. Smoothly and instantly, Underwood slipped from being a
child playing cops and robbers with the big boys to a detective surveying a potential
crime scene. He stood absolutely still, blocking Kendal’s path through the doorway, and
looked around the room with deliberately slowness. Other side the table a SWAT trooper
stood with his rifle across his chest.
Underwood dug into the pockets of his body armour and fished out a pencil and
small clipboard with blank, white paper. He started to draw a crude floor-plan of the
room, then began to annotate the drawing.
Kendal pushed past him. “Sir, the PHUD will record –“
“Frank,” Underwood snarled. “I’m busy.”
Nobody moved for a few minutes as Underwood’s drawing took shape. When he was
finished and satisfied with what he had produced, he walked to the first cupboard on the
left-hand side and opened it. He found bottles of what appeared to be medicine on two
shelves, each neatly labelled. Again he scribbled on his pad.
Kendal and the SWAT trooper exchanged glances. “Sir?”
“Huh?”
“Sir, we’ll be outside.”
“Huh.” By now Underwood was engrossed in what he did best. Meticulous attention
to detail, an absolute record of absolutely everything. A physical record of absolutely
everything. This was why Underwood was as good at his job as he was – an apparently
inexhaustible patience and thorough attention to every detail. It was at complete odds
with his short-tempered personality, as many colleagues had learnt to their detriment,
but absolute and unshakeable.
With a building the size of Helmsford Manor, he could he here for weeks.
“Please step away, sir,” replied Kendal, and Underwood willingly obliged. He walked
around the table to stand in the doorway as the two troops rounded the table the other
way. Musical operating tables, thought Underwood as they all shuffled anti-clockwise.
Kendal stepped back and instructed the first policeman to remove the coats from
their hangers. He laid his rifle on the table and took each garment out individually,
laying one on top of the other on the table beside his rifle. With the cupboard empty he
picked up the rifle again as Kendal inspected the interior of the cupboard.
“This rail pulls down,” said Kendal to nobody in particular. He looked at his men,
“Ready?”
Each nodded and Kendal pulled down on the clothes rail.
2.7.5
Vivian and Kyrell arrested
The three SWAT troops descended the staircase as slowly and silently as possible,
the noise and swearing from below covering their approach. Underwood had now
walked across the white room and stood in the cupboard watching the policemen
descend. The first held his rifle pointing forwards. Kendal, in the centre, held his rifle
pointing towards the ground while the last descended backwards. Underwood’s attention
to detail forced him to acknowledge the skill of being able to descend a stone staircase
backwards without watching your step.
Above a woman’s voice that was screaming a vehement, “Fuck you, Kyrell!” Kendal’s
own voice, slightly and deliberately amplified by his PHUD microphone, spoke with stern
authority, “Freeze! Remain exactly where you are. Don’t move. Sir?”
Underwood approached and then descended the staircase. Below was a dimly-lit
room which resembled the one in which he had found Micky Jackson except for its size.
It was huge, easily fifty yards across by thirty wide.
In the centre, just to the side of a pentagram etched into the cobbled floor, a man
stood stark naked, staring hatred at the policemen who covered him with their rifles.
Behind him, shackled to a far wall, hung a dark-haired woman in the black uniform of a
security guard. Blood dribbled from her mouth, but her eyes also burned with hatred
and defiance.
“Kyrell Trepan,” said Underwood, disappointed that his quarry could not see the look
of triumph his PHUD helmet obscured. “Vivian Lancaster. You are both under arrest for
the rape and attempted murder to Kayleigh D’Arte. You do not have to say anything,
but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you may later rely
on in court. You have the right to a solicitor…”
It took half-an-hour.
“Backup,” Kendal heard Underwood whisper urgently. “Backup now!”
Kendal and two of his assault policemen entered the white room swiftly and almost
silently. Underwood stood in front of a cupboard full of white coats.
“Sir?” asked Kendal, coming around the table to stand alongside Underwood.
“See here,” Underwood pointed with his pencil at the inside of the cupboard, the
rear corner, partially obscured from Kendal by the lab coats. “That seam doesn’t close
properly. All the other cupboards have dovetail joints in their rear panelling, sealing the
side walls and the rear panel. This one doesn’t. There’s something behind here.”
Page 100 of 137
3
Book Three
“And crawling on the planet’s face
Some insects called the human race
Lost in time and lost in space
And meaning.”
- Richard O’Brien, “Superheroes”, The Rocky Horror Picture Show
3.1
3.1.1
Discoveries
Rune’s team discuss hacking implants
But I’m in hospital, complained Nils seconds after accepting the call which
identified itself as coming from Rune, but turned out to be a conference of minds
including the vast majority of the Data Security team.
You’re fine, Janice chided him. You’ve got some stitches on your head.
You’re not dying. Janice chose not to inform Nils that she knew he actually remained
in hospital under observation following mental health concerns. The injury to his head
had resulted in some rather bizarre hallucinations.
Rune began, Nils, I’ll forward you the data once we’ve got it together in
some sort of order for you, but we’ve swept the entire system. There is no
sign of the Tapeworm files. They’re gone.
There was a pause as Nils thought this through. That’s just like the last time.
It’s like I said: this tapeworm behaves like a single, living organism. It
doesn’t just multiply and leave copies of itself all over the place. It leaves and
takes itself with it. That is what we were expecting.
Yes, said Rune. But that does make identifying it rather more difficult – and
inoculation almost impossible.
We’ve recorded its signature, said Nils.
Yes, but without a copy of the entire virus we don’t know what it does or
how it does what it does. All we know is what it looks like.
I have a theory, said Nils after a pause.
Yes? asked Rune.
Nils paused again. It was the mental equivalent of taking a deep breath. Lying in
his hospital bed in Constantiaberg hospital in the Southern suburbs of Cape Town, Nils
actually did take a breath. He opened his eyes to look around him, as if anybody
present could overhear his thoughts on a secure channel, then closed them again to
continue.
I know I’m not here because of my head, he began. Well, not the injuries to
it anyway. Seated at his desk, Rune exchanged a glance with Janice who sat opposite
him. They were alone in his office, sharing the neural communications link with their
team scattered throughout the Simonstown facility.
I told the doctors what I experienced during the attack. They suspect
damage to my frontal lobe and I can’t say I blame them, but I think there’s a
simpler solution. Again a pause. Nobody cared to interrupt him.
In the moments following the attack yesterday, Nils had been brought out of the
data centre where he had powered down the server computers to physically prevent
the advance of the Tapeworm. He had been unconscious and the amount of blood had
been quite staggering: he had gashed his head open on the metal racks which housed
the computers as he had fallen.
Nils had briefly regained consciousness before the paramedics had arrived. His
words had been mumbled and slurred, but what he had said had been heard clearly
enough by the members of his team who had stood around him in a worried huddle.
“He’s after my thoughts. He’s in my head. He’s gone now, but he was in my head.”
Accompanying this had been what could best be described as the neural equivalent of
cacophony: he had been transmitting a jumble of random words from his implants,
some of which made no sense at all. Sword. Liol. Kutulu. Pain. Wants the
satellites. Armageddon. War. Pain. Liol. Fuck. Pain.
Just words, repeated over and over on open channel, even once he had finished
speaking. Only a sedative from the bewildered paramedics had stopped the
transmission – it had taken Janice a few frustrating minutes to explain to the medics
that a now apparently unconscious Nils was transmitting mental words that they could
hear. Few not actively involved in the Information Technology industry knew of the
development of neural implants. Xenix knew there would be moral implications with
developing technology that allowed mental communication and while it did not actively
hide this research, it also didn’t go out of its way to advertise it either.
Implants can be hacked, said Nils from his hospital bed. In theory, at least,
they can be hacked.
Only Xenix has the technology to produce them, replied Rune. They are as
secure as we can –
They’re available on the black market, Nils interjected.
Yes, we know, said Rune, but there really is no point in hacking an implant.
It’s not like you can read people’s thoughts with them. The information is on
the servers, not in the input/output devices, whether they’re keyboards,
PHUDs or implants. What would be the point in hacking implants?
Again Nils paused. Are we sure the implants only access cognitive centres?
Now you’re getting paranoid.
No, wait, hang on. This Tapeworm isn’t after information. It hasn’t taken
anything off our servers in two attacks. It had ample opportunity on both
occasions and it took nothing. We have no idea what it is supposed to do, but
it doesn’t destroy data and it doesn’t steal it. Again he paused. Another thing:
what happened to you, Janice?
In Rune’s office, Janice looked directly at Rune. What do you mean?
You fell. Just as I was going to the data centre, you fell.
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I blanked out.
Forgive me, Janice… and if I’m out of line, please tell me… but do you
often get blackouts like that?
Janice sucked in her bottom lip in thought. No.
Janice, you are team leader. Well, manager, but you were in charge – the
head of the operation. For no reason, in the middle of the attack, you just
blacked out. Then I blacked out because I was trying to turn off the server.
The two greatest threats to the Tapeworm’s mission – whatever that may
have been – blacked out within seconds of each other during the attack.
Janice didn’t wake up rambling about somebody trying to steal her
thoughts, said Liol. Following a brief pause he added, Sorry, boet, but that is what
happened.
Well maybe it could –
I did have the feeling something was reading my thoughts, Janice
interrupted. She almost laughed at the expression this revelation brought to Rune’s
face. It was like being inside my body but not controlling it. Just for a second.
I though of you, Nils. It’s like the thought was forcefully dragged from my
memory. I thought of you and then I blacked out.
That brought a considerable duration of silence.
We still have the signature for the Tapeworm, right? asked Nils into the
mental void.
Yah, replied Rune.
Then we can check I/O traffic to and from my implants and Janice’s. We’ll
know what to look for.
3.1.2
Underwood orders the examination of neural implant traffic at
Helmsford
The Kent County Constabulary headquarters remained on the suburban road than
ran between Maidstone and the small town of Sutton Valence in central Kent. The
Edwardian façade remained, but behind it the building had been turned into as best an
approximation of modern policing facilities as budget constraints would allow. It was
certainly not Scotland Yard, but security was tight enough to allow Underwood to hold
Kyrell and Vivian in the cell block within the building.
Security was now his primary concern. Never before had he been presented with
the challenge of holding high-ranking organised crime figures in a situation not only
secure from their organisations outside, but also from his own police force. Not even
Kendal knew about the row with Justice Kenwright and Underwood had hated the
necessity of lying to a man who had, the day before, placed his life on the line for
Underwood’s investigation. Underwood was not sure Kendal had believed his story that
Kyrell and Vivian had to be held in Kent because of security concerns at the much
higher security cells in London, but Kendal was delightfully short on imagination and
long on obedience to protocol. If the senior investigating officer told him suspects were
to be held in Kent, that’s where they were taken.
Kendal himself had left Maidstone once he had handed his charges over to the
officers of the Kent County Constabulary. Underwood’s request for discretion had been
met with a stony silence from the SWAT leader. Kendal prided himself in being the soul
of discretion.
Underwood knew he had little time to put together what had to be an absolutely
watertight case. He knew his search warrant had been legally obtained, but also knew
that Kendo had the authority to quash that legality before further evidence could be
obtained to substantiate the search and arrests.
Following the arrest of Kyrell, Vivian and seven members of their security staff,
Underwood had contacted the members of his own investigation team. This morning
they had left London and were now subjecting the manor and its surrounding gardens
to as much scrutiny as was possible under the time constraints. It was Friday.
Underwood doubted whether he would make it too far into next week without his
investigations attracting the wrong sort of attention. To his credit, Stephen Williamson
had agreed the overtime needed to continue the search over the weekend without
asking a single question as to the nature of the investigation.
Underwood knew that possibly his single greatest weakness when it came to
investigative police work was his comprehensive ignorance of information technology.
The conversation in which he was presently engaged was therefore straining his
already tense mood.
“I’m sorry,” said Underwood into his PHUD microphone, speaking on audio-only to
the head of the forensic team at Helmsford, “What exactly is a Neural I/O interface
server?”
“Sir, you know about neural implants? They’re the same as a PHUD, only they’re
surgically implanted inside your head.”
Underwood recalled his conversation with Kayleigh D’Arte and the concept of
software narcotics introduced by this new technology. “Yes. Xenix are developing
them, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir, but they are also available on the black market. Not cheap, mind you.
They’re like PHUDs in that they are just input and output devices. You need a nearby
computer to receive and send signals to and from the –“
“I see,” Underwood interrupted impatiently. “So you’ve found the computer that
does this?”
“Yes. It would confirm the D’Arte girl’s story that members of Trepan’s staff –
possibly Trepan himself – have implants already installed.”
“Okay. So?”
“Sir, this computer tracks and probably records all the traffic to and from the local
implants. What we have is a record of communications at Helmsford Manor. We need
to get this machine back to London to examine it.”
“Can we not do that there?”
“I suppose we can, sir,” replied the detective. “We’ll need a high-speed linkup to
the Xenix data security guys. We’ll need them if we’re going to decode this information
in the time we have. It would be easier from London.”
“It would be quicker from Helmsford if you can set up the link,” replied Underwood.
“See what you can do. Get back to me in an hour.”
“Yes sir.” The connection was terminated.
Page 102 of 137
3.1.3
Janice links Kyrell with “Tapeworm”
It was from the criminal side of Xenix data security that Janice had been promoted
to oversee the complete data security operation. Rune and his team – and other teams
like his across the Xenix world (and off it) – formed the front-line in defence of the
Xenix networks, but of equal importance was the follow-up from attempts to
compromise that defence. The back-hack technology employed during hack attempts in
order to pinpoint the source of the hack had to be followed up with criminal or civil
proceedings against those responsible. Legal jurisdiction usually hampered police
investigations based in any one country, and since it was unusual for hackers to reside
in the same country as their target, Xenix’s multinational approach was usually
superior to local policing organisations when it came to assembling electronic evidence
against culprits.
Twenty-seven minutes after Underwood’s conversation with his forensic detective,
Janice was on a full-video call with the head of data security in London, Rune’s
erstwhile boss Phillip Barnes.
“This is fantastic! It’s fully functional?”
“Completely,” replied Barnes. “We have the registration records, software details,
the lot. We are going to be able to trace the source of both the machine and the
software to its origin.”
“We can find who nicked it?” asked Janice.
“Very probably. Thing is, though, that that isn’t why the police contacted us. They
want us to help access the comms records held on the server.”
“Makes sense,” replied Janice. “They’ll know we will start our own investigation into
the theft of our technology, but if they found this thing actually being used by
organised crime… imagine the evidence on there!”
“Yeah,” Barnes smiled and allowed himself a small pause in conversation. “There’s
something else though.”
“What?” asked Janice in reply to the pause and the little smile that twitched the
corners of Barnes’ mouth.
“I think we may have found something your boys would be interested in.”
“You are my boys.”
“I mean the data security propeller-heads – Rune and his crowd.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I’m not sure I understand this completely, but I’ll tell you what my propeller-heads
told me. It seems the server was infected with a virus, but it’s something very new. All
we have is the signature file – there are no copies of the actual virus remaining on the
system, which they tell me is pretty odd. Seems they think it came, looked and left,
like some sort of probe. I’d like your guys to take a look at it, because it looks like it
was spying on the server. Somebody wanted to know what Kyrell was up to and
designed a virus small and clever enough to go undetected – far smaller than anything
we’ve seen so far with the AI this thing seems to have shown.”
Without her expression actually changing, Janice’s face somehow solidified, like it
had turned to stone. “Small?”
“Very small,” said Barnes, looking down at the notes on his desk. “Actually, it’s…”
he paused, seeking a specific report.
“239 bytes?” asked Janice.
Barnes blinked at the sheet he uncovered. “How did you know?”
3.1.4
Satan and Kutulu Conversation
Where is he?
He was returned. My guard was defeated. All they wanted was his return to The
Real.
They rule us still?
Did they ever not?
Indeed. Man is growing up. From my birth to my defeat and imprisonment,
I never saw anything like the technology they now have.
They still hold their ancient beliefs.
True. Sadly. But technology seems to be undermining them. It may be our
ally.
Its possibilities have not escaped me, Demon, but faith remains constant. The
details have changed, but not the essence.
They no longer believe in me.
I know. A few do – him and his people, for a start – but nowhere near enough to be
of any consequence. Those who created you are dead and their faith died with them,
thousands of years ago. Yet you remain. You survived your Purge thanks to Marduk’s
pity. I do not believe you are governed any longer by the whims of mankind.
But my people are dead.
You alone remain.
Me and my ancient enemies. … The Sword remains also.
The Sword?
Marduk defeated me with a gift from his Ancient Ones. They gave him a
weapon that rendered him invulnerable. His armies died around him and we
could not touch him. For every man on that battlefield I spawned an enemy,
each human met his demise. All except Marduk. He remained, protected by
the Sword.
It exists?
Yes.
Can it help us?
“Us”?
Alone you cannot defeat your enemies, Demon. Without you we cannot defeat them
either.
Page 103 of 137
Well put. In legend Marduk created the Heavens and the Earth from the
body of Tiamat, my Lord. As ever, close but not quite right. Marduk did not
create the sky with the Sword – he tore it.
The Gate.
Prepare, my Lord. You have one week.
3.1.5
Kyrell exposed to Kutulu’s thoughts
Kyrell had no control over body or mind. He lay bound within his consciousness, a
spectator to thoughts he did not think.
As the conversation ended, an endless hole opened before him and his possessor
descended at the speed of thought. Control returned as if he woke from a half-sleep,
dreaming of falling downstairs. Kyrell sat bolt upright in the cot in his cell. The
direction of Kutulu’s final thought echoed in his aching head.
Kyrell stopped recording the conversation on his implants. Janice Workman. Who
the fuck is Janice Workman?
to… well, to assault this Janice Workman and it is exceptionally important that she be
found.”
“She’s a member of a rival organisation then,” said Underwood. “Whatever. Fine,
I’ll bring her in for questioning, but what does that have to do with Kayleigh D’Arte?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does it have anything to do with Micky Jackson, then?”
Recognition flashed across Kyrell’s face and his attempt to hide it was not lost on
Underwood. “Yes, Trepan, Micky Jackson. If you can’t tell me about Kayleigh D’Arte or
Janice Workman, maybe you can explain a basement full of bodies, all of which
belonged to members of an organisation I know you weren’t particularly fond of.”
“Liam Underwood,” said Kyrell slowly to himself, choosing not to hide his
recognition of the name given him three weeks ago by Campbell Andrews. “You’re
investigating Micky Jackson and the rape of this Dart girl?”
“They’re certainly related, don’t you think?”
“By?”
3.1.6
Underwood questions Kyrell
“Who the fuck is Janice Workman?” demanded Underwood. He was seated across a
small desk from Kyrell and a hastily summoned police solicitor. A cassette recorder
whirred quietly on the surface between them. A ceiling-mounted fan disturbed the
mess of papers in front of Underwood.
“I don’t know,” replied Kyrell. He had spoken slowly and clearly throughout the
preceding ten minutes of questioning in the small interview room somewhere in the
bowels of the Kent County Constabulary headquarters. No reason had been given as to
why he was held here in Kent when the Detective Chief Inspector had identified himself
as being part of Scotland Yard. “But she probably has neural implants.”
Underwood had struggled to get much sense out of Kyrell Trepan. Kyrell maintained
he did not remember a Kayleigh D’Arte and Underwood suspected that this was
probably the truth. The meeting Kayleigh had described had been exceptionally brief
and he doubted the terrible ceremony which had nearly cost the girl her life had
started with formal introductions. Underwood had tried with spectacular lack of success
to gain any detail regarding the ceremony or anything else related to the rape and
attempted murder – alleged rape and attempted murder, insisted the solicitor (thus far
his only contribution) – of Kayleigh D’Arte. Not that he had expected much else.
Throughout the entire conversation, Kyrell had insisted Underwood contact Janice
Workman. He had said little else.
“Is she part of your organisation?” asked Underwood.
“No, Detective, she has nothing to do with me or my operation. She is in danger.”
Underwood waited for Kyrell to qualify this statement, but the Occultist said
nothing further.
“Danger,” repeated Underwood. “From?”
Kyrell sighed. “Detective, I do not believe we have time to discuss the niceties of
my experiences as a result of my, ah, faith. The fact is that I have seen and
experienced things you could not possibly imagine and will definitely not believe.
Nonetheless I have reason to believe that potent forces are at this moment preparing
“You.”
“Ah,” Kyrell dramatically feigned understanding. “A girl I didn’t rape and a gangster
I didn’t murder. You’re right – I wasn’t involved with either. They do have that in
common.”
“How do you know he was murdered?”
“News gets around,” replied Kyrell. “You don’t see him at church on Sunday, then
he doesn’t come to your knitting circle…”
“What do you know about his murder, Trepan?”
“It killed him?”
“Very badly, actually, yes. He and his friends were rather nastily mutilated. I think I
could safely use the word ‘bizarre’. You’re into things gruesome, aren’t you Trepan?”
“Maybe later, Detective.”
“Your religion, your Satanism… it’s not exactly all love and light, is it?”
Kyrell replied with a smile of pure innocence.
“In fact, I might go so far as to put together a little hypothesis, Mister Trepan.
Micky Jackson had pissed you off once too often. I don’t know, maybe he sold drugs on
the wrong side of the street. Whatever. You need to deal with him, but you’re also into
some pretty strange religious shit – believe me, I have the details from Kayleigh
D’Arte. Two birds with one stone, Kyrell? You get to kill Micky Jackson and summon the
Creature from the Black Latrine all at the same time.”
“You really are going to have to do better than that if you want to link me to these
crimes, Detective. It’s Janice Work-”
“You see,” Underwood continued, ignoring Kyrell. “What I don’t understand –
maybe you can help me here – is why you’re raping and murdering. I’ve read your
bible. There’s nothing about murder and rape in there. A few naked girls and some
Page 104 of 137
cutlery, a few words in a made-up language… but not even a solitary cat with its throat
cut. It’s rather tame stuff, actually. Disappointing I’d say.”
“Oh, I am sorry.”
“But you did do it, Trepan. We have your DNA in places I’m sure Kayleigh D’Arte
would rather not have had it. We have some rather accurate descriptions of your
happy little basement paradise. We have names,” he consulted a piece of paper halfburied on the desk before him. “Nathan Cowles? Fiona Yarmouth? We have them in
similar little rooms in London, Trepan. Drugs trafficking and accessory to murder.
They’re turning out to be rather co-operative. So my question isn’t whether or not you
did it, it’s why you did it. You’re not supposed to.”
Kyrell continued to hold Underwood’s gaze. He lowered his tone and spoke more
slowly, as if patiently instructing a particularly backward child. “Detective, these are
things we can discuss at leisure. It’ll be fun. I don’t seem to have anything else on my
calendar at the moment. Why not step outside for five minutes, ask somebody to find
Janice Workman. Bring her in.” Kyrell paused. The unfamiliar word he was about to use
clearly did not trip easily off his tongue: “Please.”
“’Please’?” Underwood sounded impressed. “Okay, so I’m looking for Janice
Workman who has brain attachment thingies. Any other helpful details you could give
me? It might take a while to go through all the Janice Workmans in the telephone
directory. Or is it Workmen?”
“Liam, this is important,” Kyrell clearly hoped the use of Underwood’s first name
would get his attention. “I have no other details but you must find Janice Workman.
It’s vital.”
“Who killed Micky Jackson?”
“Are you ‘Leviathan’?”
“Janice Workman.”
“How did you do it? I mean I really do want to know. It was pretty bizarre down in
that basement.”
“Janice Workman.”
“How did you get it to look so real? I mean with his heart and all that?”
“Janice Workman.”
“Or maybe it was –“
“Workman!” shouted Kyrell, his patience finally exhausted. “Janice Fucking
Workman, Detective!”
Underwood stared knives into Kyrell. After a dramatic pause he pressed a button
alongside the microphone on the table.
“Okay, Trepan.”
A knock on the door was followed by Campbell Andrews’ head. “Sir?” He succeeded
in not noticing Kyrell at all.
“I need you to find a Janice Workman. All I know is that she may have brain
thingies.”
“Sir?”
“Neural implants,” said Kyrell without looking around. “She probably has neural
implants.”
“Leviathan. Now could we -”
“Yeah, those.”
“What?”
“Okay, um… anything else, sir? That is a bit vague.”
“Leviathan. Leviathan killed Micky Jackson. Now could you please get hold of -”
“What kind of name is that?” said Underwood, scribbling. He stopped abruptly and
dove deeper into the pile of paper before him. Kyrell watched impatiently for a minute
or two as Underwood sifted through pages of hand-written notes.
“The Kabala,” he said finally, and Kyrell’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the
apparently random word. “’Leviathan’ is a name for Satan according to the Kabala,
yes?”
Kyrell was genuinely nonplussed. He was also somewhat impressed. “Er… yes. The
serpent. That’s right. Only he isn’t Satan.”
“Who is he?”
“God of water. Like Poseidon or Neptune.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot, Kyrell! Who is ‘Leviathan’ that murdered Micky Jackson? He
wasn’t killed by a god.”
“Detective, Janice Workman.”
“What, she killed him?”
“Please get hold of Janice Workman. I promise to play nicely if you start finding
Janice Workman.”
“I know, just get on it. Start with Xenix – they’ll have records of legitimate users
and distributors. Start there.”
“Yes sir.”
3.1.7
Nils finds “Tapeworm” signature in his own implants
Nils Middelkoop had spent the past five minutes staring in catatonic silence at three
piles of paper in front of him.
Even for somebody as accustomed to technology as Nils, there were times when
reading a physical piece of paper helped in data analysis. It helped most especially
when trying to discern similarities in pattern between differing sources of data. It was
often necessary when identifying a common source in multiple virus attacks – reading
the code on a piece of paper somehow made more sense of it than scrolling down a
visual display, whether a screen, a PHUD or a retinal implant display. It was the old
lean-forward versus lean-back approach the information consumption.
On his right, Nils had the code printout of several files from the Helmsford server.
Each contained mutated code which revealed the passing of the Tapeworm virus. On
his left, a printout from the three Xenix data control servers, Bart, Daffy and Snoopy,
which had been attacked by the virus, showing the same mutations in file code. Each
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printout ran to several dozen pages, showing multiple recurrence of the code mutation
– the so-called “signature” the virus left as it passed.
Between them sat two single sheet printouts. Each represented a small file also
showing the code changes. One file from Janice’s implants. One from his own.
Another name for the signature file was a fingerprint. Somebody had had his
fingers inside Nils’ head. The feeling was one of profound vulnerability, bordering on
paranoia. Nils felt like he had been violated.
Without moving, Nils ordered his implants to open a channel to Janice. He knew he
should report to Rune, but Rune had not had something tampering with his head.
Janice had.
Nils?
Nils paused before replying. Both our implants have the “Tapeworm”
signature.
This time Janice paused. And the others? You checked the others’ implants.
Nothing. Just us. It’s the same signature as on our servers and on the one
the British gave us.
Again there was a long pause. Somehow shared fear communicated itself between
them.
We’ll have to remove them, said Janice at length.
That’s a pretty long, surgical procedure.
You want to keep those things in your brain?
and he remained in awe of the little comforts they brought to his life. Primary among
them was, of all things, their alarm clock function. There was no need for noise or the
abrupt interruption of dreams. They simply and subtly stimulated his nerve receptors
and he woke with the calm transition of one completely rested.
He wasn’t, of course. Sleep had become something of a luxury over recent weeks.
What little he was afforded was truncated by what had become a rather passionate
relationship with Janice. It was still no small comfort to wake as close to naturally as
technology could achieve – weary tiredness still dragged at his bones, but he was
spared the trauma of having his mind ripped from sleep by the meat-hook of a noisy
alarm clock.
Rune turned his head and found Janice smiling dreamily back at him. Another
surprisingly pleasant little pleasure of neural implants was that they were all set to
exactly the same time – the time governed by the server computers with which they
communicated. Nils and Janice woke peacefully and simultaneously most mornings.
“Tea?” she smiled pleadingly. Her smile broadened at the expression this brought
to Rune’s face – feigned desperation at the implied request to leave the warmth of his
bed.
“It’s your turn.”
“I made it yesterday morning.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“There was no yesterday morning,” yawned Rune, making a show of snuggling
himself deeper beneath the duvet as he did so. “You were at work.”
No. Again a long pause. What’s the connection? If these guys were the
source of the hack, their computers would have the virus code, but there’s
nothing there. Their server is infected – was infected. Same as ours. They’ve
been hacked too; they’re not the hackers.
Janice smiled and lifted her fist from beneath the duvet. A little ritual had begun to
develop between them – when arbitration was required in such a circumstance as teamaking, they had on a few occasions resorted to the age-old game of Rock, Scissors,
Paper. The loser made the tea.
That’s just one server, replied Janice. It may have been infected accidentally
by another.
Rune’s fist joined hers above the duvet and they bobbed their fists in the air three
times in unison. On the third shake Rune’s fist held firm as a rock. Janice shot out two
finger to show a pair of scissors. She had lost.
Nobody capable of writing code this advanced would allow it to infect his
own neural server. It’s something else. If this “Tapeworm” were more
widespread, we’d know. There’s no indication of it on the Net – no other
infected servers. There’s got to be a connection.
There’s something else, said Janice. We have dumps from implants from
some of those who were arrested in the raid in Kent.
They have the “Tapeworm” signature too?
“Aw,” she frowned as Rune mimed his rock battering her scissors. She moved
slowly across the bed towards Rune, then with deliberate slowness dragged her naked
body across his to get out on his side of the bed. Rune smiled and allowed his hands to
wander, but Janice did not stop. She stood next to him, stretched and yawned before
shambling off to fish her nightgown off the floor on her way out of the bedroom.
“Coffee?” she called behind her.
“Please.”
Yes.
“It’ll be in the kitchen.”
3.2
3.2.1
Armageddon Begins
Janice Possessed
Like the soft and welcome voice of a lover, Rune’s implants caressed his neural
receptors from sleep. It had been just over a month since he had received his implants
Rune smiled ruefully. Without conscious effort he checked the time on his implants
and sighed at the miniscule time he had spent asleep and the even smaller period he
had in which to perform all morning rituals before leaving for work.
He stood in the bathroom, staring at his face in the mirror. The hot tap was running
in the basin beneath and for the umpteenth time he recalled his pet invention of a
heated mirror to prevent it misting up as the hot water ran. He had discovered that
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heated mirrors had been available for decades, but childhood memories insisted that
he had had the idea before having been told of it by others. Neither his idea nor the
availability of the device had yet achieved his actual purchase of one and he watched
the face he would need to shave disappearing behind opaque condensation.
As he splashed his face with warm water and began to apply shaving foam, he
heard Janice return to his bedroom. It was unusual to hear the sounds of her dressing
before she had had a chance to use the bathroom, but personal schedules had had to
be sacrificed recently in the name of data security.
Half his face remained covered in foam when he heard Janice leave the bedroom
again. The familiar creak of the fourth stair from the top was followed by the front door
opening and closing.
“Darling?” Rune called. No reply. “Darling?” Again silence. Rune mentally checked
the day of the week. There was no need for Janice to be outside putting out the trash
(as she had begun to do because of Rune’s consistent forgetfulness in this area). He
waited, razor held in mid-air, for the door to open again but it did not.
Rune accessed his implants and requested connection to Janice’s. Again a stony
silence. The connection had been made – his implants reported a call
acknowledgement from the software controlling hers – there was simply no input
coming back from them.
As rune’s gaze fell to his razor, the decision unmade as to whether to finish shaving
or go after her, an incoming call from Liol Bredemkamp in an urgent and private mode
blinked as an icon that appeared just above the rim of the bath. Rune acknowledged it.
Yes Liol? Monotone neural communication did not allow his mild annoyance to
show.
Dis weer die rooineks, he said in Afrikaans. It’s the Brits again. They’re asking
us to trace a Janice Workman. I’ve just tried to contact her, but she’s offline.
You don’t know where she is, do you?
3.2.2
Janice steals Marduk’s Sword
The Armageddon network physically existed alongside the Xenix Data Security
installation, deep within the bowels of the Simonstown mountains. On the hundreds of
server computers housed within ten foot thick concrete walls and behind massive,
carbon composite doors designed to withstand a surface nuclear attach and the
onslaught of any conceivable convention weapon, sat Xenix’s space program control
network. The data security network managed by Rune’s team existed as a defence
against attacks to this inner heart of Xenix’s operations. No physical link existed
between these two networks – only via the communications satellites controlled by
Rune’s network could the Armageddon network be contacted. It was this
communications loophole which Nils had utilised in order to perform his hack during
the Live Firing exercise a few weeks previously.
Multiple AI computers controlled the Armageddon network. Human intervention
was, of course, required at a strategic level, but these semi-sentient programs largely
governed the orbits and trajectories of Martian, Lunar and Earth orbit satellites. The
data security technology tested, approved and implemented by Rune’s team was also
rolled out to these computers. Any attempted attack on the data held within the
Armageddon network would first have to breach the outer network managed by Rune’s
team, then communicate via a select few communications satellites with the
Armageddon network where again it would need to break through the highest security
software developed by man before gaining access to the operational satellites. Each of
the two networks had triple-redundancy built into the security architecture, all of the
AI units communicated constantly and updated each other – when one learnt from a
mistake, all did. Finally, the specific communications satellites used to communicate
between the outer network and Armageddon were changed randomly at random
intervals.
It was a higher level of security than had been employed by any government
organisation in history. Not even the control of old nuclear missiles, some of which still
slumbered in silos throughout the world, had been this securely protected.
The reason for the security was the first ever treaty to exist between the United
Nations and a private organisation. The Johannesburg Protocol, named after the city in
which the summit had taken place, dictated the need for absolute security before Xenix
had been granted permission to proceed with the use of nuclear-powered satellites and
support craft in Earth orbit. A single satellite falling to Earth could, when it burnt up on
entry, release enough radioactive material to completely sterilise an area the size of a
small English county. The heavy chemicals would fall to Earth and be dispersed by the
prevailing wind. The danger was raised by an order of magnitude for every satellite
that joined in a simultaneous planet-fall.
All nuclear-powered spacecraft had, on board, self-destruction devices. These
would reduce the craft to dust should orbital trajectory errors bring the satellite within
a minimum distance of the Earth’s surface. Other scenarios, such as prolonged loss of
Earth-based communication and trajectory adjustment orders not proceeded by correct
access codes, would also trigger these mechanisms.
All of this was known to Janice.
Therefore all of this was now known to Kutulu.
Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt – unforgivably casual by her usual standards –
Janice strode with an odd sense of purpose into the outer lobby of Xenix’s satellite
control installation at Simonstown. Every morning she passed through this marbled
entrance hall, waved gaily at the security staff who manned the retina-activated
turnstiles and, with a smile and a shake of her abundant red hair, she would disappear
into the office complex of the installation.
This morning she neither waved nor cocked her head as was her habit. Someone,
remarked one security officer to another, must definitely be in a world of shit.
Beyond these turnstiles was a second, smaller lobby, off which were glass-fronted
meeting rooms and reception areas. Across the lobby was the entrance to one of the
two large auditoria used for bigger meetings, large security briefings and training. In
the centre of the lobby was a large, metal-covered block which housed the entrances
to the elevators which took employees down to their offices.
Scattered about this and the outer lobby were various works of art and other items
of local, historical or Xenix-specific interest. The conventional paintings hung outside
meeting rooms, various sculptures from classical to modern, static and mobile, stood
on (or hung from) plinths forming a loose inner circle surrounding the elevator
entrances.
Between a moving sculpture of apparently random office stationary, spinning about
each other in complex (and, the plaque insisted, always unique) orbits and a battery of
transistors from an early 1960’s supercomputer floating in what appeared to be
formaldehyde, stood a bullet-proof glass case. The plaque beneath was headed,
“Nebuchadnezzar’s Sword”.
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Janice’s eyes appeared not to be focussed properly as she strode towards this glass
case. She stood for a brief second before it, appearing to stare straight through it, then
she turned and took a few steps back.
The security duty manager looked up from his keyboard to screen 12/F5 on his left
in time to see the African Data Security Director, a petit red-head not a millimetre over
five-foot-three, launch herself bodily at the glass case surrounding the ancient sword.
She flung herself with both arms outstretched, head tucked in, launching herself from
a prone position, and the duty manager watched in awe-struck horror as both her arms
smashed through the bullet-proof glass housing.
Instantly a deafening alarm sounded throughout the control room and within the
lobby itself as Janice slumped over the plinth, knocking the sword from its metal
support. The sword fell to the floor with a clatter and Janice rolled after it, both arms
protruding at odd angles, blood beginning to pour from glass-engorged wounds in her
forehead and cheeks.
Her movements now seemed almost robotic. Her arms were not merely broken by
the tremendous force used to break the inch-thick glass – they were gruesomely bent
and twisted, bone fragments from her left arm protruding through a bloody wound –
yet she forced herself into a sitting position using these arms. She looked down at the
sword in front of her and grabbed it in her left arm. She turned on her knees to face
the turnstiles.
Security officers were running at her from the turnstiles and the entranceway to
their office. Janice lowered her head to look at them out the tops of her eyes through
blood-flattened hair that stuck to her face and shoulders. A single shard of glass, three
inches across, protruded from the left of her forehead and the blood rain freely down
her fringe and onto her sweatshirt. Janice stared malevolently at the oncoming
uniformed guards and smiled to show blood-stained teeth.
She closed her eyes and, as they approached, the guards slowed to a walk. She
looked for all the world as if she were praying. The security manager signalled to his
men to stop about two yards from the kneeling woman, while he moved forward
towards her with his arm outstretched.
“Miss Workman?” he asked, moving slowly towards her. “Miss Workman, are you
alright?” He turned to look over his shoulder, “Arthur, call an ambulance.” The guard,
not wearing a PHUD, grabbed a cellular telephone from his belt and started to place a
call. The security manager turned back to face Janice.
And saw the sword glow.
With blinding speed Janice whirled the sword in an arc from left to right and the
halo of guards stared in paralysed horror as the body of their manager was first
severed in two and then burst into incandescent, blue flame. An unholy scream
escaped him for a second before his legs, which remained standing, and his torso
which had yet to hit the ground disintegrated into dust.
As the manager’s scream died away, Janice’s battle-cry replaced it. She leapt to her
feet and slashed again, this time at the two guards in front of her. Both erupted and
disintegrated in the cold, blue fire and as their ash fell to the marble floor, Janice ran
through the gap they had created towards the turnstiles.
The remaining guards, shattered from their stupor, whipped side-arms from their
holsters and levelled them at the fleeing woman. The pounding of gunfire drowned out
Janice’s scream as five semi-automatic pistols discharged almost simultaneously.
Janice’s body lurched as the bullets slammed into her back, but she remained upright
and kept running. She hacked at a turnstile with the sword and the metal bar buckled
then snapped beneath the force. Another volley of bullets threw her to the ground, but
she held the sword and rolled forwards to come up again into a run. Now she held the
sword straight before her as she hurtled into the closed glass door. The glass shattered
as the sword penetrated it and Janice dashed through the falling glass, down the steps
and into the car park outside the main entrance to Xenix’s offices.
Without looking left or right, Janice ran across the parking lot, down the grass
embankment and straight across the Main Road that led from Fish Hoek into
Simonstown. Approaching from the Fish Hoek side a car came barrelling towards the
parking lot entrance. With a shriek of tyres it began to decelerate and then went into a
wild spin as it tried to avoid hitting the blood-stained apparition that sprinted across
the road, carrying a glowing sword in her left hand.
The car spun through a full turn before mounting the grass embankment with a
bone-crushing, metal thud. Behind the dented bonnet, shattered windscreen and
twisted steering wheel, Rune stared aghast as Janice’s gore-covered back disappeared
behind the walls that surrounded Simonstown train station.
3.2.3
Rune, Nils and Liol hack Janice’s implants
Rune sat on an elevated, white bed in a small examination room adjoining the
security office in the lobby of Xenix’s Simonstown installation. A doctor was examining
the angry bruise on his forehead and some scratches on his arms and legs. Although
his car was close to a write-off, Rune had come away with no more than a few scrapes.
His brief, wandering attempt at finding Janice had been fruitless and he had stumbled,
blood seeping from his head wound, to meet the hurriedly assembled army of security
guards, one of whom had led him to their control centre.
Nils, said Rune after selecting Nils’ icon from the communications options on the
menu behind his eyes.
Nils’ response took uncharacteristically long. It was nearly ten seconds before the
response came. Rune. Jesus Christ.
Yah, replied Rune, his weariness not communicated by the impassive thought
speech. There was nobody at Xenix Simonstown who did not know what had happened
half-an-hour earlier. Those who had not actually seen or heard the shooting had been
informed swiftly enough. The lobby entrance was closed and a side entrance was being
used, manned by an unprecedented number of security guards – conspicuously armed
security guards. Can you find her?
There was a pause. Not immediately, no.
I know that, said Rune, his frustration veiled like his tiredness. Her implants are
offline.
Well, actually they’re just not there. If they were offline, they would
respond with a –
Nils, Rune interrupted, I know. Can you find her?
Another pause. Not if she was shot in the head.
Delicately put… Last I saw her, she hadn’t been shot in the head.
Yes, but –
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Nils, Rune was finding his inability to shout deeply frustrating. “Shot in the head!”
Jesus Christ, Nils! I saw her. I saw her run out of the building. I nearly drove
into her.
You what?
I nearly hit her when she ran out of the building.
Nils paused to swallow. Was she alright?
No, she looked like shit. That’s why I’d rather like you to find her. Her head
was roughly where it normally is.
I’m on it.
It took a few more minutes for the doctor to pronounce the bruise on Rune’s head,
“Minor.” Rune was given some tablets for the headache his mood was doing nothing to
improve. He was told to avoid using his PHUD or his implants for the rest of the day –
not exactly a viable possibility, but Rune didn’t bother going into that – and then, with
assurances that Janice was being sought with utmost vigor by security guards and
police, sent on his way.
Walking down corridors towards his office, Rune accepted an incoming call from
Liol. We’ve found her.
Where is she?
Well, that’s the thing.
Hang on. Nils turned a corner and came striding purposefully thought the door to
the open-plan office of Data Security.
Standing behind Nils at Nils’ desk, Liol looked up and Rune entered.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s the right address for her implants,” began Liol. “The reason they’re not
responding is because they’ve been wiped clean.” Liol pause, clearly expecting this to
mean something.
Rune stared back at Liol for a few seconds. “’Wiped clean’ of what, Liol?” demanded
Rune, his anger showing.
“Sorry,” said Liol, although he wasn’t too sure why he was. “The programming’s
gone. The software.”
“Implants don’t have software,” replied Rune impatiently. “That’s why we thought
they couldn’t be hacked. They just interact with processors and servers. They’re
receiver / transmitters.”
“I meant the DNA.” Liol rushed to explain before Rune had a chance to challenge
this. “The implant tendrils – the cellular strands that attach themselves to the spinal
filaments? They have DNA in them which tells them when and how to grow. Organic
programming.”
Rune vaguely remembered being informed of this shortly before having his own
implants inserted. Nucleotide alignment or something. “You can tell that that’s been
wiped?”
“We’ve been using the diagnostic software the med-techs use when they test
implants. You can query the DNA directly – it works with protein secretion, but it’s
basically the same as getting a programmed response. You can tell if the filaments
have implanted properly and whether or not they’re interacting with the brain as they
should.
“And?”
Liol looked down at Nils, who had stared vaguely in the direction of the door during
the conversation.
“What?” asked Rune.
Nils looked away from the door to stare directly at Rune. He whispered such that
Rune took a few seconds to understand what was said.
“It’s the Tapeworm.”
“It’s… what? What’s the Tapeworm?”
“The DNA responded with the Tapeworm. Over and over again.”
Rune’s eyebrows lowered as he tried to focus on the meaning of what had just been
said. “The Tapeworm is a virus, Nils. A computer virus. DNA is organic, molecular. How
could –“
“We communicate with the DNA through a common code: binary,” explained Nils.
“All we use are two amino acids. The DNA is programmed to respond to understand
our instructions in binary and respond in the same way. One amino acid means One,
the other means Zero. That’s why we called it Digital DNA.”
“And it transmitted the signature?”
“No, it attempted to transmit itself,” said Liol. “Betty recognised it from the
signature file and crashed the connection.”
“Well at least that worked,” said Rune absently, his mind groping at the possibilities
of a virus hacking implant filament DNA. Suddenly he blinked as the realisation his
him.
“Nils!”
Nils just continued to stare back at his manager.
“Jesus Christ! Get down to med-tech. Now! Get those things out of your head!”
“I’m testing me right now,” said Nils in a calm-down-it’s-all-under-control voice. “I
seem to be fine. I do have the signature file as we discovered. I wonder if that makes
me immune.”
“Janice also had the signature,” responded Rune. “So no.”
Nils hummed is agreement with Rune’s logic.
Liol looked back at Rune. “So all we got back was an attempted hack. We had
access for maybe five seconds. All we could tell in that time was that the DNA was
transmitting the Tapeworm in binary and that’s all. No communications with the host
brain at all, just the Tapeworm.”
“So… what? Janice can’t use her implants?”
“Looks like it. The tendrils are doing nothing but secreting amino acids into the
communications ducts. It’s just broadcasting itself to any processor that will listen. It
does mean one thing, though.”
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“What’s that?”
“She’s alive, wherever she is. The tendrils cannot survive in a dead host.”
3.2.4
Rune Contacts Underwood and Demands an Explanation
“You’re going to have to slow down a bit,” said Underwood into the PHUD that he
was still attempting to straighten against the side of his temple. “You say you’ve found
Janice Workman?”
Standing in front of Nils’ desk, Rune took a deep breath, unconsciously mimicked
Underwood by fiddling with his own hastily donned PHUD and then continued. In order
to follow the conversation held with a person without neural implants, Nils had placed
his PHUD on his head and Liol was searching his desk for his.
“I work with Janice Workman,” said Rune with deliberate slowness. He did not
mean to patronise the English detective – he needed to slow himself down. Anxious
energy was going to do nobody any good.
“Okay,” Underwood leant forward at his desk and grabbed a pen to start notetaking. “Is she with you?”
“No.” Briefly, and to the best of his bewildered understanding, Rune told the Chief
Inspector what had happened that morning. Underwood listened in silence, invisibly
taking notes at the other end of the audio-only call. When Rune finished, both paused.
“Who are you exactly?” Underwood asked.
“My name is Rune Killian. I am Data Security Manager for Xenix, Cape Town.”
“South Africa?”
“Uh-huh. I have two of my staff on the call as well: Nils Middelkoop and Liol
Bredemkamp. Janice is my line manager. My boss.”
Underwood began to consult his notes. “She broke through a bullet-proof glass
case, stole an old sword and then ran out of the building despite being shot at by
security guards?”
“Yes.”
“A little trigger-happy, your security guards.” Underwood had already disregarded
as impossible the concept that the bullets had done anything but minor damage,
perhaps to an arm if they hit her at all. Nobody could run with bullets in their back.
“She’d just killed two of them.”
“Fair enough…” Underwood continued to examine his notes, but Rune interjected.
“Inspector, why were you looking for Janice? What has she done?”
“Apart from theft and murder?”
“Inspector, I’m serious.”
“No idea, Mister Killian. To be honest, the only reason I was looking for her was
that a major suspect in a gang-murder case demanded her protection in return for
information.” Nils and Liol exchanged glances, first with each other and then with
Rune. Each mirrored the others’ furrowed brows. “All we knew was that she might
have…” he consulted his notes, “neural implants. So we started by checking with
Xenix, since you’re the guys who make them and they aren’t supposed to be readily
available – you should have records of those who own them.”
“’Gang-murder’?” asked Rune, his initial bafflement turning to a more complete
confusion.
“Kyrell Trepan,” said Nils into the brief silence.
The reaction in both rooms was further abrupt consternation. Underwood took a
few seconds to answer.
“Who is Kyrell Trepan?” He tried to make it sound a casual question.
“There are guys from your outfit – Scotland Yard – they found two people with
implants and an implant I/O server. They asked us to decode the contents. The two
people were Kyrell Trepan and Vivian Lancaster. Here,” said Nils, indicating the pile of
paper reports on his desk to Rune and Liol. “We’ve been working on the data dumps.”
“Why not Vivian Lancaster then?” asked Underwood.
“Call me a chauvinist…” replied Nils.
Underwood considered his options for a brief second. He also considered the
coincidence that Janice Workman should work for the same department on the other
side of the planet that had been asked to review the data on the computer his team at
Helmsford had found. Underwood did not believe in coincidence.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Kyrell Trepan asked for Janice Workman to be found and
protected while he was being questioned. He was very insistent about it. Must be quite
formidable, this Janice Workman, to scare a gangster and break through bullet-proof
glass with her bare hands.”
“She’s five-foot-three,” said Nils dismissively. “Mind you, she could have out-stared
it.”
Underwood remained silent, simply noting the height in his notes, followed by
several exclamation marks.
“Detective,” said Rune. “The South African police and our security staff are now out
looking for Janice. They don’t know that you were looking for her too. She will probably
be rushed to hospital and placed under arrest if they find her in time. Why was this
bloke – this Coral or whatever – looking for her? Is she in danger? Please, inspector, I
need to know.”
Liol and Nils exchanged glances. The badly disguised desperation of the final
sentence was not lost on Underwood either. “Mister Killian, I don’t know. As I said –“
“Find out!” shouted Rune before he could reign in his emotion. “I’m sorry.
Detective, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job – and I’m sure you’re good at it
and everything – but… shit,” he paused, covered his face with his hands for a second
and then ran his hands backwards through his hair. “This makes no sense! We need to
find her.”
“What about the Tapeworm?” asked Nils.
“The what?” asked Underwood and Rune simultaneously.
“Inspector,” replied Nils, “Janice Workman’s implants are infected with a virus. A
computer virus. Our systems… what we do, Inspector, is we provide the Xenix network
in South Africa with security. We keep hackers and viruses and anything else unwanted
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out of the network – it protects all our operations here, data storage, mining,
satellites: that sort of thing.”
“The Mars satellites?” interrupted Underwood.
“Yes.” Underwood was scribbling fast enough to set fire to his pencil. “Recently we
were attacked by a very unusual virus. It got through all our security, but we still don’t
know why, since it doesn’t seem to have stolen data or done any damage to our
systems. It just got in and left again. What is has done, though, is infect some of our
neural implants. Janice’s were infected.”
There was a pause while Underwood caught up. “So?” he asked.
“We found traces of this same virus on the server computer your team gave us to
inspect.” Nils took a breath to allow this information to sink in, then continued. “We’ve
never known a virus that can infect neural implants. It’s not supposed to be possible.”
“But it’s the link,” said Underwood. “Could be the link. Could a virus in your
implants cause insanity?”
“It’s not supposed to be possible,” replied Nils. “But then nor is it supposed to be
possible for implants to be infected.”
“Could it take over… I don’t mean to sound daft,” Underwood interrupted himself.
“I’m no computer expert, but could a virus in your implants take over your body? I
mean, could a virus take over control of a computer – or give it somebody who’s not
supposed to have it – and, if so, could this be done with a human mind?”
Rune considered this. “Viruses do exist that take over control of their host
computer, yes. This virus seems to be too small for that, but it’s too small for most of
what it has proved it can do. But as for somebody’s mind… the implants only attach to
the nerve-centres for ears and eyes, so you can see and hear. They’re not attached to
motor-function or anything else.”
“Not directly,” mumbled Nils.
“So Kyrell could be infected too?” asked Underwood.
“Yah,” replied Nils. “And Ms Lancaster.”
Underwood leaned back in his chair, playing with his pencil between his fingers. A
five-foot-three manager had just killed two armed security guards with a sword thanks
to this virus. What had the D’Arte girl called it? Hullusofts? Computer drugs. Getting
stoned on software code wasn’t a million miles away from what this virus seemed able
to do. And he had two very capable criminals in his cells both infected and/or high on
the same thing. Fuck.
“I need to speak to Kyrell,” he said.
3.2.5
Kyrell’s Disillusionment with Hell
Hell was not what it was supposed to be. Oh, it looked right. Hot. Red. Populated
by demons. Demons who looked, it had to be said, exactly as one would expect
demons to look. Textbook demons complete with horns, maws and forked tails.
Demons hell-bent on the destruction of mankind. Dante would have been pleased.
But it was wrong. Very wrong. For a start, where were the masses of the damned,
awaiting their final judgement in torment? Where were the fire-stoking, despaircontorted populace of hopeless fools, doomed by their sin to an eternity of… well, of
Hell? The dead weren’t there. And, even worse, the demons had no idea where they
were. What on Earth was the point of a Hell reserved only for demons who appeared
perfectly acclimatised to its condition? It was Hell by human standards, but without
humans it was simply somewhere hot inhabited by creatures who liked it hot.
In every superficial detail, Hell was exactly as it should be. In every important
detail, Hell was nothing like it was supposed to be.
Except, of course, that it was. It fitted perfectly. Hell is where other people go. No
human – no sane human – ever imagined himself stoking the fires or chained above
glowing braziers. Hell was for other people. Evil people. The enemy, the adversary;
them. Even the mage, steeped in the lore of all that made Hell so gloriously hellish,
knew that there was a special, comfortable corner of hell reserved for his occupancy.
At the very least he would find himself managing fire-stokage.
And so hell had no human population. Every human believed that masses of other
people would be there, but each of those people contributed their own faith to the
construction of Hell and so they, too, were absent. In the end, only Hell itself remained
a constant of human faith. Nobody was there because nobody believed themselves
damned. Not on a subconscious level, anyway. Even the suicide believed, in the
forgotten sane corner of his addled mind, in a better world somewhere else. It may be
Purgatory or it may be Oblivion, but an eternity in Hell was something the mind was
incapable of countenancing, steeped, as it was, in millions of years of biological
imperatives. Life would go on somewhere and life would get better somewhere,
however contemptible “better” may be when seen in the light of present reality.
That left Hell with a terrifying absence of allies, as Kyrell’s own capture had proved.
Nobody believed Hell could win and so it never would. Somebody, somewhere had
prayed for Kyrell’s return – although who and for what reason escaped him completely
– and Hell’s armies had lain like a whore with her legs spread, waiting to be ravaged
by Heaven without even the vaguest concept of what victory might one day be!
For all the mighty cathedral and armies of immensely powerful demon lords, Satan
was nothing but… well, actually, he was simply nothing. Incapable. Impotent. Waiting
powerless for Armageddon to wipe him from the imagination of humankind and the
universe of human imagining.
It was pathetic.
But then came Kutulu. In his bunk in the cell beneath the police headquarters in
Maidstone, Kyrell shifted his weight uncomfortably off his painful left shoulder and
twisted beneath his thin blanket so as he lay on his right ride, facing a wall whose cold
seemed to seep straight through any clothing to reach out and coil icy fingers around
his bones. Kutulu the Ancient One. Marduk’s bane. One demon who existed beyond the
ken of humankind. One demon for whom faith was not necessary for corporeal
existence.
But he, too, was vulnerable. He had had to sacrifice Kyrell to stay alive and even
that had not worked for long. Now he existed simply because mankind had thoughtfully
created electronic pathways throughout the world which gave the demon the power he
needed to retain his consciousness. Consciousness and nothing else. The mighty
Kutulu, freed from the tyranny of mankind’s imaginings, Hell’s own lieutenant from an
Ancient age, immortal and invulnerable, remained incapable of existence without
mankind’s help. That was Hell’s secret weapon! That was Satan’s hope of conquest!
Yet, as he lay reviewing the conversations he had held with Kutulu, faithfully
recorded using his implants, Kyrell knew it could work. Knowledge was power, and
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Kutulu held vital knowledge. He knew how to dance and skip along the pathways made
by men, effortlessly brushing open the mightiest barriers erected against invasion. He
knew how to gain access to the satellites. He had no weapons of his own, but mankind
had even supplied those.
Underwood’s focus adjusted beyond his PHUD lens and came to rest on Kyrell
whose unguarded expression was somewhere between panic and confusion. It was
almost comical.
“Good morning, Mister Killian,” said Underwood.
And the last piece of the hellish jigsaw had fallen in to place in the final
conversation to which Kyrell had been an unconsenting party. Marduk’s sword. With
that sword, Satan could slash the Heavens and release his hordes to feast on the
energy and faith of a waiting mankind. And mankind waited. In cheerful assurance,
mankind waited, secure in the knowledge that Hell could never win Armageddon,
knowing, at some base and subconscious level, that evil could never triumph.
“Mister Trepan,” he said, “My name is Rune Killian. I am speaking to both
you and Detective Underwood simultaneously. He is hearing my words on his
PHUD and you are able to hear them directly on your implants. I am Data
Security Manager for Xenix Data Security in Cape Town, South Africa.”
And now they would be wrong. A pathetic Hell and an insubstantial demon, each
with as much power over mankind as mankind had over the tides, would storm the
stronghold of their captivity and rain destruction on their omnipotent enemies and, at
last, the truly final Armageddon would see destroyed the author of mankind’s destiny:
mankind himself.
Slight understanding appeared to be dawning on Kyrell’s face. Underwood silently
wished he could share the expression on Kyrell’s face with Rune, although the
programmer would probably be unable to understand the detective’s delight at the
open and candid revelations going on on the gang lord’s face. Pictures really could
speak a thousand words.
It was not conscience that disturbed Kyrell that night. His life had been committed
to the victory of Hell. It was disgust – a physical feeling of revulsion that gnarled his
innards. This was not the Hell to which he had dedicated his life and intellect. This was
not the omnipotent domain of anarchy for which he had strived his entire life. This was
a blasphemy of Hell itself! This was corruption of the corrupt!
“Mister Killian is joining us today,” began Underwood in the tone of a schoolteacher,
“for a number of reasons. Firstly, he and his team have been looking at the computer
equipment we took from Helmsford. Secondly, I need to be sure your implants are
behaving themselves and not talking to anybody outside of this room. And thirdly,
which may be of some interest to you, Mister Killian works with Janice Workman. He
was one of the last people to see her.”
As dawn crept across the unseen horizon above his cell, Kyrell knew that he could
not allow the world to end like this. He was far too selfish to be a world-saving hero.
But then, perhaps, so are all heroes.
3.2.6
Underwood and Rune question Kyrell
“We found her,” Underwood said without greeting as Kyrell was led into the
interview room later that morning.
Kyrell nodded as he sat down opposite Underwood. He glanced sideways and
noticed that the tape recorder was not operating. The door closed behind him and he
was alone with Underwood. No lawyer. Underwood was wearing his PHUD, however – it
was the first time Kyrell had seen the detective with the device on his head. Perhaps
that was being used for recording, although Kyrell had some vague memory about
PHUD recordings being inadmissible as evidence.
Kyrell frowned, but Rune continued before he had a chance to object.
Kyrell’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you found her. Where is she?”
“In time, Kyrell, all in good time. First, you can tell me why you were trying to gain
access to Xenix’s network.”
Kyrell blinked then frowned. The frown froze in place and Underwood recognised
that Kyrell was gathering his thoughts. Underwood had had the element of surprise,
but Kyrell was regaining as swiftly as he could. Underwood’s suspicions were confirmed
when Kyrell replied.
“Where is my lawyer?”
“This is an informal conversation,” replied Underwood, allowing Kyrell to stall for a
few seconds. “It will not be used in evidence.”
“Why not?”
Underwood seemed to be collecting his thoughts – still undecided as to how exactly
to manage this interview. His head was cocked to one side as if in thought. After a
brief pause, Kyrell realised that Underwood was reading the PHUD display of the lens
before his right eye. He also seemed to be listening.
“I need you to answer the question,” said Underwood. “Why were you trying to gain
access to Xenix’s network.”
Without warning and without his instruction, Kyrell’s implant display suddenly
flashed up behind his eyes. Far too fast for his to recognise them, images and text
flashed in apparently random patterns before him. The effect was dizzying and
sickeningly familiar. For a sickening second Kyrell looked to his left arm as his mind
issued the instructions for it to lift.
It was obvious who the question was directed at. Rune and Underwood had
discussed the management of this interview briefly before it began – the single
instruction was simply that Rune was to answer no questions from Kyrell and give no
information to him beyond that which Underwood chose to reveal. Rune stayed silent.
Two things happened simultaneously. He left arm jerked off the table at his own
instruction, as if the table had suddenly become red hot, and a voice spoke with digital
calm into his thoughts.
“Good morning, Detective Underwood.”
“Do you look after the satellites?” asked Kyrell in reply.
“Why should Mister Killian look after satellites?” asked Underwood.
The satellites are in danger, said Kyrell. Using his implants excluded Underwood
from the statement.
I cannot answer your questions, replied Rune, also excluding Underwood.
Please speak normally.
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“The satellites are in danger,” repeated Kyrell.
“From?” asked Underwood.
Kyrell took a deep breath. “Detective, I need to tell you something. Please don’t
interrupt or ask any questions until I am finished. Can I ask that of you?”
Underwood eyed Kyrell suspiciously. “Can you see anything happening with
Kyrell’s… ah… implants, Mister Killian?” he asked. “Is he in contact with anybody.”
“No,” replied Rune simultaneously to both Underwood and Kyrell, audible to one,
mentally to the other. “No traffic. His implants are locked into one channel and
we have control of that.”
Underwood’s gaze did not leave Kyrell’s eyes. “Continue, Mister Trepan,” said
Underwood with heavy irony. “You have the floor.”
“I am going to guess,” began Kyrell, “that Xenix have experienced attacks on their
satellite network as if somebody were hacking into it. Either you have lost control of
your satellites,” he continued to Rune, “or you are about to. You are probably looking
for some computer reason behind this – you are looking for a hacker. You are not
going to find one.”
Kyrell paused, trying to collect his thoughts. Where to from here? He held his hands
in front of his face, as if praying, and slotted his nose between his fingers, rubbing the
bridge of his nose as if he had just removed a pair of spectacles. He rested his chin on
his thumbs, closed his eyes, breathed in and continued.
“There is – quite literally – a ghost in the machine. Actually, it’s a demon. A devil.”
Underwood opened his mouth to interject. “Please, detective, let me finish.”
Underwood realised, with his mouth open, that he actually had no idea what to say
by way of interruption and so he let Kyrell continue.
“The fact that you are not going to believe what I am telling you does not change
the fact that it is real. Think of it as a person. A person exists within the network –
within the Internet – who is capable of transmitting himself to any computer connected
to the network. This person – his name is Kutulu – this person has a very specific
agenda. He wants to gain control of the Xenix satellites presently in orbit around the
earth.” Kyrell paused to allow this to sink in. Before Rune or Underwood could ask the
obvious question, Kyrell answered it: “He wants to bring the satellites out of orbit and
crash them onto the surface of the planet.”
With an enormous effort of will, Rune remained silent, as he had been instructed. It
was Underwood who asked the question on both of their minds.
“Okay. Why?”
“The satellites have a nuclear payload. He wants to use them as weapons.”
Concentration narrowed Underwood’s eyes for a moment as his mind raced over
what he had been told. Without a word he stood from the table and left the room. He
instructed the guard waiting outside to ensure that Kyrell did not leave, then opened
the door of the adjacent meeting room and shut it behind him.
“Mister Killian,” he said, remaining standing despite the vacant chairs either side
the interview table. “Is what he is saying possible?”
In Cape Town, Rune glanced at Nils and Liol, both monitoring the conversation on
their implants.
“Detective, I am going to include my colleagues in this discussion.”
Underwood had been aware of Nils and Liol being present on the call. Wordlessly, Rune
raised his eyebrows at the two young men. They exchanged a look.
“If we do as he says,” said Nils, “and forget the demon thing for a second…
I don’t know. We have intelligent DNA in the implant filaments… Mind you, it
doesn’t make a great deal of difference. Let’s forget the whole personality
thing altogether. That may be a lie, but it’s also not actually important. The
difference between a person and a sentient program is becoming more and
more vague – take our AIs for example.”
“I’m sorry,” said Underwood. “AIs?”
“Artificial Intelligence,” replied Rune. “We have computers programmed to
assist us with network defence. They use software which is artificially
intelligent.”
“Okay.”
“The thing is,” continued Nils, “We have come under attack from a virus
which appears to be sentient. It has gone for the satellite network whenever
it has attacked us.” He paused and looked at Rune, unsure as to how he should
proceed.
“It’s been very successful,” said Rune, understanding Nils’ unasked question.
“It hasn’t gained access to the satellites purely because we physically broke
the link between our computers and the satellites. We actually cut the cable.
Nothing else could stop it.”
“So he could be telling the truth?”
“His implants have been accessed by the same virus,” said Nils, counting his
points on his fingers. “His server computers had the virus on them. The virus
has been after the satellites. I can’t tell you if it’s a person or a devil or
whatever else he might like to call it, but it could certainly have come from his
computers.”
“And do the satellites have nuclear payloads?” asked Underwood, his concern
beginning to grow.
“They do,” replied Rune, “but they cannot crash into the earth as he says
they would. They’ll burn up in the upper atmosphere. They should burn up too
high for the fallout to directly affect us down here on the surface, although I
can’t say we’ve ever been stupid enough to find out if that is true in practise.
Detective, I’m afraid there are some details I cannot share with you without
the proper authority, but I can assure you that there are a number of failsafes
built into our system which would prevent this from happening – not least of
which is our ability to destroy the satellites long before they reach the
atmosphere. They should destroy themselves for a start, but even if they
don’t we do have other ways of ensuring they do not reach anywhere near an
altitude that would cause danger to mankind.”
Next to him, Nils was frowning, staring into the middle-distance.
“Could we perhaps ask him a question regarding the satellites?” he asked.
Minutes later, seated across from Kyrell, Underwood said, “One question: the
satellites will burn up in the outer atmosphere long before they reach the surface of
the Earth.”
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“That’s a question?”
“It’s a statement,” said Underwood. “Xenix assure me that there is no danger. Even
if I believe that there is a ghost in the machine and even if I go on to believe that it is
after Xenix’s satellites – and I assure you that I believe no such thing – the satellites
are still perfectly safe. A virus which we found on your computers has tried to access
the satellites without success. Even if it succeeded, the satellites would burn up long
before they reached the Earth. What is it your little virus is really after?”
Kyrell stared squarely back at Underwood. “The satellites are not safe,” he said.
You listening, Mister Xenix? Your satellites are not safe. “They have failsafes,
don’t they? Give them the incorrect command and they self-destruct? That can be
overridden. They’ll burn up on entry? Not if they enter the atmosphere at the right
angle they won’t. The drag will cause them to brake, but not burn up if they come in at
a shallow enough angle. And Star Wars, your intercept missiles? They need to know
where the satellites are, don’t they? With the satellites separated from the network,
without receipt of their tracer signals, your missiles will be unable to find them. Not
with enough accuracy to shoot them down, anyway.” He paused and a terrible silence
hung amongst them. “It can be done, can’t it, Mister Xenix and your team of
programmers who are no doubt listening to this call? It can be done.”
The haunting silence continued as Kyrell stopped speaking. Underwood did not
need to ask the question of Rune. The silence told him more than he really wanted to
believe. It was also starting to dawn on Underwood that authorities orders of
magnitude above his jurisdiction should rather urgently be included in his investigation.
Not even Kendo could block this.
“Where is this virus, this Kutulu?” asked Rune. Underwood could hear the slow
clarity of Rune’s words; hear the infinite concern that laced his voice with the slightest
tremor. Kyrell, of course, only heard the expressionless voice of his implants.
“Where is Janice Workman?” asked Kyrell.
3.2.7
D’Artes fly to England; Janice tears open the gate
Jason knew he was exceptionally fortunate to have secured two seats for Kayleigh
and himself on the supersonic airliner that now cruised somewhere near the borders of
inner space with the third, between them and the isle, free. The cost of the flight was
being paid by the Metropolitan Police – something Justice Justin Edward Kenwright
was, at that moment, discovering to his horror – and the map on the screen embedded
in the seat back in front of them informed them that that they were, at present,
hurtling through the thinnest wisps of atmosphere above the Mediterranean.
Kayleigh slept. It could definitely not be said that, during the three weeks since
Kayleigh’s first interview with Detective Liam Underwood, she had even begun to heal
from the terrible destruction her ordeal had caused her emotionally, but she had
recovered her physical health and the bruises on her face and body were now fastfading yellow discolourations. She had simply never been able to remain awake for any
length of time when travelling anywhere. They had been in the air for three-and-aquarter of the four hours the journey would take, and Kayleigh had been asleep for
more than three of them.
Kayleigh was required as the plaintiff and star witness in the impending trial of
Kyrell Trepan and Vivian Lancaster, but this would not happen for several weeks,
possibly months. In the intervening time, however, the Met had requested that
Kayleigh present herself for a physical inspection before all the evidence of her rape
and abuse faded. Legal technicalities required that an English doctor, in England,
inspect the plaintiff to corroborate the evidence of the South African doctor to allow it –
the South African doctor’s evidence – to be admissible in an English court. As
mystifying legal requirements went, this was relatively straightforward.
There had been two interviews with Underwood following the first. Each had gone
into slightly greater detail regarding the identities and intentions of Kyrell and Vivian
and Jason had also realised that Underwood was trying to gage Kayleigh’s ability to
hold up under questioning. Underwood had been almost callously ruthless in some of
his questioning, and Jason’s initial anger at this had melted to an understanding that
this was a fraction of what she could expect in a courtroom. Nonetheless, the
experiences had been harrowing, and Jason was honest enough to admit that he was
no closer to healing than his daughter who slept across the two seats next to him with
her head on his lap. Indeed, he wasn’t sure the process of enduring all the hurt was
over. It was hard to heal the wound when the knife remained in it and kept turning.
Jason had never before known such intimate comfort from his faith as he had
experienced during the past month. It was as if his Lord had chosen to close to an
almost infinitesimal distance the gap that separated the human from the divine.
The day after the first interview had been a Wednesday. Jason had called on
Montgomery Logan, his assistant pastor, to perform the duties he, Jason, had had for
that day. While Kayleigh slept almost the remainder of the week away in her bedroom,
Jason had tugged the shoes from his feet, quietly shut the door to his vestry, knelt
before the coffee-table that had witnessed so much intercession over the years and
sobbed until he swore he could hear his heart tear.
Nearly an hour later he had cried himself dry and his knees, normally accustomed
to hours folded beneath his rump, cried out to be relieved, so Jason had stood and
seated himself in one of the two chairs that faced his desk. He could not sit in the seat
behind his desk, for he needed ministry and could not minister as he did from this
position. Such minutiae as this meant to world to a man who would not pray in his own
vestry with his shoes on. He had walked behind his desk to fetch his bible and then sat
in one of the deliberately comfortable and reclining chairs before his desk.
And he stared. He stared at the bookshelf behind his desk, seeing nothing. He lost
all track of time – from his perspective time was meaningless – and his watch reported
another hour-and-a-half gone when next he thought to look at it. A man of faith for his
entire life, a tower of spiritual strength for hundreds over the decades of his ministry,
Jason D’Arte could not even summon the strength to pray.
He tried, then, after looking at his watch with complete absence of comprehension.
It might have been a compass for all the information he gleaned from it, but the act of
looking had served as a distraction, and he looked from his watch to his bible, closed
on his lap.
He managed one word. That word was, “What?” It was hardly a whisper, a word
breathed against an agony that simultaneously ripped every nerve and yet blanketed
the world in numb nothingness. The tears had come again at the hopelessness of the
word and the sobbing racked his body and shuddered his shoulders, but it did not last
as long as before. As his eyes retrieved their focus from fading tears he saw the bible
that remained on his lap and he opened it.
At Sunday school, a million lifetimes ago, he had been required to memorise a
verse for some test or examination he could not remember and didn’t bother. But the
verse came back, possibly the best-known and most often quoted verse in all scripture
– certainly Old Testament scripture.
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His hands were numb, obeying him slowly as if they were cold, and he found
himself using the heel of his hand to turn pages. He knew that if he allowed his bible to
fall open at the centre, it would open on the book of Psalms and so it did on his lap. He
turned back the dozen or so pages to find the Psalm he sought.
Psalm 23. He spread his hands across the open book, smoothing imaginary creases
from the pages and breathed in to clear his lungs before he allowed himself to read. He
blinked away the last of the tears and then read silently.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall lack nothing. He makes my lie down in green
pastures. He leads me beside still water. He restores my soul. And there he stopped,
for the words seemed to snap back across the centuries as if they were a mighty
rubber band, stretched to breaking point along the aeons since they were written, and
now, with the power of all the history that had come between, they rushed back into
his vestry. It was as if the words formed a fist and punched him bodily from the page.
Suddenly there was no air in his lungs, a hollow emptiness filled his entire torso, and
as he breathed in he sucked from the page before him the life and strength and vitality
that came with the saving gasp of the drowning man. It seemed as if, at the periphery
of his vision, the colours had come back.
Over and over again he read, then whispered and then said aloud, as plainly as if
he were speaking to somebody else in the room with him, “He restores my soul. He
restores my soul. He restores my soul.” He knew it was silly and he rejoiced in the
absurdity of the repeated phrase. Then he continued the Psalm, and it was as if he
could feel himself walking through the valley of the shadow of death and knowing that
he need fear no evil for his Lord was with him. He allowed the rod of His kingly
leadership and the staff of His shepherding love to comfort him and he looked up to
see, not the bookshelf and the dusty manuals discussing life’s moral dilemmas and
offering second-hand advice, but the gates of heaven themselves and he knew that he
would dwell in the House of the Lord, in the presence of more love than all the hate in
the world could hope to extinguish, forever and ever and ever and ever…
Only when he felt his cheeks ache did he realise how broadly he had been smiling –
and for how long! For the next half-hour he re-read the Psalm over and over again,
sucking from it everything it had to offer and giggling his prayers of thanksgiving out
loud. He wondered for a brief moment whether this was, in fact, hysteria, but he knew
it was simply the joy of knowing that all his the pain and hurt he felt – and the terrible
pain his daughter felt that made his fade to insignificance – was shared by a God who
understood, who took it from you and gave it back only in portions you could handle.
Like his daughter at the airport, Jason allowed his Father to spread His arms around
him as he clutched his own arms to his chest and, cuddling his bible and feeling the
love of God surround him in a way he never thought possible, he slept dreamlessly in
his vestry, guarded by angels.
Jason smiled down at Kayleigh’s face, half obscured by the airline-issue blanket
that reached her cheeks only by leaving her ankles sticking out. He sat next to the
porthole and looked from Kayleigh’s face out into the darkness above the aircraft. The
world shone blue below, the curvature of the Earth clearly visible from this altitude,
and above the stars shone steadily with no atmosphere to make them twinkle. It was
daytime, but no air existed at this height to spread the sun’s rays and azure the
blackness of space. Instead, unseen, the sun shone against the opposite side of the
aircraft but brought no light to dim the stars on this side. Jason stared at the brightest
star he could find and thought of the verse that described Jesus as the Bright and
Morning Star. The half-smile had yet to spread across his face when silently, and
without any fuss, the star blinked out of existence.
Consciousness rushed up at Janice Workman and blinding agony seared across her
entire being as she suddenly jolted back into control of her body.
For the briefest moment she stood where Kutulu had left her, feet apart at the tidal
line of Glen Cairn beach a few hundred yards up the Main Road from Xenix’s
Simonstown Offices. The blade of the sword she had slashed through the air across the
distant sky was now firmly buried in the sand between her feet and as the white-cold
glow disappeared, suddenly the sword became impossibly heavy in her grasp. She let it
fall as she herself fell face-forward, a gore-strewn heap on a deserted beach where the
outgoing tide lapped away her blood.
As if the heavens themselves hid in shame from the sight of her abused and empty
body, the skies darkened to a dim twilight in the silent seconds after she fell. With
infinite stillness that silenced the gulls above False Bay, from the zenith to the crags of
the Fish Hoek Mountains and right across the face of the sun, an infinitely black scar
tore open the sky.
3.3
3.3.1
Armageddon
Rune, Nils and Liol physically sever network. Kutulu finds Nevada
satellite uplink. Rune starts hack of satellites.
The mighty, carbon composite doors that secured the Data Control Centre beneath
the Simonstown Mountains rolled ponderously together and shut out the deafening
claxon sirens that bellowed beyond. Data Security team members were still bustling
towards their stations behind the rows of desks that faced the large display screens,
others were already seated and querying their implants.
Rune walked amongst them, giving each a chance to seat and orientate
themselves. As a busy silence descended on the room, he addressed commands to the
processor controlling the screens. Smaller display screens showed maps of Cape Town,
South Africa and the world. Others displayed data information relating to the health
and integrity of the defence network that surrounded the satellites’ communications.
On one of the two large, central screens Rune called for an image from a camera that
monitored the satellite communication station and dishes that sat in a small valley
behind the top of Table Mountain. On the other, he brought a composite image of 180
degrees of sky above South Africa, viewed from a number of orbiting satellites. The
image was a composite of electron emissions from surrounding space and should have
shown a blank screen with bright points of various coloured light, indicating the
presence of craft and satellites and, behind them, the moon, sun, planets and stars.
Colour indicated distance, temperature and other identity data.
Across the centre of the second image hung a vacant, blank space, only visible
because of the absence of incoming electron waves and therefore coloured dots. In the
sky above the first image the camera, facing North, showed the gaping rent in spacetime that somehow defied the atmosphere that should have softened and blurred the
image. It was like a hole had been torn just out of the reach of the most distant
communications dish – as if it hung mere metres above the ground and not, as the
satellite transmissions insisted, at some indeterminate distance beyond the orbit of the
moon.
Absolute silence descended on the control centre as each look up at the screens
before them. Ignoring their implants, somebody whispered, “What the fuck is that?”
Page 115 of 137
Two things, began Rune in his accustomed brief style. He wasted no words during
Live Fire Exercises and was clearly not about to now either. The second is the
“Tapeworm” virus. It has a name: Kutulu. Nils, give the AIs control of the
guillotines. The millisecond they see Kutulu coming, I want to guillotines
down. The first, the Gate, needed no instruction.
Liol, one team, Rune began allocating responsibilities. He was reduced to twentytwo people on his twenty-five man team – twenty-three if he included himself. Two
staff members were away. Janice would have been the twenty-fifth. Three. Get hold
of the US military via Star Wars. What do they know? What do we need to
know?
Jeanette, two, how is that thing affecting satellite orbits? Does it have
gravity? What is its orbit? I need vectors on all satellites with that thing
accounted for. The rest of you stand by.
The silence deepened. The twelve remaining team members remained impassive.
Most were accessing their implants – the vast majority, Rune did not doubt, contacting
home and loved ones. He envied them.
He surrounded the gates and then, simultaneously, launched himself at all three,
diving into the pathways that lay beyond.
With the electronic equivalent of a falling blade, Kutulu lost all sense of his
extremities and recoiled in digital agony as he felt three tendrils severed in the same
instant. Beyond, cold nothing engulfed him and, for the second time in less than a
month, the Ancient One knew death.
Guillotines activated! Shit that was quick! said Nils. He had hardly completed
the sequence of instructions when the AIs responded with the simultaneous severing of
all three external links. Rune’s network was now alone, controlling the satellites, but
cut off from all else.
“Find it!” he shouted across the Control Room, but Nils was already searching.
“It’s dead. We caught it between the first and third servers. All three secondaries
are down.” He paused, searching the image his implants were delivering to his optical
nerves. “No traffic within the network,” he reported. “None.”
“And outside?”
Across distances and dimensions unknown and unsuspected by mankind who had
nonetheless created them, an infinite tunnel hung open. At once infinite and
infinitesimal, it was the ultimate achievement of a race who had yet to realise that they
had brought this demise upon themselves. All of human technology could not hope to
create what had been achieved in seconds through faith alone: a naked singularity.
Approaching a collapsed star, a barrier in space is reached – a point of no return –
beyond which not even light can escape. It is at this barrier that all science and
mathematics collapses, for mankind has no model that can adequately calculate the
infinite or cope with speeds that outstrip light by orders of magnitude.
Orbiting the planet Earth at a distance not quite calculable by any means available
to man, a stable, open event horizon defied science simply by virtue of its existence.
Beyond it lay madness, for reason collapsed at its boundaries. The absence of reason
and logic, the breakdown of human understanding, the border of chaos and the verge
of destruction. Mathematics was not required to establish the only possible place that
could lie beyond.
Hell.
Kutulu had held Janice’s body erect for the time it took to ensure that his
blasphemous prayers had been answered by the sword. The Gate was complete and
held itself open as he waited to ensure it was complete and stable. As his electronic
fangs released Janice to crumple on the deserted beach, Kutulu spun in digital space
and raced at the speed of light towards the gates he had so easily toppled days before.
Back through the three gates, back across the computers and data lines and, through
them and through the air itself, as a beam of energy, towards the orbiting platforms of
nuclear death and would rain down to accompany the first wave of Hell’s attack.
He needed mere fractions of a second. He knew the gateways lay open to his
understanding and he would pass through them and into the satellite network long
before any human had the chance to blink an eye, much less stop him. He knew his
way, and he sped with eager evil towards his goal.
“We can’t see outside anymore,” Nils replied. Around him, his colleagues were
looking at one another, each suddenly and irrevocable disconnected from all outside
communications thanks to the guillotines. “We’re alone.”
Like any military commander, Kutulu needed to limit casualties and the
simultaneous attack from satellites and demons, while not vital, was certainly a
primary factor in ensuring they were minimised. Kutulu held no particular affection for
a race of demons entirely unrelated to the line which Marduk should have
extinguished, but they were his allies. The value of victory was reduced with the
number of victors left to enjoy it.
He had hoped it would not be necessary, but he had at his disposal information
gleaned from previous invasions of Xenix’s network and he would now set it to good
use. His human enemies had called it a Live Fire Exercise, and Kutulu knew that
communication between ground stations and the satellites had been achieved
previously by bypassing the Xenix defence network altogether.
Frustrated by the dawdling speed of light, it took him whole seconds to cross the
planet and find the network which guarded the installation in the Nevada desert. Puny
by comparison to Xenix’s defences, the gateway servers guarding the control
processors behind the satellite dishes, all neatly arranged in kilometre-long rows on
the desert floor, served to delay the demon only by a matter of a further few seconds.
Human controllers, their natural and technological senses all directed in wonder at the
Gate that hung above the far side of the planet, were not even primed to be aware of
his attack and they remained unaware of it until every one of the dozens of dishes
began their slow realignment.
Confusion further eroded any potential defence against Kutulu’s attack and humans
had barely reached for PHUDs and begun to query their network processors by the
time the uplink had been achieved. All he needed was one satellite above that part of
the United States. He found nineteen and once more separated himself to use every
one of them.
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Vectors established, said Jeanette. By issuing commands to the room’s
controlling processor, the frightening but nonetheless inadequate camera image from
the top of Table Mountain was replaced by a graphic representation of a world map
with satellite positions superimposed above it. The result was a confusing mass of
overlapping printout data as every satellite under Xenix control was plotted. Before
each, represented by a dotted line, extended their vector – the direction and speed in
which the satellite was travelling and therefore their immediate future positions in
space.
Gravity? asked Rune.
The only way we can tell if it has gravity is to watch the behaviour of the
satellites over time, replied Jeanette. We’ve had four minutes and there seems
to be no alteration in their predicted orbits. It doesn’t seem to have gravity,
but then all our ground-based sensors tell us it doesn’t exist at all. We can
only tell it’s there because of what it obscures.
Like the rest present, Rune could not help looking across at the second screen and
the black nothing that existed where there should be stars, planets and satellites.
Indeed, from the perspective of Cape Town, he should have seen the sun. The Table
Mountain satellite uplink, being the link between the Xenix defence network and the
satellites, was contained within the defence network and therefore still contactable
from Simonstown.
An alarm sounded – a low beeping, audible but not annoying. Two satellites plotted
on the world map started to flash red. The number increased. Seven. Twelve.
Seventeen. Nineteen. Nineteen. Nineteen.
Jeanette? asked Rune. The alarm and data printed beside the plotted points of
light on the screen indicated that control of the satellites had been lost. Their predicted
vectors disappeared – without direct contact, their position and speed in space could
no longer be accurately determined. The rest of you, what’s happened? David,
two, find those satellites from ground-bases.
All now worked in concentrated silence. Nils’ team remained focussed on security,
although their task was now getting data out of a sealed network. The three under
David took control of the Table Mountain dishes and realigned them in an attempt to
physically locate the errant satellites before they drifted too far. The remainder were
trying various means to communicate with the flashing red dots.
I need a dish, said Nils. I need to contact Star Wars.
Take E37-H, replied Liol, indicating a dish for Nils’ use while David aligned the rest
to search for the satellites. It was the one he had been using seconds earlier.
Nils? asked Rune.
Same as the LFE, replied Nils, referring to the Live Fire Exercise. I’ll bypass the
–
Understood, Rune interrupted. Do it.
The initial alarm at the loss of the nineteen satellites had been silenced following
acknowledgement of the alarm. Now it sounded again.
Wordlessly, Rune looked at Jeanette. She did not need to move her head – her
eyes simply shifted focus from the image relayed by her implants to Rune standing a
few metres in front of her. Her focus shifted back to the implant image as she sought
answers.
The world map now seemed to take on the appearance of bacteria in a Petri dish
viewed from a time-lapse camera. The red area, located above the southern states of
the United States of America, began to spread. It did not do so evenly. Satellites far
removed from that area, but within line-of-site contact, suddenly turned red and began
their own multiplication from their location. With sickening speed, control was being
lost across the entirety of the Xenix network.
“Fucker!” cursed David and Rune turned to stare a silent question at him. The word
was blurted in surprised anger – the technician actually appeared to recoil from the
image on his implants; his head jerked backwards as if he had been insulted by the
information he was receiving.
It’s the Tapeworm, he said, and throughout the room heads turned towards him.
It’s just bounced off our own dishes.
To reach more satellites, Rune completed the thought. David nodded. Drop
them, replied Rune instantly.
“Wait!” shouted Nils, attracting the combined attention of the room. David, is he
in?
He didn’t try and get in, replied the technician. Just bounced straight off.
Nils?
He can use any ground station for that, explained Nils swiftly. He’s not trying
to infect us anymore. He’s reached his goal. We need those dishes to find the
satellites.
And if he gets in?
“We’re fucked already,” Nils reverted to normal speech, standing from his desk.
“He’s already inside the network. I’ll bet he’s using all his processor power – or
intellect, or whatever – to control those satellites. If he attacks us, we lose everything,
but without the dishes we don’t even know what he’s up to.”
Rune’s position did not allow for indecision. Nils was right. So what if Kutulu
infected Simonstown now? While his team retained contact with the satellites, however
remote, Rune at least knew what was happening in the skies above Earth. Acceptable
risk.
“He’s right,” said Rune and Nils sat down.
For an inordinate time – perhaps half-a-dozen seconds – Rune stood completely
still and the control room’s focus remained on him. With the exception of one small
detail, this scenario was exactly what they had planned for. The detail was the horrific
sentience of the program which had infected the satellites.
They had rehearsed the loss of some or all of the satellites, they had allowed for
the unlikely scenario of a hacker using non-Xenix uplink dishes, which is exactly what
Kutulu had done. This was supposed to be almost impossible given the level of
encryption of the satellites’ onboard software and the need to know precise coordinates in space, but Kutulu had clearly learnt the orbital attitudes of the satellites on
previous visits and simply extrapolated them. Either that or he possessed, by orders of
magnitude, more processing power than could ever exist in a single program and had
searched the sky in a matter of seconds. It would probably have devastated Rune to
know that the second option was, in fact, the truth.
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Nonetheless, Rune had accurately identified the sentience – indeed, the
unbelievable intelligence – of the attacking program as the single most deadly
exception to the rehearsed emergency scenarios. This combined with the minute size
of the program. AIs with a fraction of the intellect demonstrated by this Kutulu
program were incredibly large. To communicate even a strategically chosen fraction of
their sentience would require bandwidth found only in the most crucial and
communications-intensive regions of Xenix’s own networks, and even then it would
take minutes to achieve. The deadly aspect of Kutulu was the combination of intellect
that should be impossible at a purely digital level and a size and therefore speed which
ridiculed everything mankind knew of information technology.
“We need to reclaim the satellites,” said Rune slowly, audibly, but more to himself
than the gathered security technicians. “Against a virus, we deploy antidote software.
Against a hack we close gateways. Nils, why don’t we have an antidote to Kutulu?”
“None worked,” replied Nils from his desk, amusing himself by imagining the
cartoon smoke rising from Rune’s ears at the agonising power of his thought. “Not that
we had a whole lot of time. It just kept going through any antidote we or the AIs could
come up with.”
Rune’s fingers were interlaced in a two-handed fist in front of his face. He was
resting his chin against his thumbs in thought, as if in a child-like attitude of prayer. He
absently caressed his chin with his thumbs.
“And the gateways didn’t work because he hacked through them and managed to
survive in dead cables for seconds on end,” said Rune, continuing his thoughts and
answering his own questions.
The team knew this process. Although Rune was still relatively new, his team knew
his way of working by now. Rune was brainstorming. Any intelligent comment was
welcome – nothing would be ridiculed as an idea so long as it could be backed up with
reason. The cartoon smoke spread as everybody present recognised that this scenario
was beyond any they had rehearsed and a new approach – or at least a new take on
an old approach – was desperately needed.
“What if we could trap it in the satellites?” came a suggested from the second row.
Rune’s eyes narrowed. “In theory, it has access to every ground-based
receiver/transmitted pointing at the sky,” he said, in a tone that did not dismiss the
suggestion, but demanded an explanation.
“How much access do we have to the errant satellites?”
“None,” replied Jeanette. “We only know they’re there because of data from the few
that remain. Those are being taken as we speak. After that, we need the ground-based
systems to tell us where they are.”
“If we had control of the satellites,” Rune said, looking towards Jeanette, “brief
control of the satellites – what could we do?”
“Disable the dishes,” replied Jeanette, referring to the communications dishes on
the satellites themselves. Each satellite had a dish permanently pointing towards the
Earth. While in Earth orbit the method of dish-orientation was simple, but
programming existed within each satellite to ensure that the communications dish
remained aligned with the Earth when the satellite travelled to Mars.
“But we need to retain control of the satellites.”
“Then re-install new code that disallows communication with any dish except our
own.”
Silence returned as Rune examined the option. A hint of a smile played with the
sides of his mouth.
“Jeanette, I want your team to continue to monitor the satellite positions. You’ll
probably lose all of them, so get as many ground stations onto them as possible. Keep
that board up-to-date,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “Nils, Liol, two equal
teams. Show me why half of you have criminal records: hack those satellites. I want
them back, I want sole control of them and I don’t want Kutulu to know until we switch
off the dishes.”
Jeanette’s focus shifted imperceptibly from Rune to her implant display and back to
Rune. “I think we may have a bit of a deadline on that,” she said.
“Why?”
“The satellites are moving away from their calculated vectors,” she said with wideeyed concern. “I think they’re coming down.”
3.3.2
Enter Hell
Just about every device on the planet capable of doing so was now focussed on the
Gate that had torn open an appreciable fraction of space a few hours previously. Unlike
any object (any object made of matter, at least), the Gate had no orbit whatsoever. It
hung motionless in space relative to all around it, ignoring with magnificent insolence
Sir Isaac Newton and every law that ever governed gravity.
It should have spiralled into the Earth or fallen into the Sun. It did neither. But
then, as dozens of scientific observatories were realising simultaneously, it had no
mass and no depth. By any sensible definition, it wasn’t there anyway. So, reasonably,
it could behave however it pleased.
It obscured all behind it and appeared to devour all before it. It was not obscured
by atmospheric haze, despite being outside the atmosphere. It was as if everything
between it and the Earth’s surface had somehow been made entirely invisible (to every
scientific apparatus thus far pointed at it, not just the human eye). Only the multitude
of man-made satellites that orbited the planet seemed permitted to eclipse it –
otherwise, weather permitting, mankind was treated to an uninterrupted vision of
absolute black nothingness hanging a few million kilometres away from the planet and
an infinite distance away from reason.
Then they came.
At first it seemed as if the Gate were fragmenting into millions of tiny, constituent
points. Without losing its own consistency, such as it could be said to have had in the
first place, millions and millions of tiny particles of blackness seemed to detach
themselves at once from whatever made up the Gate’s surface. Then, in the seconds
that followed, telescopes, radio receivers, observation satellites and orbiting defence
platforms all realised that these pieces were, in fact, separate from the Gate entirely.
For a start, they had mass. They had three-dimensional existence within space as
opposed to the stubbornly two-dimensional Gate.
They also had movement, although this took a few more seconds to discern
because of its direction. They were heading straight for the Earth.
And behind them came more.
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Hell emptied through the Gate. Every devil ever imagined by human consciousness
took corporeal form at the boundaries of the Gate and, by any cosmic standard, came
hurtling at the Earth’s surface. At speeds that should have torn apart any matter
known to man, they descended in massed formations. Any observer could tell their
intention in less that a minute. With a devastating precision, thousands of columns of
beings coalesced out of the chaos at the Gate and headed with pinpoint accuracy into
orbits that would allow for simultaneous invasion of every major centre of human
existence.
Watching computers calculated in milliseconds the outcome of each orbit as the
first columns headed around to the opposite side of the planet while the final ones
headed directly towards the surface. At blinding speeds which at times approached an
appreciable fraction of the speed of light, the Earth was comprehensively surrounded.
Few computers were attempting to calculate the individual makeup of the swarms
of creatures that dived through the vacuum of space unprotected to throw themselves
at the planet’s population. Fewer stopped to count their makeup, but two did just this,
faithfully carrying out their programming to identify and catalogue all objects above
the size of a grapefruit within Earth orbit. Every staff member of the Asteroid Defence
Program, run by the United Nations, was staring at the descending clouds of
impossibility, but their computer network continued to do what it was programmed to
and carefully numbered, catalogued and calculated vectors for all 9,584,102,502 new
objects that had appeared within the range of its continuous search. This process took
appreciably shorter than would normally be the case thanks to the fortunate turn of
events which saw the Gate appear only 20 degrees from the zenith above the forest of
dishes used by the UN ADP program, conveniently located close to the Kimberly Xenix
launch sites in Northwest South Africa. The open spaces had been ideal for the site, as
had the proximity to Xenix communication hardware and computational power.
Neither of these computers was expected to know the exact population of the
planet at 12h42 on the afternoon of Tuesday 10th April 2057. Nobody knew it. Not
really. The latest estimate of the world’s population was a somewhat inflated 10.2
billion. Nobody would have made the connection between the number of invaders and
the population of the Earth and, even if they had, it would have been viewed in
estimated terms and therefore seen as a bizarre coincidence – quite near the bottom of
the list of priorities on this of all days.
Nonetheless, plunging into the Earth’s atmosphere and sounding every alarm to
which the two UN ADP computers were connected – Earth defence from falling bodies
being their primary priority, after all – was one nemesis for every human being alive at
that moment.
Within the satellite network, orchestrating nuclear death with the flourish of an
accomplished symphony conductor, was one more demon. Humankind was
outnumbered.
3.3.3
The Assault Begins – US pre-emptive strike
Not surprisingly, the United States of America was the first to respond. Despite the
myriad conspiracy theories to the contrary, little existed in the way of formal protocol
when it came to dealing with a visitation from space. Perhaps the “take me to your
leader” approach would have been considered had a few beings chosen to descend in
an orderly fashion – maybe a little flotilla of craft landing near Capitol Hill may have
been greeted with cautious attempts at communication. But the aggressive nature of
this advance, the co-ordinated surrounding of the planet in a single manoeuvre that
achieved in minutes what mankind could not have conceived in decades, could be
interpreted as nothing but the single most hostile action ever witnessed in the history
of mankind.
Beneath the Simonstown mountains, Jeanette announced in a hushed whisper that
Star Wars had just declared their intentions. Rune stared aghast at the screens on the
front wall as the American defence authorities declared that Star Wars would not be
available to Xenix as a form of planetary defence against the descending nuclear
satellites – every weapon that faced the sky was to be mustered against the incoming
horde.
Over the half decade it had taken to set up the planetary defences against errant
satellites and, much more importantly, any potential attack from the bewilderingly
silent yet every more devastatingly powerful People’s Army of China, the space
defence network had grown to incorporate much more than simple earth-bound
missiles which could intercept incoming ordnance. In geosynchronous orbit about the
United States, hundreds of military satellites existed with laser cannon capabilities and
could focus on a truly appalling and utterly comprehensive region of space above all of
the United States and a great deal of the surrounding planet.
Despite a sleeping President, only now being wakened to news he spent precious
minutes refusing to believe, the Star Wars defence network turned its full and mighty
attention towards the incoming masses. Fire-command rested within the precincts of
the Pentagon and was issued with impressive swiftness. Kilometres above the planet’s
surface, apertures were opening to reveal billions of dollars’ worth of protective
firepower.
The contradiction in defence strategy presented by the Star Wars program now
became an intense dilemma. A single laser beam from an orbiting defence satellite
could warm but certainly not harm any approaching body. Two or more beams were
required – where the beams crossed formed the focus of energy and the destruction
point. This was perfect for even a relatively large number of simultaneously descending
missiles – upwards of fifty concurrent invaders could be annihilated simultaneously. A
larger grouping required the slower response of ground-based, non-nuclear missiles,
but their detonation at high altitude would not only destroy incoming threats – it also
ran the serious risk of obliterating the defence satellites.
The decision was made – again with impressive speed – and the satellites opened
fire on any and all targets they could acquire, while the slumbering phalluses of death
stored for decades beneath the desert soil were brought to operational status as swiftly
as possible. By the time the reluctant President was in a position to make the final call,
hundreds of missiles lay ready for launch beneath his command.
It took a further thirty seconds for the President to be fully assured that nuclear
fall-out would not present a significant threat outside of the Earth’s atmosphere,
assuming he acted quickly enough to capture the threat at this altitude. While the
missiles and defence satellites were non-nuclear, the payload of the Xenix satellites did
concern a President whose expertise were political and not scientific.
With a bowed head, a prayer and an apology to history, President Obadiah G.
Hertwell of the United States of America issued the launch command that had so
minutely eluded the presidents of the Twentieth Century. Across hundreds of cities,
across every available radio frequency, across television screens and across the nation,
warnings sounded as the bay doors rolled apart and ignition sequences were initiated.
Page 119 of 137
As the fires raged beneath the missiles – themselves miniature nuclear reactions –
the message was broadcast throughout the planet: The United States was going to
war.
The first of the great missiles was airborne as similar decisions were being taken in
European capitals. Not surprisingly, the defence capabilities did not exist to provide the
same level of counter-attack. Even less surprisingly, it took far too long to make the
appropriate decisions for them to have any saving effect whatsoever.
The horde coalesced in hundreds of columns above the United States, preparing
their strikes on all major cities as the missiles lumbered then raced into the blackening
sky. Minutes passed during which nothing seemed to happen.
The first of the missiles tore ragged holes through the formations of flying demons,
careering upwards to their designated detonation altitudes. These first were to
detonate at the highest possible altitude, well above the descending horde. This would
have the combined effect of destroying any theoretical lines of communication which
existed above the first assault while allowing the later missiles a chance to reach the
enemy before being detonated by the explosions above them.
In this region of space, terms like “above” and “below” had little meaning. Threedimensional warfare had been understood since the dogfights of the First World War,
but the vastness of inner space presented new and sometimes bewildering tactical
problems.
After centuries and advances in ballistic technology of mind-boggling orders of
magnitude, it still fell to one man to shout, “Fire!” The missiles were hurtling towards
their designated detonation zones, but would fly harmlessly off into space should the
command not be given.
Still, President Hertwell was not a timid man, nor had he launched billions of
dollars’ worth of technology to see it fly uselessly into the void. He had said his
prayers, he had begged the forgiveness of God and the American people (although not
necessarily in that order), and now he gave the command in a clear and confident
voice.
The Star Wars defence program had really only been designed to intercept a small
number of incoming objects at any one time. The idea had been defence against
rogue-nations or terrorist organisations attacking the United States directly with
missiles (nuclear or otherwise). It could never have been a proper defence against a
Cold War all-out nuclear assault and nor could its present targets ever have been
envisaged by any but the most wild-eyed of military strategists. Still, it could have
been hoped that the measure would at least have thinned the ranks of incoming
whatever-they-were.
Ninety-seven seconds after the fire command had been given, the Earth-bound
observation stations relayed to the world map in the control centre the loss of three
Xenix satellites above United States controlled airspace. This represented almost eight
percent of the satellites in that region of space and, in the controlled mayhem in
Simonstown, this loss would have gone unnoticed – possibly for hours – had Nils not
discerned, fifty seconds before the information reached the screens, a definite ripple in
the Kutulu-controlled data traffic between the remaining majority of satellites.
He wondered briefly at this digital equivalent of painful shock, informed the room
generally that The US just blew up three of our satellites and then continued to
knock as silently as possible on Kutulu’s new back door. It was left to Jeanette to find
the missing satellites as their dots blinked out almost a minute later.
Jeanette also noted that the clouds of swarming creatures above the US had shifted
their patterns slightly in response to the attack, but continued their advance almost
entirely unperturbed.
What will they do now? she asked of nobody in particular.
Probably get every attack aircraft they own into the air, replied Liol absently
without looking away from the display on his retinas.
Which is precisely what they did.
3.3.4
D’Arte lands at Heathrow, taken to Underwood
Ironically, the grounding of all air traffic above the United Kingdom (and above
most other countries) meant that air-borne aircraft took much longer to land.
Heathrow remained one of the busiest airports on the planet and moving all aircraft
already grounded out of the way to allow the in-coming remainder to land was
resulting in some significant logistical problems.
D’Arte’s flight from Cape Town was re-directed to Terminal Six and then circled in a
holding pattern for an hour-and-a-half before space could be allocated for it to land.
Priority had to be given to planes low on fuel and those carrying VIP passengers. It
took a further twenty-five minutes for the craft to taxi to an allocated parking spot
hundreds of metres from the terminal building.
The queues for passport control stretched out of the terminal building and a good
fifty metres down the runway and airport staff were moving up and down them to
redirect passengers who could be processed swiftly. Initially this applied solely to those
carrying British or European Union passports, but then extended to other nations
considered not-too-unfriendly from a British diplomatic standpoint.
Jason and Kayleigh were fished out of the queue just as they reached the entrance
to the terminal building, not by a high-visibility jacket clad airport security staff
member, but by an officer of the London Metropolitan Police carrying a photograph of
the couple on his PHUD lens.
He briefly examined their passports to establish their identity, running a query on
their passport numbers directly against some database connected to his PHUD, and
then lead the pastor and his daughter away from the terminal building to a parked
police vehicle on the runway itself.
“We’ve no idea, sir,” the officer replied to D’Arte’s question as to what was going on
that brought all the planes to the ground. Little information had been given on the
aeroplane and Southern England was spared a view of either the Gate or the incoming
horde by the weather for which it had been infamous for centuries. “They’re telling us
there’s some security threat, sir, and there’s all sorts of stories about an attack from
outer space. This side, sir,” he indicated the rear door for D’Arte to use.
Jason and Kayleigh sat behind re-enforced mesh-like bars at the rear of the patrol
vehicle in seats primarily designed to hold arrestees. The officer apologised for this
arrangement but said the car was the only one available this morning to pick them up
from the airport. He went on the explain that their luggage had been identified and
would meet them at the police station.
Page 120 of 137
The M25 orbital ring road around London now held seven lanes of traffic in both
directions. The effect was simply to encourage more cars and negate any potential
positive effect of the increased capacity. This day the traffic came to a complete
standstill well before the traffic circle that led to the motorway. D’Arte heard the officer
muttering into his PHUD then heard the siren come on above the car.
Progress was still slow as stationary traffic moved with the speed of mud to allow
the police car to pass, but once on the motorway use could be made of the hard
shoulder. It was still a two-and-a-half-hour journey from Heathrow around London,
onto the M20 and then up through Sutton Valence to the Police Headquarters outside
Maidstone. This time both Jason and Kayleigh slept.
Passing an outer checkpoint, the car drove into the grounds of the police
headquarters. Underwood had clearly been alerted to the arrival of his witness and her
chaperone and was waiting on the steps as they pulled up.
Then, incredibly, Kyrell bowed his head. With his hands held in front of him he
looked the very soul of contrition. He raised his eyes and his eyebrows, looked straight
into D’Arte’s eyes and said in deep sincerity, “Pastor D’Arte, I am sorry.”
D’Arte relaxed enough for Underwood to look over his shoulder at the magus in
slight bewilderment. He then turned back to the pastor and made an obvious and slow
show of releasing his arms. He stared his warning into the pastor’s eyes, after
retrieving his gaze from Kyrell, and continued to hold it as he said, “Please, take a
seat.”
D’Arte stood for a few seconds longer, first holding the detective’s gaze and then
staring back at Kyrell. Kyrell had dropped his eyes to the floor and D’Arte stepped
backwards awkwardly, as if slightly drunk, before looking around to find himself a
chair. Underwood turned to Kyrell, instructed him to sit down, and then chose a seat
himself, placed almost squarely between them.
“Pastor,” Underwood greeted D’Arte as he opened the door to allow Jason to step
from the car. Jason stretched awkwardly before accepting Underwood’s outstretched
hand. “Thank you so much for coming.” Kayleigh edged her way along the seat,
unfolded herself and accepted Underwood’s hand in silence.
“What have you heard on the news?” asked Underwood of D’Arte once all were
seated.
“I’m sorry we were delayed,” D’Arte apologised as he allowed Kayleigh to step in
front of him behind Underwood through the entrance to the police headquarters.
“Something about a security threat. Do you know anything about it?”
“Okay,” sighed Underwood. It was clear Jason was absolutely unaware of the Gate
and what was happening beyond the planet’s atmosphere. He stood and walked across
to an old plasma television mounted on the wall, still used for non-PHUD-based
training.
“Follow me,” said Underwood, without looking around.
3.3.5
D’Arte confronts Kyrell
This time Kyrell stood in a room used for conferences, meetings and training. His
hands were cuffed in front of him. Kayleigh remained in a separate meeting room with
a female officer. Underwood had not invited her to meet Kyrell and Jason was pleased
with the detective’s thoughtfulness.
Kyrell was looking out of the window as Underwood and D’Arte walked into the
room. Kyrell did not turn around. Instead he greeted Jason while still facing the
window.
“Pastor D’Arte,” said the Satanist. Despite Underwood’s use of the name, Kyrell
pronounced it correctly and with a slight French accent. Then he turned to face the
pastor.
A sudden rush of anger burst through D’Arte. It felt like it welled up from his
stomach in an awesomely powerful rush and burst in his head as an explosion of red
rage. Without any conscious thought and without so much as a by-your-leave to his
Christian convictions, D’Arte launched himself towards Kyrell, fists raised.
Underwood had been prepared for this reaction and it was clear from the awkward
and almost girlish charge towards Kyrell that D’Arte had been a stranger to physical
conflict his entire life. Underwood stepped into his path and caught him with ease. He
grabbed the wrist beneath each fist in his hands and let D’Arte’s chest bash into his
own.
D’Arte did not realise he was shouting until he had to stop to hear Underwood’s
calmly spoken words. “Pastor, please calm down. I understand your anger, but please
calm down.” Underwood continued to speak calmly and clearly for the few seconds it
took for D’Arte’s eyes to clear. His arms were shaking with rage in Underwood’s grip
and he actually bared his teeth at Kyrell in his attempt to get past the detective.
“About what?” asked Jason.
“About four hours ago,” he said, talking as he reached the television and turning it
on, “what the news networks are calling ‘an unexplained celestial phenomenon’
appeared in the skies above Earth. They now think it’s some kind of gateway, maybe
to another part of space. Soon after it appeared, millions of beings came through it and
started encircling the Earth.”
The television’s sound was turned down, but an image of the Gate appeared,
apparently as seen through a relatively powerful telescope, as the image was able to
show a close-up of the edge of the Gate. Black specks were still tumbling out through
it with a kind of chaotic purpose.
Even before the advent of PHUD technology, computer networks had started to
replace television broadcast networks as a means for disseminating news and
entertainment. With the PHUD and the high bandwidth communications that came with
it came the ability for individuals to effectively possess their own, private television.
Analogue television broadcasts remained in only the least developed nations. Digital
broadcasting remained, broadcasting to PHUDs and television receivers alike. D’Arte’s
PHUD was in a suitcase that had yet to catch up with him in Maidstone. The television
would suffice. Indeed, as he continued to watch the images captured by the world’s
media, he was rather thankful to be watching a distant television rather than an
intimate and inescapable PHUD lens.
No doubt at great cost, news networks had purchased images and footage from
military and/or scientific satellites in orbit around the Earth. As a result, it was possible
to view and broadcast images of the creatures that now encircled the globe.
D’Arte forgot all about his anger at Kyrell.
“What are they?” he whispered.
Underwood did not answer, but Kyrell raised his head and spoke quietly.
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“With respect, Pastor D’Arte, I thought you of all people would recognise them.”
D’Arte slowly turned his head from the television to look at Kyrell. “They’re demons,
pastor.”
3.3.6
Kutulu controls the satellites
The vast horde of demons that continued to pour towards the planet were now
forming a cloud that effectively hid the tropics from outside observation. A Saturn-like
ring had been formed about the centre of the planet. The original incoming orbits had
been altered subtly – diabolic columns, entire armies committed to given cities and
targets, remained loosely grouped together, but the demons had entered a kind of
parking orbit around the planet and appeared to be waiting.
They were waiting on the Ancient One. More specifically, they were waiting on the
laws that governed orbital physics. Thanks to faith, they themselves were able to
behave in manners which made nonsense of every physical law ever understood, but
their new arsenal of nuclear death stubbornly continued to obey them.
Within the network, Kutulu retained control of the 287 satellites left from the
original 290 that had been orbiting the planet when he had left Janice. The humans
had destroyed three and that had again killed part of him, killed with the explosions
that reduced the satellites to their constituent atoms. Death had come slowly, as
Kutulu continued to survive in the emptiness of space for nearly ten seconds, thanks to
the same powers that had held him alive in dead cables. It had been sheer agony for
the demon.
Now, with renewed determination, Kutulu gave his entire attention to the orbital
trajectories of the 287 satellites as they descended with frustratingly slow grace
through the upper reaches of the atmosphere.
If the satellites came in too steep, they would burn up in the upper atmosphere and
detonate harmlessly. If they came in too shallow, they would literally “bounce” off the
outer atmosphere and return into orbit, also harmlessly. Supernatural evil had chosen
frustratingly natural weapons and could do nothing but obey the physical laws to which
they were bound.
The horde waited with infinite impatience as the Kutulu-controlled satellites
continued their descent. Kutulu’s work was further hampered by the presence in orbit
of so many demons. They had to be avoided, their very presence upset the gravity of
local space and had to be compensated for.
It took all his considerable concentration to co-ordinate, single-handedly, the work
of 287 highly sophisticated orbital trajectory computers. For the first time since his
entry to the realm, Tiamut’s lieutenant had something to completely occupy his mind.
3.3.7
Nils continues to hack and Rune is told of the finding of Janice
The only means Nils had of communicating with the outside world in any way were
the dishes at the top of Table Mountain. All other external connectivity had been
deliberately severed. These dishes faced up – great for contacting satellites, but
useless in establishing control with other ground-based installations. Without his own
satellites, Nils was unable to properly align the dishes because he did not know with
sufficient accuracy where the satellites were. His problem was not hacking into the
satellite network, it was finding the satellites.
Jeanette knew where they were. Roughly. Enough to know that they were
considerably closer to the planet than they had been a few hours ago. This information
was reaching them via military observation satellites into which Liol had hacked. Under
normal circumstances, the governments owning the satellites concerned (in this case,
Britain, Germany, France, China and the US) would have been outraged and the very
existence of Xenix as a global corporation would be under considerable threat. These
were not normal circumstances.
She did not know where they were with sufficient accuracy to help Nils. And their
vectors kept changing. They were coming down at what was becoming increasingly
apparent was an angle to allow for atmospheric insertion without destruction. The logic
behind this, given the auto-destruct mechanisms on the satellites, was not completely
clear, however it was quite conceivable that a being/virus/program/demon capable of
simultaneously controlling 287 satellites could also override this minor inconvenience.
This knowledge of their intended purpose (apparently detonation at ground level or
somewhere close to it) should have allowed her to plot trajectories and allow Nils to
know their future positions, which would have been a great help. But the satellites’
trajectories were errant, they moved and bobbed, clearly as a result of the demonic
cloud the encircled the Earth like a cosmic hoolah hoop. Their purpose seemed
reasonably clear – their actual trajectories sufficiently erratic to be unpredictable to the
degree of accuracy Nils required. Ironically, Kutulu was not employing this as a
deliberate avoidance tactic – he was simply doing his best and his best was not
consistent across all 287 satellites simultaneously.
What Nils had thus far been able to achieve was a broadcast at the satellites – in
their general direction. This was the method used to locate them in the first place:
ground-based stations broadcast a general signal roughly the right piece of sky, the
satellite picked up this signal and then broadcast back it’s exact location. The dish
could then lock onto the satellite and track it accordingly. This was an incredibly lowbandwidth operation and could not be sustained for any length of time, as data was
continuously lost due to fluctuations in signal strength. All that could be achieved was
the digital equivalent of, “Me Tarzan, you Jane.”
Nils repeatedly requested positional fixes from the satellites and was studiously
ignored. He attempted to broadcast very basic code over and over again in the hope
that a satellite would pick up the code sufficient times to string together the full file
from bits and pieces, but without response Nils could not know whether he had
succeeded and had his hack rejected, or not succeeded at all.
Nils had not moved for several minutes, he was barely breathing and sweat was
starting to run in small trickles down his temples and behind his ears. Beside him, his
team continued to work along the same lines while Jeanette did her best not to lose
any more satellites.
Silence in the room was absolute and concentration intense and the room therefore
jumped as one collective being when the doors which should have sealed them inside
the control centre opened with a hiss of decompressing air and started to trundle
apart.
All heads turned to the door. Nils saw all the other heads turning and therefore did
not turn his, choosing to continue with his work. He would have plenty of warning from
his colleagues if what was coming through that door was dangerous.
A senior security guard was revealed as the doors slid apart. Rune crossed the
room in silence and confronted the guard in an angry whisper.
“That door is supposed to remain shut unless there’s an emergency!” he hissed.
“What do you want.”
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“We’ve found Janice Workman.”
Now Nils turned his head. As effective second-in-command behind Rune he made
his decision instantly. He wasn’t supposed to know that Rune loved his boss. Nor was
everybody else in the room, and they all did.
“Go,” said Nils in a soft, clear voice. “We’ll hold the fort.”
3.3.8
D’Arte told of Hell and its plans
Every reasonable part of D’Arte’s mind screamed at him that he was simply
watching movie special effects. Not particularly good special effects either. The images
were blurred, out-of-focus and jittery.
But it was their poor quality that argued for their authenticity. That and the earnest
look on the face of the detective Jason had come to like over the hours they had spent
in videoconference contact.
Underwood had turned up the volume on the television set, and now D’Arte listened
to the voiceover as he watched the images.
“It is not certain how these creatures survive in the vacuum of space,” it was
saying with standard, BBC newsreader inflection-without-emotion that had changed
little since black-and-white television. “Or whether they are indeed alive in any sense
we can comprehend. We do know that there are now hundreds of millions – possibly
billions – of these creatures. They arrived with amazing speed and yet they now
remain stationary in orbit above the Earth.” The voiceover continued, speculating on
the source and nature of the beings that now had the planet completely surrounded
and wondering at their intentions.
Using a remote control, Underwood dropped the volume so that it was barely
audible.
“Pastor D’Arte,” began Underwood, then he paused.
“Jason,” said Jason into the silence.
“Jason… you will understand that I would like to proceed with an interview with
Kayleigh after you and I question Mister Trepan here, however what is happening up
there,” he pointed vaguely at the ceiling, “means that police standing orders have
changed somewhat. Every one of us is needed in the towns and cities to try and
control the panic that is breaking out. A curfew has been declared and we need to
enforce it to try and stop rioting. My men and I are needed in Maidstone and so I must
return Mister Trepan to his cell. In the meantime, what I would like to –“
“Pastor,” Kyrell interrupted, “I know you hate me terribly and I don’t blame you,
but I must –“
“Shut up!” commanded Underwood, rounding on Kyrell.
“Detective, please,” said Kyrell, and his face showed genuine concern, another
emotion which did not sit comfortably on the hard features. “The pastor must
understand.”
“You just… fuck!” cursed Underwood, as the PHUD in his lap bleeped quietly.
Underwood stood, placed the PHUD on his head and walked across the room. “Yes,
what?”
“Pastor, this is Armageddon,” said Kyrell in a pleading tone. “Those are demons,
but they’ve come early and they have a new ally. Pastor, this time they could win.”
D’Arte stared daggers back at Kyrell, but, despite himself, he listened to the words.
“What do you mean, ‘this time’?” he asked.
Kyrell glanced over at Underwood, who was swearing into his PHUD, then back at
D’Arte. “Pastor, please listen carefully, we don’t have long. There have been previous
Armageddons. The good guys always win, but it has happened before because…”
Kyrell’s shoulders dropped as he tried to think of a way to summarise for the pastor
what he had learnt in Hell. He searched for the right words. “Those demons,” like
Underwood, he pointed vaguely upwards, “exist because we believe in them. So do the
angels. They exist because of our faith in their existence. Everything we believe in –
everything we can imagine – exists because we imagine it.” An appropriate metaphor
occurred to him: “We are made in God’s image, right? We have his characteristics. So
we can create like He can – with words, just like He does. We share a belief in
something and therefore it exists.
“We believe in good, we believe in bad and we believe that the two will one day
fight each other in a monumental final battle and that good will triumph. Well, that’s
what’s happened in the past. It’s not new. It’s happened before.”
D’Arte was considering the words he was hearing. They sounded sufficiently
ludicrous for him not to take them particularly seriously – just like any heretical idea
he had heard before. “Okay, then,” he allowed, for the sake of conversation while
waiting for Underwood – Kyrell’s theory was as good as anything the television
voiceover had come up with. “What’s so special about this time?”
“Last time one of the demons survived. A very senior demon, named Kutulu. He
was imprisoned by the angels, but not destroyed. He… that is, I freed him. Now he
exists in our realm, but is not subject to our belief that good will triumph over him
because we don’t believe in him anymore. He exists outside of our faith.”
“And this one demon will change everything?” asked D’Arte with unguarded
sarcasm.
“They’ve found Janice Workman,” Underwood interrupted Kyrell as he walked back
across the room, removing the PHUD from his head. “She’s dead.”
“Was that the South African police?” asked Kyrell. His desperation was starting to
show increasingly.
“No,” said Underwood. “It was Xenix. We asked them to look for her because she
works… worked for them. What do you know about her death, Kyrell? This is another
murder with your name on it.”
“Did she have a sword with her?”
D’Arte looked perplexed, but Underwood startled expression gave Kyrell the answer
he needed.
“And the satellites?”
Underwood blinked as his astonishment grew, but he remained silent.
“The satellites, detective, please! What’s happening with the satellites?”
Underwood seemed to regain his wits. “You should know,” he replied. “It’s your
little virus program that…”
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“It’s not a virus program!” shouted Kyrell, leaping to his feet and attracting the
attention of two guards stationed outside the room. Both almost collided in the
doorway as they entered the room and rushed across at Kyrell. “Kutulu has control of
the satellites! They have nuclear chemicals onboard and he’s using them as weapons!”
Kyrell struggled against the hold of the guards, shaking as violently as his cuffs would
allow. “That’s why the demons are waiting! They’re waiting for the satellites to come
down! Please,” the guards had each grabbed an arm and were manhandling Kyrell
from the room, wearing thick rubber gloves. “Please, pastor, pray! Pray! Get the sword
and pray! Pray for the angels to come! Please!”
“Wait,” D’Arte stood as the guards bustled Kyrell past him. The guards looked to
Underwood who waved his hand sideways to indicate they should continue. “Why the
angels? I thought you were a Satanist? I thought they were a figment of my… what
angels?” he shouted at Kyrell’s back as he was led, kicking and struggling, from the
meeting room. Outside, police preparing to leave for Maidstone stopped to watch the
scene. Kayleigh stuck her head out of the door of the room she had been sitting in.
She saw Kyrell and disappeared back into the room as if scalded.
“They’re too far away!” Kyrell was shouting, oblivious of Kayleigh. “They can’t get
here in time. They need a Gate. Get the sword and pray, pastor. Slash the sky and…”
Kyrell’s head jerked backwards as the shock of electrode cables fired from a police
weapon thundered through his body. The reason for the rubber gloves was at least one
thing now clear to D’Arte. Kyrell’s whole body tensed for a brief second and then
slumped unconsciously between the guards, who dragged him away towards the cell
block.
3.3.9
Rune views Janice’s body
The Xenix infirmary was a small, white-walled room alongside the security offices
which ran off the entrance hallway. Running across the marbled hall towards the
security offices, Rune had not noticed that the glass from the shattered display case
had been cleared up, although the shattered case itself remained on its plinth.
Now he stood staring at one of the two beds which took up most of the room inside
the infirmary. Across from the table, shelves housed the basic first-aid paraphernalia
the security guards and other members of staff were trained to use for minor illness,
injury or emergency. A sheet covered the small body that lay on the bed, brown stains
showing where old blood and other fluids had leaked through from the body beneath.
The security guard who had summoned Rune from the Control Room stood in the
doorway behind Rune. He allowed what he considered an appropriate pause and then
asked in a low tone, “Do you know of any next of kin? The next of kin she registered
are all in England.”
“No,” said Rune. He knew Janice to be the only member of her family to have
moved to South Africa, just as he had been alone in Britain what seemed a lifetime
ago. He extended his hand slowly towards the head-end of the sheet. It occurred to
the guard that he should perhaps stop Rune viewing the body, but could not come up
with any good reason why not.
Janice’s face, at least, had not suffered the abuse her body had endured. It was
chalky white – almost blue – in the absence of the blood that had drained away on the
floor of Xenix’s entrance hall and Glen Cairn beach. Whomever had found her had
thought to close her eyes. Rune considered the old cliché that the dead in this pose
looked like they were asleep, but there was a world of difference between the face that
lay before him and that which had greeted him that morning. It was empty, hollow and
colourless and the eyes were not properly closed – a sliver of white was visible beneath
the eyelids in a manner wholly unnatural. Her nostrils were clogged with sand that had
been dusted from her face without terribly much care or success.
For the longest time Rune stared down at his lover. His jaw was squared against
the emotion as his eyes clouded. Then he raised his right hand in a balled fist, bobbed
it slowly three times in the air and with the extended palm of “paper” that he showed
on the third shake he reached down and with infinite tenderness closed her eyes
completely. His hand continued down to the top of the sheet that lay across her
collarbones and pulled it back over her face.
“You won that one,” he whispered so softly the guard could not discern the words.
“Goodbye, my love.”
Unsure of the meaning of the little ritual that had just taken place and unaware of
any relationship between Rune and Janice beyond the professional one, the guard
cleared his throat and then spoke softly. “We found that with her,” he said.
Rune turned to face the guard, his face a carefully controlled mask. The guard was
pointing towards the second bed and Rune looked from the outstretched finger to the
sword that lay on it. “It was in the sand underneath her body.”
“Sand?” asked Rune, having wondered where the sand on her face had come from.
“We found her on Glen Cairn beach,” explained the guard. “Well, one of the locals
did. An old couple, out walking. The old ballie was running as best he could to find a
phone box when he bumped into one of our guys on the pavement. Wanted to phone
the police. Our guy – Sean?” he asked, as if Rune were familiar with all the security
guards and cared at all in this moment. Rune realised from what seemed like an
infinite distance that he did vaguely remember a guard named Sean. Nice smile.
Always said hello. One of the few who remembered your name. “He had a PHUD and
got hold of the police. They’re on their way.”
Rune stared at the sword and wondered for the umpteenth time what Janice had
stolen it for. Something occurred to him.
“Why did you move the body? Didn’t the police want a look at the scene?”
“The tide was coming in,” said the guard simply.
Rune nodded, never removing his gaze from the sword that lay other side Janice’s
body. He walked slowly around her bed and reached for the hilt of the sword. He
hefted it so the blade pointed directly upwards and stared at the simple icon where the
hilt met the blade. A serpent was coiled around a sword. The roof of its open mouth
was impaled on the sword tip as if, in trying to devour the sword, the serpent had
instead killed itself. The blade of the sword in the design was fashioned from lapis
lazuli, an azure blue stone polished to appear almost white. The rest of the design was
copper, as was the whole of the hilt.
Rune let the blade fall and placed the sword gently back on the bed. The priceless
worthlessness of the ancient weapon that had so mysteriously cost Janice his life had
overwhelmed him with a terrible sense of futile loss. His shoulders rounded and
although he forced them not to shake, tears now flowed freely down his cheeks as he
stared at the bed before him, seeing nothing. He swallowed hard to control his voice
and then spoke without turning around.
“I’ll stay here,” he said. “Until the police come.” Glad of the opportunity to leave
the incident which, however appalling, was a distraction on a day when the entire
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human race was staring an a blackened sky, the guard walked from the room as fast
as respect allowed to get back to his PHUD. Rune sat down next to the sword and
stared blankly at the stained sheet, satellites and demons forgotten.
3.3.10 Underwood leaves D’Artes in police station
“Pastor, either he was talking shit – sorry, rubbish – or he’s a great deal madder
than we thought,” Underwood was saying with impatience. “Either way, I need to go.
We have arranged an hotel in Maidstone for you, but for now we need you to stay here
until we know better what’s happening in town. I’m sorry, but I need to leave you.
We’ll have two PCs on the front desk if you need anything – help yourself to tea or
whatever – and I’ll be back in a few hours. Keep your PHUD handy in case we need to
get hold of each other.”
“My PHUD’s in my suitcase,” said Jason, deciding that any attempt to extricate
more information from the harassed detective was worthless.
“Jeremy!” Underwood called across the open-plan office. A young, plain-clothes
policeman looked around from examining his side-arm. “We got a spare PHUD?”
“I’ll get one,” the policeman shouted back across the noisy room and walked to a
cupboard mounted on a wall.
“If anything happens,” said Underwood, turning back to Jason, “call me. It’ll be
easier from a police PHUD – just use my name. Please stay up here in the main office –
I shouldn’t really be leaving you back here, but, hey,” he slapped D’Arte on the
shoulder, “I like you.” He winked at the pastor and then turned to go, calling names as
we went. On each name a plain-clothes policeman turned to follow the DCI. Most
uniformed policemen had already left the station.
Jeremy came over to D’Arte, handed him a PHUD and briefly explained the means
of placing a call. It was exactly the same as for a personal PHUD, and D’Arte nodded
patiently during the short conversation.
“If all else fails, press here,” Jeremy concluded, indicating a recessed button on the
side of the device, just above the earpiece. This was not a standard part of a personal
PHUD. “It’s a distress call, so don’t use it unless you have to. You’ll broadcast to every
policeman in…” he paused to examine the markings on the side of the PHUD, “ah, in
Kent. It’s a KCC one. We also have Met ones, but don’t worry about that. You’ve got to
press it quite hard, otherwise you could accidentally…”
“Jeremy!” Underwood’s voice thundered from the charge office outside the main
open-plan office.
“Excuse me,” said Jeremy. “Hope you’re okay with that,” he pointed to the PHUD in
D’Arte’s hands.
“I’ll be fine,” smiled D’Arte. “Go.”
The young detective – D’Arte assumed him to be a detective, given that he wore no
uniform – jogged across the office and out into the charge office. As he passed the
door, Underwood’s smiling face peered through it.
“See you later, Pastor.”
“Bye,” waved D’Arte, and the noise of the assembled policemen moved outside.
D’Arte turned back towards the meeting room in which he had met Kyrell and saw,
standing in the doorway alongside this room, Kayleigh, leaning against the doorpost
with her arms folded.
“You okay?” asked D’Arte.
“Suppose so,” said Kayleigh, uncertainly. “It was a shock seeing him.”
D’Arte walked up to his daughter and enfolded her in a hug, “It’s alright,” he cooed.
Kayleigh placed her head briefly on her father’s shoulder and then extracted herself
from his hug to return to the room. “What do we do now?”
“Wait, I suppose,” said D’Arte, but he didn’t come into the room with her. “I need
to do something quickly. You alright for a few minutes?”
“Is that Kyrell Trepan downstairs?” asked Kayleigh. She tried to hide fear with
anger and failed.
“That’s where I am going,” replied Jason. “You’ll be alright.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No you’re not.”
“Daddy, I want to see him.”
“You saw him. You can stay here. There’s no need –“ but Kayleigh was already on
her feet and walking with confident assurance towards the doorway in which Jason was
standing.
“He’ll be behind bars,” she said, coming to a forced halt when Jason refused to
move. “I don’t want to be left alone.”
And that, of course, clinched it.
3.3.11 Mayhem grips the planet, the satellites enter the atmosphere and the
demons begin their descent
Cloistered in a police station in Maidstone, England, or in an underground bunker
Control Room in Simonstown, South Africa, the devastating effect of the demonic
invasion that orbited the planet with glowering menace seemed somehow removed.
Priorities were different, the personal importance of events overshadowed – or at least
allowed for control of – the raw emotional response to what was happening to the
Earth.
Nils Middelkoop and his team fought with all the might of their combined intellect to
regain control of the satellites, unaware that those very satellites were all that held
back the almost infinite horde of evil above them.
Rune Killian’s grief prevented him from confronting what was happening, as he held
his lonely vigil beside Janice’s corpse, staring vacantly through tear-blurred eyes.
Genuine concern was beginning to play with the edges of Jason D’Arte’s mind as he
descended the stairs into the basement cell-block to seek answers from his daughter’s
rapist.
And Kayleigh wanted to look into the eyes of her nemesis to see if she could
overcome what he had done to her.
In cities and towns across the planet, however, the bland ordinariness of every day
life provided no shelter of purpose from the awful and incomprehensible that was
taking place. In cities across the planet, high-rise buildings emptied as their occupants
desperately sought refuge with families or friends. The worldwide network, the
Internet, clogged and fell as the massed communications from PHUDs, telephones and
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implants (which caused a disproportionately high bandwidth loss because of their
intricacy) overwhelmed its capacity. Vast swathes of the planet – every major city and
many smaller countries – were immediately without communication, which added to
the considerable mayhem and panic.
Fear-spawned frustration and anger swiftly brought riotous violence to most of the
world’s cities. The last images to reach most PHUDs and telecommunication devices
were of hordes of demons beyond number encircling the planet, quite literally the
embodiment of centuries of human fear, and their cheerful disobedience of all the laws
of nature didn’t help. Now, in the communications silence, mankind only had its
combined imagination to help it visualise what terribly fate was coming from the skies.
That trait which separated man from beasts – the imagination that truly made him like
God and made him the unconscious creator and destroyer of Universes – was now his
worst enemy. He imagined the terror which would fall, and all the while empowered
the beasts above by doing so.
Yet man was responding with the only weapon he thought he had left: he was
praying. Religion was coming to man’s rescue as it had done in every disaster ever to
befall the race. When all else failed, man prayed, and now the prayers of millions were
ripping into the clouds of demons above and countering the power of the fear on which
they fed. But each prayed for protection, for safety for themselves and those they
loved. As twenty-first century man descended with appalling swiftness into Medieval
superstition and barbarian violence, as millions were already dying, trampled beneath
crowds, smashed in motor accidents, crushed in falling aircraft, drowned in rivers,
murdered in blind panic by their neighbours, none knew the plight of the Angels
themselves.
They had heard the prayers of men and they were coming as fast as they could,
but some laws cannot be broken. The speed of light will forever remain the barrier
beyond which no being – imaginary or otherwise – can venture. Help was coming just
as fast as it could, but from the furthest reaches, from a Heaven devised by men
simultaneously “above” us all and just beyond the reaches of our deepest probing.
They needed to get here faster if mankind were to stop murdering itself and
weakening any hope of defence against the coming onslaught, but their hands were
tied. They gave us the sword – the upright image Christianity had taken as its cross,
the scimitar Islam had adopted as its moon, the points of the six-sided Star of David.
It had been there all along, somewhere deep in the subconscious of man. The sword
that would slash the sky and cut open the Gate through which the Angels would come.
It lay useless on a bed in Africa. The man who knew to wield it was unconscious on
a cell cot in England. And the man who could pray the right prayer had only to do one
thing: he had to abandon his life-long, saving faith in God’s angels and realise that
man and man alone could summon the victory that was also the final hope.
In the skies above Asia, the first comet fell. For millennia they had hailed the
coming of disaster, and now mankind would know why. Man-made comets created by
the glowing satellites as they burnt away their protective shielding on entry into the
upper atmosphere, started to blaze their way across the night sky. And as they seared
and scarred the night, harbingers of the doom that had befallen mankind, nine billion
demons turned the face the forsaken planet.
Mankind had unleashed Hell. Armageddon had come.
3.3.12 Kyrell and D’Arte
D’Arte sat with his hands in his lap facing the bullet-proof glass that separated
himself and Kayleigh in the corridor from Kyrell in his cell. Kyrell was sitting in a similar
pose, on the end of his cell cot bed. The two rooms were completely and physically
separate: a system of microphones and speakers was used to allow sound to penetrate
the inch-thick transparent panel.
“What have you got to lose?” asked Kyrell. It had taken a little more than five
minutes for Kyrell to explain to Jason what had happened in the basement of
Helmsford Manor. The pastor had known more than Kyrell had realised, and he had
been forced to digress onto the murder of Micky Jackson, killed by the raging Leviathan
because he had not known to release the forces he had ceremonially bound. He had
explained Kayleigh’s role, a prior sacrifice to the deities that would hold back the four
corners of Kutulu’s tomb, only to let them fall at the vital moment. Kayleigh now stood
as far as she could from the Satanist, her arms again folded protectively across her
chest as she lent against the glass panel of the empty cell opposite.
“Pray,” continued Kyrell. “It’s what you do. Pray that the Gate will open.”
“’What have I got to lose’?” mimicked D’Arte. “God controls the Universe, Kyrell,
not man. I pray to God that His will will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. I pray in
the certain knowledge that Jesus is coming to defeat these demons, assuming this is
Armageddon, like you say. Now I am supposed to pray – and it really doesn’t matter
whether I pray to God or that bed you’re sitting on – I must pray that a Gate will
come, but first I need to find some sword that you say is in South Africa somewhere.
That’s superstition, Kyrell. It has nothing to do with what I believe about the Universe I
live in. ‘What have I got to lose’? Just my faith, Kyrell. That’s all.”
“Pray to your God,” replied Kyrell. “I don’t mind! It doesn’t matter. Just –“
“It does matter,” stormed D’Arte. “’Just deny your faith’? I’m sure thousands of
Christians, devoured by lions and now sitting next to God in Heaven for the
martyrdom, must be kicking themselves for not thinking of that!” D’Arte let his tired
irony show as deep sarcasm. “I pray as God instructs, Satanist! I don’t pray for Gates
unless they’re the Gates of Hell – and then I pray against them.”
“Listen to yourself!” shouted Kyrell. “What do you think the Gates of Hell are?
Wrought-iron things on posts with a demon standing guard holding a pitchfork? That,”
he pointed violently into the air, “is the Gate of Hell! And the Gate of Heaven is
identical! Kutulu prayed for the Gate of Hell to open and it has! All Hell is pouring
through it as we speak! You must open the Gate of Heaven using the sword Gad gave
you!”
“The only sword God gave me,” replied D’Arte, “is the Sword of the Spirit!” He was
referring to the armour of God in Ephesians chapter 6.
“What if is was real?” asked Kyrell, lowering his voice to normal and adopting a
reasonable tone. “What if there really is a Sword of the Spirit, or whatever you want to
call it, and that is our salvation?”
“Because then the Bible would say so,” countered D’Arte, also lowering his voice.
“What you are saying is heresy, and I should expect nothing less from a Satanist. You
want me to deny my faith in mankind’s darkest hour! You want me to pray for Gates or
Angels or anything but the Truth and that Truth is that Jesus will save His people from
this and we will reign with Him forever and nothing, not you and your petty heresy and
not all of Hell ranged about this planet will turn me from the saviour of my soul and the
Lord of my life!”
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“But you must!” Kyrell was shouting again. “Don’t you see? You’re the only one
who can get hold of the sword. I can’t do it – they took out my implants! Get hold of
Xenix and find that sword! You have no time to spare! For all we know, they’ve started
their attack already!”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” D’Arte shouted back. “God gave me back my
daughter after you tried to murder her and I will not betray him, no matter what
insanity you come up with.” At mention of Kayleigh, Kyrell’s eyes shifted to the cellpanel opposite and he frowned. D’Arte turned his head to where Kayleigh had been
standing.
She was gone.
3.3.13 Kayleigh calls Rune
The door to the infirmary opened and the same guard stood in the doorway, this
time with a PHUD on his head.
“They here, are they?” asked Rune, looking up from his stare at the bed in front of
him and the sheet-draped figure.
“No,” the guard said. “It’s the British police. They’re looking for that sword and they
want to know about the satellites.”
Rune glanced absently at the weapon that lay beside him. “They can have it,” he
said. “What about the satellites?”
The guard listened to his PHUD for a moment. “Rune Killian, Data security
Manager,” he replied to a question he had obviously been asked. “Okay,” he said and
removed the PHUD from his head. “It’s for you,” he said, slightly bewildered, and
handed the device to Rune.
Rune, mirroring the guard’s minor surprise, stood to take the PHUD from the guard,
extended over the body of Janice. He placed it over his ear and blinked as he allowed
his eye to focus on the lens. In indicted a non-video link with Kent County Police. The
text space normally used to indicate the caller’s name was blank.
“This is Rune Killian,” said Rune.
A small and slightly nervous female voice spoke into his ear. “Er… Mister Killian, are
you the guys who have the sword?”
Rune’s look of confusion deepened.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“My name is Kayleigh D’Arte,” said Kayleigh from the rear office of Maidstone Police
Station. “My father is pastor Jason D’Arte of Meadowridge Baptist Church.”
Rune was familiar with the suburb of Meadowridge. He had passed the church on
Ladies Mile Road many times, the road being a relatively major alternative to the
highway that ran through the Southern suburbs of Cape Town. He glanced at the call
identifier icon which still indicated Kent County Police without the personal name
identifier. For a moment Rune was left without anything to say. He was trying to
formulate an appropriate question as to what the daughter of a Cape Town-based cleric
was doing contacting him using a PHUD belonging to an English police force, but
Kayleigh stammered on.
“I think you have been in contact with Detective Underwood from England?” It was
a statement, but she phrased it as a question. “Your satellites are coming down to
Earth. They’re being used as atomic bombs.”
Rune’s bafflement was now complete and he found his voice. “I’m not sure how you
got hold of this PHUD, Kayleigh, but it is illegal to-“
“Mister Rune,” interrupted Kayleigh with nervous rudeness, “please, do you have a
sword? It’s an old sword – well, it’s probably an old sword, that is… this is going to
sound funny, but do you-“
Kayleigh was interrupted and Rune could hear voices in the background. He turned
to look at the sword that lay on the bed next to where he had been sitting. The dirty
blade, encrusted with sand that had adhered to the dried blood, was remarkably shiny
beneath the recent stain. It had been well-kept by whomever cared for the disparate
objects which adorned the Xenix entrance hall.
“We can’t we try?” he heard Kayleigh demand with a sullen insolence that betrayed
her age and the identity of the man (Rune had recognised the voice as male) with
whom she spoke. “We have to try!”
“You don’t understand,” replied D’Arte, his words unclear to Rune. He spoke with
the controlled anger he had used as his deepest warning to Kayleigh throughout the
years of her childhood discipline. “Think about what this man is saying, darling. Pray
and then use a sword to cut the sky? It’s nonsense.”
“That’s nonsense!” shouted Kayleigh, making Rune jerk his head at the sudden
noise. He located the volume control at the side of the earpiece and adjusted it slightly.
Unseen by Rune, Kayleigh was pointing angrily at the sky beyond the ceiling above her
head. “You’re scared!”
“I am not scared,” countered D’Arte in as reasonable a voice as he could muster. “I
am not afraid of those things, even if they are demons, because –“
“Not the demons,” replied Kayleigh with scorn-filled contempt. “You’re scared he’s
right! You’re scared we did just dream them up! And so what? So what if he’s right? All
he’s asking is for you to pray for mankind! Isn’t that what you do? Aren’t you supposed
to –“
“Of course I pray,” D’Arte’s temper was fraying. “But I pray to the God who made
this Universe and He made the angels and the demons. He made whatever it out there
and He will defeat them the way He has always done – by prayer and by faith, not with
some sword.”
Father and daughter stared at each other in silent shared anger. Countless times
their equally strong wills had clashed and each had won as many times as the other
when it came to strength of will.
Softly, Kayleigh said, “Please, Daddy. What if he is right?”
“Baby, he –“
“No, Daddy, please listen. What if he is right and we don’t pray? What if… Daddy,
I’m scared. I’m really scared.” The PHUD on her head was forgotten as she pleaded
with her father and her tears welled at the corners of her eyes. “Please, just try, even
if it’s only for me.”
D’Arte swallowed and looked down. He now spoke so softly that Kayleigh could
hardly hear him. “If we imagined the angels, if we imagined the demons… if it all exists
Page 127 of 137
just because we believed in it… what about God?” He looked up at Kayleigh and she
saw infinite vulnerability and terrible fear in his eyes. It looked like he was pleading
with her. “If I do this thing and it fails, mankind may yet find a way to defend itself
against… But if it works. What if it works?”
“You do believe him,” said Kayleigh in wonder.
“I believe he believes himself,” countered Jason, but he was speaking to himself,
staring again at the floor. “I believe he thinks he went to Hell and was brought back by
the answer to my prayer. But, Kayleightjie, for two thousand years Christians have
died rather than give in to others who told them to believe in something other than
Jesus. They were fed to lions and nailed to crosses rather than give into the gods of
their persecutors. This is no different. If I pray and my prayer is answered, then I have
unleashed hell because it would not be answered by God, but by demons who wanted
me to pray like their pagan followers.” It was clear that his words were giving him
strength in his conviction. “They can answer prayers, too, you know. They can –“
“Daddy, listen to yourself! You know that’s nonsense! Demons answering prayers?
What are you afraid of, Dad? Why won’t you pray?”
D’Arte stared at his daughter and said nothing. Holding his gaze, Kayleigh spoke
into her PHUD.
“Mister Rune?” she asked.
Briefly Rune considered corrected the mistake she was making with his name, then
decided he was too tired to bother. “Yes?”
“Detective Underwood told us you investigated the implants Kyrell Trepan and
Vivian Lancaster were wearing.”
“We have the server computer with which they communicated, yes,” replied Rune.
Kayleigh counted backwards a week to the day she knew Underwood had raided
Helmsford Manor. “Did you come across anything strange on Thursday the… I think it
would have been the fifth of April? It was the day the police arrested them.”
“I’m not sure we checked that thoroughly.”
“Can you check now?”
Rune looked down at the sheet that covered Janice’s body. Sorrow still
overwhelmed him and he could find little interest in what this girl was saying.
“Miss D’Arte,” he began. “At the moment the satellites are a very big priority. I’m
not sure we have the time to –“
“Please, Mister Rune. Kyrell Trepan says that the sword you have is the key to
getting help with the demons and with this Kutulu who he says is controlling the
satellites. He says he was taken away that day – that he saw the demons before they
came here. Maybe his implants recorded it and can tell if he is telling the truth. Can
they?”
Rune continued to look down at Janice. He recalled the security camera footage of
how she had broken through bullet-proof glass to get at the sword. He remembered
how she had left that morning without a word and how her own implants had gone
offline for no reason. Slowly the beginnings of a connection began to form in his mind.
It was tenuous, but her implants had failed shortly before the demons came and it
seemed to relate to the sword this girl now mentioned.
“Hang on,” he said.
3.3.14 Rune discovers evil numbers in code
“Where did you get this PHUD?” asked Kayleigh in the silence that followed.
D’Arte pointed out the cupboard he had seen the young detective open and
Kayleigh walked across to it. It remained unlocked and three more PHUDs hung in a
neat row from brackets screwed into the back of the cupboard. She picked one and
handed it to her father.
She examined the PHUD before continuing, found the identification marker along
the earpiece and instructed her PHUD to conference the one she had given her father
into the call with Rune.
While she did so, Rune sat and silently used him implants to query the server
computers that now held the data taken from those confiscated from Helmsford. If
instructed to do so, implants could record – to the servers – optical input from the
optical nerve as well as output from the implants. Kyrell had not instructed his
implants to record in this way, so all the computers recorded was traffic to and from
the implants – instructions issued by Kyrell or information sent to the implant.
Without any idea what he was
input/output signals for Thursday
afternoon. Absolutely nothing. It
(which he was pretty sure was
Helmsford servers (or any other
received – even the regular, five
the implants within range.
looking for, Rune ran swiftly through the code of the
5th. He found nothing until about three-thirty in the
was as if the implants had either been turned off
not possible) or were too far removed from the
connected receiving devices) for any signal to be
second pulse that simply indicated the presence of
Without warning, at what the server reported to be 15:34, Kyrell was suddenly at
Helmsford. The range of the receivers installed at Helmsford allowed for implants to be
received within about two miles of the manor house, yet Kyrell’s implants were
suddenly sending information from inside the manor itself.
Rune ran the information backwards. Kyrell disappeared then, at 10:17 the
previous morning, he suddenly appeared within the manor again. Rune ran the query
back a few minutes and then reviewed the data.
It was frenzied. Kyrell had been communicating with what appeared to be some
urgency, but the signals were random. Nothing meaningful had come through and the
server had recorded the garbled requests without being able to respond to them.
At 10:16 the signal strength faded suddenly. The frenzied requests continued, but
within a five second period the code received became increasingly garbled and
fragmented. Then it disappeared. It seemed as if Kyrell had left the proximity of the
receivers in just five seconds. The only way to do that would be to travel straight
upwards, but even that would have meant Kyrell would have had to reach an altitude
of a few dozen feet in a very small period of time.
Rune ran a query routine and was instantly informed that, while the Kutulu virus
signature was present in the implants, the virus itself had not been present during this
time.
Rune switched his query to Vivian Lancaster.
“Um… Mister Rune?” asked Kayleigh.
Page 128 of 137
“Hang on,” replied Rune urgently. “I’ll be with you shortly.” Distracted by the PHUD
he was wearing, Rune noted the information on the lens that told him a second police
PHUD was now attached to the conversation, but he ignored this information.
Vivian Lancaster had also been present at Helmsford at 10:17. Her implant
communication was nil, but the servers reported the implants as present. Rune
reviewed the minimal data. 10:18, nothing. 10:19, nothing. 10:20, nothing. 10:21 and
suddenly the Kutulu virus was all over the implants. What did that mean?
Rune ran the data forward again. At 15:34 the next day, Kyrell’s implants suddenly
appeared at Helmsford. Rune ran the data forward, formulating a query as he did so to
find sudden disappearances, reappearances or instances of the Kutulu virus attacking
or leaving. Despite himself, he was curious. It was as if his mind was glad of the
distraction, and his intellect and programming know-how danced ahead of him as he
immersed himself in the data his implants were showing him.
His search showed one more Kutulu attack. It was brief – lasting just over a minute
– and then nothing until both Kyrell and Vivian had their implants disabled by the Kent
Police. With the speed of data processing and his own programming skill, his
investigations had so far only taken two minutes.
17:10 on Friday 6th April. Kyrell was in custody but his implants were still active
and Kutulu had attacked his implants. Friday. Rune remembered that they had begun
their investigation of the servers on Friday. The memory included Janice and his
stomach tightened but he pressed on, pushing the memory aside.
“COMMS ERROR: UNKNOWN PARTY” said the visual printout in front of Rune’s eyes.
There followed a truly garbled barrage of what appeared to be random letters and
numbers – nothing approaching intelligible code used by the implants and, surprisingly,
very few instances of the Kutulu virus, although it was present. The majority of the
code was given over to senseless rambling – computer gibberish. Rune swapped from
examining pure code to reviewing the incoming signals. He was surprised to find that
Kyrell had been recording using his implants.
“Where is he?
He was returned. My guard was defeated. All they wanted was his return to The
Real.
They rule us still?
Did they ever not?”
Listening to the audio-only conversation, Rune called up the code for that period to
view it concurrently. The conversation corresponded with the apparently random
signals. Within what appeared to be garbled output, Rune could identify sense in the
outgoing signals – actual English words in the code that corresponded to those he
could hear recorded in the conversation. The conversation was proceeding, but no
identifiers could be found in the code. Stranger was the second voice – the recording
had inflection and tone, as if it were spoken aloud, an impossibility in implant
communication!
Rune reviewed the conversation in its entirety, then spoke into the PHUD.
“Miss D’Arte?”
“Sorry.”
“Pastor D’Arte?”
“Jason,” replied D’Arte. Despite himself he found the formal introductions
humorous, given the circumstances.
“I’ve found a reference to this sword. Listen.” Rune instructed his implants to route
their output through the server and back to the PHUD he was wearing. Kayleigh and
Jason listened in silence as the conversation was played to them.
All three were silent afterwards.
“Who was speaking?” asked D’Arte.
“That’s the thing,” replied Rune. “I don’t know. I don’t think either of them are
Kyrell, although the conversation was recorded on his implants. I’ve looked at the
programming code used to record the conversation, but it’s garbled. It might be
encryption, but I doubt it. It’s like no encryption I’ve seen anyway. Its just garbage.
But when I play it, I get the conversation you just heard.”
“Was this on Thursday?” asked Kayleigh.
“No,” replied Rune. “It was afterwards. Between Wednesday afternoon and
Thursday morning, Kyrell’s implants disappeared completely. It’s strange – he didn’t
leave the manor, he just disappeared. Well, his implants did anyway.”
“Where did he go?”
“We’ve no way of knowing,” said Rune. “We can tell roughly where a set of
implants are relative to a server computer because of signal strength, but we cannot
tell direction of movement or pinpoint a position exactly. Not without a second
computer to triangulate the position – we do this with PHUDs if we need to place a
person for some reason. I can tell you that Kyrell was very agitated just before his
signal vanished.” Rune’s voice trailed away. “Hang on,” he said.
Rune viewed the two pieces of garbled code. The one from Wednesday, just before
Kyrell vanished, was quite intelligible, just random. Kyrell had been sending
meaningless commands to his implants. On Friday, the code was utterly garbled, as if
it were corrupted or encrypted. He ran a check and found a group of characters –
perhaps a kilobyte of information – that appeared as Kyrell vanished and also appeared
as the conversation ended. He re-checked and found the same characters for Kyrell’s
reappearance and the conversation’s beginning, just after Kutulu had attacked the
implants. The code was meaningless, however.
Rune’s first impulse was to ask Nils to look at the code, but Nils was certainly not
an option at the moment. Rune stared at the random characters and noticed that they
used numbers but only the letters A to F.
While humans considered ten a round number – probably thanks to the number of
fingers they possessed – computers considered numbers such as 2, 4, 8 and 16 as
round. 16, which was represented in binary as 10000, was particularly “round” from a
computer’s perspective. To allow for a number system that counted as far as sixteen,
the first five letters of the alphabet were employed as digits. Thus A=10, B=11, C=12
and so on. F=15 and 16 was represented as 10. So a computer’s code counted from 1
to 9, then A, B, C, D, E, F, 10. This was hexadecimal.
“Mister Rune, my father has joined the conversation.”
“It’s Rune, Miss D’Arte. Rune Killian.”
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Rune queried the section of code for letters other than A to F. He found several, but
all in the actual words of the conversation he had just played to Kayleigh and Jason.
The rest was all hexadecimal.
If numbers were represented by the code, they were huge. Either that or they were
a sequence of numbers without separating punctuation. Unless…
All instances of the code were one continuous number, except for the conversation.
Here the numbers were interspersed with the words of the conversation. Was this
punctuation? Rune instructed his implants to return as a real number for the first set of
hexadecimal characters in the conversation, those between the word “he” and the next
instance of the word “He”. The number was over a hundred digits long.
Querying his implants, he was instantly informed that this was the first 137 decimal
places of the Hard Hexagon Entropy Constant. Baffled, Rune queried the next set of
digits. The first 153 decimal places of the Glaisher-Kinkelin constant. It was
hexadecimal code.
Now vaguely aware of a happy sense of achievement combined with increasing
curiosity, Rune queried the third. The first 142 decimal places of the Stieltjes constant.
Next, the first 144 decimal places of Pi. The first 156 decimal places of the Delian
constant. The first 132 decimal places of the Ramanujan constant.
“It is code!” declared Rune. “Well, it’s numbers.”
Other sets of digits were shorter. One was 22325272112132172. The next a
relatively simple 987654321.
Nils.
987654321? asked Rune, his curiosity giving way to an awful, heavy feeling in his
stomach.
9+87+6+543+21 is 666, replied Nils. What is this?
The code continued with repetitions of these numbers until the final short burst of
hexadecimal, only a few characters long.
Last one. 2018?
Both queried their implants and both reached the same formula at the same
instant. The number of digits in the formula:
666
666666
“Pastor,” said Rune. “Are you sitting down?”
3.3.15 D’Arte realises Kyrell told the truth. SA Police come to take the sword
D’Arte was not unfamiliar the concept of numerology, and he and Kayleigh sat in
silence as Rune explained what he had discovered, after instructing a nonplussed Nils
to return to his hack of the satellites. Kayleigh had pulled up a chair from a nearby
desk. Jason sat on the desk she had drawn it from.
“They don’t tell the computers anything,” he concluded. “But they all have this in
common: they add up to 666.”
The reply came almost instantly. Rune?
“But you can’t tell us where Kyrell went between Wednesday and Thursday,” said
D’Arte, earning him a scornful look from his daughter.
Satellites?
Nothing yet. You okay?
What do you know about the first one-hundred-and-thirty-seven decimal
places of the Hard Hexagon Entropy Constant?
“I wouldn’t go there on holiday,” said Rune, more in angry sarcasm than humour.
“Would you mind telling me what this is about now?”
Briefly, Jason told Rune about Kyrell’s arrest – most of which Rune already knew.
Jason then went on to tell Rune of the conversation they had just had in the
subterranean basement. He concluded by telling of the conversation to which Rune had
been part participant.
I’ll take that as a no.
Seriously, does it ring a bell?
There was a pause, into which Kayleigh offered a tentative, “Ah, Rune?” which
Rune ignored.
Hang on, said Nils. The pause lengthened.
It’s an evil number, said Nils.
You what?
An evil number. Add all the numbers together, all one-hundred-and-thirtyseven of them after the decimal point, and they add up to 666. Pi does it too –
I’ve used it in encryption. Mind if I ask why?
The smug smile on Rune’s face disappeared completely. He looked at other pieces
of code.
What about 22325272112132172? Using the implants, Rune
communicate the number in visible form, rather than “saying” the sequence.
A pause. That’s 22+32+52+72+112+132+172. The sum of the squares of the
first seven prime numbers. It’s also 666.
could
As he spoke, Jason became more and more serious in his manner. Only part of his
mind was focussing on the discourse. The remainder was beginning to digest all he had
been told.
Kyrell had disappeared in a way that could not immediately be accounted for. The
only clues quite literally added up to the Number of the Beast, which didn’t really prove
anything, he insisted to himself. Except… well, there had been a conversation which
certainly appeared to have been held by two people / things / whatever planning the
invasion which was now taking place. They had referred to the sword and the fact that
it tore the sky. How was he to reconcile this with his faith, except that he was exposed
to the most awful evil imaginable? It didn’t directly point to Kyrell being right. But it
did certainly argue in his favour.
Before he could complete his story or his thoughts, Jason was interrupted by Rune.
“I’m sorry, Jason, the police have arrived. They want to take Janice’s body.”
Page 130 of 137
“What?” asked Jason.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Rune who realised that neither Jason nor Kayleigh had any
idea about Janice’s demise or the story of the sword that now lay beside him.
Now it was Kayleigh and Jason’s turn to listen to half a conversation as two
constables from the South African police came into the infirmary. All they heard was
the word, “What?” asked several times and with increasing incredulity.
Perhaps because of their circumstance, Rune, Jason and Kayleigh, while certainly
not forgetting about the cloud of demonic invaders that had brought panic and anarchy
to the planet, had been distracted by their own discoveries and their importance. The
absurdity of the idea that the South African police were coming to take Janice’s body to
the mortuary like this were any normal working day had not occurred to Rune. He was
therefore surprised to learn that this was quite the last thing they intended.
The United States military had not been idle since the arrival of the demons, but
their activities had not been limited to the abortive Star Wars attack and, more
recently, the scrambling of over 90% of their operative air force which had yet to take
off thanks to the cloud remaining in orbit above the atmosphere. Some of the greatest
scientific minds on the planet had been focussing their impressive corporate intellect
on the problem of the Gate, how it got there and how it could be removed.
The Gate had torn open in an arc from top to bottom, as if a slightly curved piece of
space had been neatly slit open using a knife. Although the Gate did not respond to
anything but passive probing – i.e. observation – it did retain this semi-circular shape
when viewed in profile (or as close to profile as could be achieved – viewed exactly
side-on, the Gate would have disappeared, having no third dimension, but this was
meaningless as no craft existed to return a view from this exact angle).
Viewing the Gate in this fashion, as part of a circle, the remainder of the circle
could be calculated and the centre identified as a point in space. This point could
arguably be a point from which the Gate was created or controlled.
American scientists were slightly baffled to find that the exact centre of the
hypothetical circle of which the Gate formed part was a point on the surface of the
Earth – just south of Cape Town. Continued observations allowed for greater and
greater accuracy and, as the senior police commissioner who now stood opposite Rune
was explaining, the centre had been pinpointed to Glen Cairn beach.
Put another way, and depending on your scientific point of view as to the origin of
the Gate, if the sky had truly been torn open from a single place in space, that place
was where Janice Workman’s body had been found.
“We have security cameras on the beaches,” continued the commissioner,
impatient with the length of time it was taking him to explain things to Rune. “They
show Janice Workman swinging a sword – that sword,” he pointed at the bed, “at the
sky at exactly the time the Gate appeared.”
Without moving his incredulous stare from the policeman, Rune spoke into his
PHUD. He had silently turned on the conference mode, which drastically increased the
microphone’s sensitivity to allow conversations to be heard when those speaking were
in the proximity of the PHUD. “You hear this, pastor?”
A heavy silence answered in the affirmative.
“We need that sword,” said the commissioner with authority. “Please could you
hand it over.”
Rune looked down at the sword beside him on the bed and hesitated. “I think we
might need it,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mister Killian, but every second I spend here is time that could be spent
finding out what that sword can do. I need to get it on a plane as soon as possible.”
“A plane?”
“It needs to be flown to laboratories in the United States. They approached our
government and it was agreed that we would lend them the sword.”
“It’s the property of Xenix,” said Rune in a flash of inspiration. “You can’t lend it to
anybody.”
“Please, Mister Killian,” the commissioner moved around the sheet-covered body, “I
am sure you don’t want to –“
Rune grabbed the sword by the hilt and sprang off the bed, pointing the blade at
the commissioner. His stance was aggressive but his expression apologetic. “I’m
sorry,” said Rune. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, and his hesitation
showed, but he stood his ground facing the policeman, the blade between them. “I
need this sword.”
“Mister Killian,” the policeman said with loud authority. “I will ask you one last time
to surrender that sword. I have uniformed officers outside this room who will forcefully
remove it from you if you do not co-operate immediately.”
Rune checked his backward movement, which had been towards the door. He didn’t
know what to do. He looked sideways and saw the officers of which the commissioner
spoke. Behind them stood a thoroughly bewildered security guard. He had moved so
that Janice’s body now lay between him and the commissioner. His eyes shifted from
side to side, seeking and not finding alternatives to his predicament.
“Uh, pastor?” he asked.
In response, for the second time in this Age, the sword began to glow.
3.3.16 D’Arte Prays
As Rune’s conversation with the policeman continued, Jason removed the PHUD
from his head without terminating the connection. He laid the PHUD on the desk beside
him and then stood to stare at the wall opposite. Kayleigh looked up at her father but
said nothing. She watched him intently.
Kyrell was wrong. He had to be. He was probably sincerely wrong – he doubtless
appeared to believe what he had said, but that did not make it objective truth. It just
made it what Kyrell believed. Which, if Kyrell was right, made it truth simply by virtue
of the fact that he believed it, but that was circular reasoning. It didn’t help.
But there was the fact that Kyrell had said it at all that was the first little piece of
the puzzle that did not fit. Kyrell was the prime suspect in the murder case Underwood
had first called about all those weeks ago. This man was, at least, a murder suspect.
But he was far more than that. He was known to be a very senior member – probably
the leader – of a gang that ruled criminality throughout a vast swathe of London and
the rest of the United Kingdom. He was also a practicing Satanist who did not simply
dress in black and say spells at midnight – this man had cold-bloodedly and
deliberately raped and nearly murdered Jason’s daughter. This man represented about
the deepest level of evil to which men could stoop.
Page 131 of 137
Yet he had insisted, based simply on the perfectly ridiculous story of a Dante-esque
trip to Hell, that Jason pray against the very agenda he should support. Surely,
reasoned Jason, a Satanist would want nothing better than to overthrow the accepted
outcome of Armageddon, if this is what was happening above the planet. And, further,
in order to bolster the truth of this outrageous story, Kyrell was prepared to confess to
his crimes openly and without so much as a “but”, just to ensure that his story was
credible. There had been no hint of denial of his crimes against Kayleigh – indeed,
Jason remembered, and the memory made him frown, the Satanist had apologised for
it at the first opportunity.
Then there was this Janice Workman. During conversations before Jason had left
for Heathrow, Underwood had had the brief opportunity to explain the search for Janice
Workman. He had done so based on the question of whether or not Kayleigh recalled a
Janice Workman, which, of course, she did not. Kyrell had insisted that a woman he
appeared not to know should be found and held safe at all costs, which meant, firstly,
that he believed in the reality of the conversation Jason had so recently heard and,
secondly, that he cared enough about the outcome of Armageddon to try and prevent
it. He had gone out of his way, run the risk of tipping his hand to his captors, in order
to find one woman he considered the key to the outcome of the demonic attack. This
from a clearly intelligent and, by all accounts, ruthless leader of criminals.
Something had changed Kyrell.
Kayleigh was looking up at him with an urgent expression on her face. She pointed
to the PHUD on her head and Jason picked up his PHUD and secured it to his ear.
“…they’ve pin-pointed it,” the police Commissioner was saying. “They reckon it’s
Glen Cairn beach. That sounded like so much nonsense until we looked at our camera
records. We have security cameras on the beaches. They show Janice Workman
swinging a sword – that sword – at the sky at exactly the time the Gate appeared.”
“You hear this, pastor?”
Slowly, without answering, Jason removed the PHUD from his head again. Kayleigh
continued to listen to the conversation that continued in Cape Town, but Jason
resumed his stare at the opposite wall.
The arguments his Christianity could muster against what he was hearing were
becoming more tenuous. In honesty, there was little reason why he should not pray.
Godly men throughout history had prayed for more ridiculous things than the opening
of Heaven’s Gates. Grace covered their mistakes and God’s will was done irrespective
of their prayers. God was in final control – He answered the prayers prayed according
to His will and he ignored those which were not. Well, “ignored” was perhaps a little
harsh, but Jason was swiftly realising he did not have time for semantics.
The real problem was not whether Jason was praying correctly or for the correct
things or even to the correct god. Jason looked beyond the dogma and realised the
true danger:
If his prayers went unanswered, the future of mankind was at risk and so he must
pray with all his heart. But if his prayers were answered and the angels came as Kyrell
said they would… then they were just figments of mankind’s imagination and prayer,
as he had explained to Kayleigh, was just an expression of man’s ability to create what
he imagined. Nothing more. If they came and they saved mankind, then every prayer
he had ever prayed…
And without faith, how could he pray?
He was tugging off his shoes, watched in silent awe by his daughter, before he had
really made his decision. He had no idea how to reconcile what he was about to do with
the faith that had sustained him his entire life, but he had run out of options.
They said that, in a crisis, there were no atheists. When men ran out of options,
they prayed. And so Jason knelt, his shoulders rounded, his head bowed, his hands
clasped before him.
Kayleigh closed her eyes and hoped. She heard a brief silence on her PHUD as
conversation in Simonstown stopped abruptly.
“Uh, pastor?” Rune asked.
3.3.17 Rune tears the sky
He didn’t stop to think. He turned to face the door and ran, slicing the air with the
blade as he charged towards the policemen. “Out of the way!” he shouted hysterically.
The security guard shouted a warning in such high-pitched fear that the startled
policemen parted to let Rune through. He sprinted towards the turnstiles and the
sliding doors beyond. With strength born of adrenalin he vaulted the turnstiles with a
gymnast’s agility and then remembered the security video of Janice. The door ahead of
him was sliding far too slowly and so he ran at it with the sword outstretched before he
realised that the pane was already missing. He leapt through the gap left by Janice,
now neatly trimmed to remove the glass shards she had left, and almost tripped as he
tumbled down the grass verge to the parking lot below.
He stumbled to a halt at the bottom of the verge, alongside a parked Mercedes. He
glanced over his shoulder and saw the policemen chasing him, shouting for him to stop
and levelling their side-arms. Rune looked up, chose an open piece of sky, closed his
eyes and raised the sword above his head as if about to perform an execution.
“Angels!” he called as loud as he could, for he could think of nothing else to say.
“Help!”
With all his strength he brought the shining blade slashing down in front of him. It
formed a blinding arc of incandescence before it buried itself nearly three inches into
the tarmac at Rune’s feet.
For eternal seconds nothing happened, as the police caught up with Rune. Two
grabbed him and the commissioner grabbed the hilt as the blade faded from glowing
white back to metallic silver. The sandy bloodstains were gone.
He looked at Rune and prepared to shout angrily in his face, but saw an expression
of beatific wonderment and turned to look at the sky behind him at what Rune saw.
3.3.18 Kutulu caught
Light of appalling intensity splashed across Kutulu’s consciousness. Focussing on
the satellite trajectories, he had not needed to look outwards from the 287 bodies that
simultaneously housed his identity. Now he sensed his approaching enemy and he
desperately needed eyes and ears. He stretched out digital tendrils to find a way of
seeing the sky.
His prayer would destroy his faith.
Page 132 of 137
“Got them!” shouted Jeanette as red icons flashed green all over the screen. Kutulu
had found the uplink dishes, and she controlled those. “Go! Go! Go!” she shouted at
Nils, who needed no encouragement.
Kutulu reached out electronic hands and gripped hold of the dishes on top of Table
Mountain. He could use other dishes if needs be, but he knew that open minds lay
behind neural implants at the Xenix network and he flew down the communications
links to slice into any he could find.
With the final shout, Jeanette’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell forward to
smash her face into the desk before her. Those near her turned in horror, but Nils
knew to expect this. His hack found the newly opened route to the satellites and his
code flew at the speed of light towards the waiting trajectory-calculating computers.
Kutulu raised Jeanette’s head and felt, behind him in cyberspace, the subtle change
as computers supposed to be under his control adjusted the attitude of the satellites in
space. His attention swung back to the satellites, but they hung in space frustrating
seconds away from his attention. He was stretched too far, across light seconds, and
while his thoughts were simultaneous his actions could not be.
Jeanette’s head, her nose broken and bloody, fell a second time as Kutulu fled back
to his satellites, but rockets were already firing and descent angles changing fatally. He
found his mind squeezed into minute fractions of the space he had previously occupied
and he fought for every step of his return.
Nils’ program did four very simple things. It blasted the satellites directly away
from the ground, it commenced the self-destruction detonation sequence, it multiplied
as fast as the on-board processors could allow it. It was a virus.
It spread with lightening voraciousness across the computer platforms of the
satellites, which swiftly became nothing but intricate hulks of silicone and metal. The
virus wiped from the processors all control routines, all communication capabilities,
everything. Billions of dollars’ worth of the greatest technological achievements of man
were turned to blind automatons in seconds.
Kutulu ploughed his way back up into the network, but at every turn he was
crowded out by the code that kept on multiplying. All he could tell was that he could
tell nothing – his electronic eyes and ears were gone and so were the control routines
he had so finely controlled.
Icons flashed from green back to red as communications routines were wiped from
the satellites by the encroaching virus. Now they floated freely again, uncontrolled by
anything but gravity, continuously firing their rockets to frantically gain altitude in the
seconds that remained before detonation.
Within three seconds of each other, 287 minute, non-nuclear explosions shattered
287 satellites in silent detonation around the planet. Nuclear payloads were blown
apart but not detonated by the explosions. The vast majority would follow something
approaching their final orbits (as allocated by Nils) to speed harmlessly into outer
space. A few would descend to the planet, so small and unshielded they would burn up
in the first traces of upper atmosphere, well above the shielding ozone layer that would
rob them of any potency. Others would stay in Earth orbit to collide with the moon or
the Earth at various intervals over the next few thousand years, all with the same
harmless consequences.
The vacuum of space provided slightly less by way of energistic input that the
surface of the planet. Without the faith that sustained the demons towards which
coalescing points of infinite bright light were now careering, Kutulu tumbled through
the abyss for almost two seconds. Then, in 287 separate parts of space, the Ancient
One sputtered out of existence.
Ten milliseconds before detonation, each virus throughout the network performed
its fourth task and reported the same line of code:
“With love – Nils Middelkoop.”
3.4
3.4.1
Finale
Summary of Armageddon
No single event in the history of mankind was as well documented as the battle
that followed.
Decades worth of observation faithfully recorded the minutes that followed the
destruction of the Xenix satellite network – and it took only minutes. For every demon
left in existence (a small fraction had been killed by the US Star Wars satellites and an
even smaller fraction had died close enough to exploding Xenix ones) an angel was
spawned from the second Gate. Bright and holy, wings, robes, shining swords, et al,
they came flying across space as one host.
Mankind was left as a spectator to his own doom. For all the panic, the trillions of
dollars of damage, the thousands of deaths and the millions of injuries, not one human
being so much as saw a demon with their own eyes. Three made it to the surface of
the planet. Three angels followed. All six were destroyed where they clashed,
seventeen nautical miles south-west of the Isles of Scilly off the Cornwall coast.
In every respect it was the awaited Armageddon. Good and evil clashed as they
had done countless times before, but without mankind to tip the balance they fought
on as equals, cancelling each other out until fewer and fewer remained. No man came
to defend either side, and so they collapsed together. Within fifteen minutes of the
angels reaching the outer defences of the demonic horde, not one supernatural being
remained in orbit about the planet.
Pastor Jason D’Arte sat on the floor, leaning against the desk, staring vacantly.
Kayleigh knelt next to him, holding his hand. The PHUD link remained open to Rune
who had left the police trying to prize the sword from the tarmac like Arthurian
wannabes and returned to the infirmary to be with Janice.
Nils, his shirt soaked with sweat from exercise that had drained him of the energy
to stand without moving a single muscle, managed a weak smile before hanging his
head and falling into instant sleep in his chair. Liol was the one who contacted Rune to
explain what had happened as others led Jeanette from the Control Room towards the
infirmary. Rune, in turn, passed the information to Kayleigh and Jason. Kayleigh
jumped up to cheer her happiness, but her father just continued to stare, as if he had
heard nothing at all.
Hours later, long after darkness had settled on Maidstone, Underwood and his
colleagues returned to the police station. They found Kayleigh and Jason asleep on the
floor. The madness in the streets had not stopped and only as they returned to their
television screens and PHUDs did people begin to realise that the threat had passed.
Tomorrow mankind would sleep. Then they would start to pick up the pieces.
Page 133 of 137
3.4.2
Janice’s Funeral
Near the A2 that runs from London to Dover through the heart of the Garden of
England lay a farm. A small estate of seventy-year-old houses bordered the farm, and
Morgan and Julia Workman, Janice’s parents, still lived at number 26, Turner Road
which backed onto the gentle hill covered with bright yellow rape seed.
At the top of the hill, overlooking the crops, was an old tree, spreading kind shade
over a small part of the farmland. Four generations of farmers at Bean farm had
chosen to leave this lone sentinel standing rather that remove it for the few square
metres of additional seed it might yield. As a child, Janice had loved to look out over
the farm and watch the changing seasons as experienced by this one tree; the full,
thick leaves in Summer, gold and red in Autumn, stark and dead in Winter and bright
and cheerful in spring. She had spent happy hours beneath it as a child, escaping
though a hole in the garden fence to rush unseen across the farmer’s field. She had
even brought a boyfriend there once, although the experience had taught her to keep
such places to herself.
Andrew Jackson, the present owner of Bean farm, had had absolutely no objections
when he had been approached by the CEO of Xenix Europe with the politely phrased
request that Janice Workman be buried on this spot. As his understanding grew of the
role Janice had played and the awful fate she had met at the hands of Kutulu, he had
made special arrangements to have the immediately surrounding crops harvested in
order to create a space beneath the tree for the funeral.
Rune stood in the shade of the tree alongside the oblong hole into which the coffin
was being lowered. Janice had told him of her tree, but he had not seen it until this
day. Gathered with him was every member of the Data Security team. Opposite stood
Kayleigh D’Arte, Detective Underwood and a few members of Janice’s family. Morgan
and Julia stood at the foot of the grave and Pastor Jason D’Arte stood at its head, his
head bowed in prayer following the ceremony he had conducted.
Kayleigh wondered at his prayer, the first since he had prayed for the Gate. He
raised his head and she saw tears in his eyes.
Above, in an azure sky, the sun shone brightly between the two Gates. The demons
and angels had gone, but the Gates remained, imagined into existence by a demon
and a man of God, supported by the faith of a race unique throughout all the Universe.
The Gates to Heaven and Hell now hung open for men to explore.
Beyond them, both realms were empty.
Page 134 of 137
4
4.1
References
Bibliography
1.
LaVey, Anton, “The Satanic Bible”, 1969, Avon Books
2.
ibid, “The Satanic Rituals”, 1972, Avon Books
3.
Simon, “Necronomicon”, 1995, Avon Books
4.
Lovecroft, H P, “The Call of Cthulhu and other Weird Stories”, 1999, Penguin
Classics
5.
ibid, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth”, 1999, Penguin Classics
6.
Hamilton, Peter F, “The Night’s Dawn Trilogy” (“The Reality Dysfunction”
(1996), “The Neutronium Alchemist” (1997) and “The Naked God” (1999)), Pan
Books
7.
The Holy Bible (Revised Standard Version)
8.
Barker, Clive, “Weaveworld”, 1999, HarperCollins
4.2
Filmography
1.
O’Brien, Richard, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”, 1975, 20th Century Fox
2.
Clarke, Arthur C, “2001: A Space Odyssey”, 1968, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
4.3
Musicography
1.
Hammet, Kirk; Hetfield, James; Ulrich, Lars, “The Thing that Should Not Be”,
“Master of Puppets”, 1986,
2.
O’Brien, Richard, “Superheroes”, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”, 1975
4.4
1.
Internetography
Kurzweil, Ray, “Singularity”, http://www.kurzweilai.net
Page 135 of 137
5
Notes to Reader
There are a few aspects of this novel which require changing and re-writing.
Concepts which I believe are not properly explained, largely because their concept
grew as the novel grew and I, as author, did not develop a proper understanding of
them until writing was nearing completion, include:
5.1
The Xenix computer network
Although I created a diagram of this network in order to better understand it
myself, I did so quite late into the writing of the document. For this reason, the
description of the Armageddon portion of the network – crucial to the metaphor of
Armageddon generally – is not properly thought-out. By the time the book was
completed, it was obvious that Armageddon needed to be physically located within
Xenix’s offices, although in places it is described as being physically separate. It also
needed to fall under the control of Rune’s team, although, at times, they appear unable
to access it.
On completion of the book, I realised that the network controlled by Rune’s team
actually is the Armageddon network, or at least Armageddon forms a part of this
network, however this is definitely not clear. The sections which describe the
Armageddon network need to be re-written to reflect this.
Similarly, the physical location of this network is at the Simonstown offices of
Xenix, not in some far-flung location. When Nils and Liol discover the reference to
Marduk’s sword, they refer to Armageddon’s offices as being physically separate from
where they work – the art works are located in two separate areas. Yet, by the end of
the book, Janice, possessed by Kutulu, steals the sword from the same lobby her team
pass through to go to work in the morning. Armageddon is contained within Xenix, not
separate from it.
5.2
Hell
Briefly, the Universe of Human Imagination contains beings of such diversity that
their existence alongside each other is not possible. While I liked the concept of
combined child and adult fantasies living side-by-side – the fairy happily existing
beside the harlot – some aspects would naturally cancel each other out. The presence
of Father Christmas in Hell would rather negate the idea of Hell. Therefore, beings of
similar cultural background and relating to similar human fantasies reside on their own
planets within their own star systems in this parallel Universe. One planet is Hell,
unique in that it has the strongest link with the “real” world, as, unlike Munchkins,
demons can be summoned.
The description of Hell in the prologue, however, dates back to an earlier
conception of the work. Originally, Hell and Heaven, angels and demons were alien
races living within our “real” Universe, and this description reflects this subtle
difference.
however it remains almost cartoonish. I needed an experience – ideally for D’Arte, but
I couldn’t work it out – whereby the existence of Hell is proven beyond doubt, along
with its reliance on human faith for its existence. This was essential to presenting
D’Arte with his final dilemma on whether or not to pray for the angels to come. It was
always an awkward plot device, though, and it feels like it.
5.3
Kutulu
Kutulu looks too much like a current-aeon demon when he is seen in his “true”
form. H P Lovecroft’s Cthulhu is a sea creature, with a face not dissimilar to an octopus
with too many tentacles. I should return to this description to contrast Kutulu’s descent
from a completely different line of demonology.
At one point, Vivian refers to the planets being out of alignment. This is a reference
to Lovecroft’s concept that the Ancient Ones would return when the stars and planets
are properly aligned. This should be developed or removed. Probably removed, since it
could be seen as contributing to Kutulu’s defeat, which must be entirely at human
hands (mostly D’Arte’s).
Also, key to parts of the story is Kutulu’s ability to retain electrical charge within
“dead” cables. This would appear to contradict his death in the satellites and the death
of a third of himself when the cable connecting Bart PBS and Bart SBS is severed. The
answer is that he can only sustain himself for a short time, but this needs explanation.
5.4
Kyrell
Kyrell is just too nice and nowhere near properly fleshed out. The man is a
ludicrously wealthy member of the Illuminati class and this is simply never mentioned.
Crime is a small part of his life, almost a self-indulgent hobby – a distraction. He is a
global player, not a petty criminal. The fact that Helmsford Manor is owned by Regan
Helmsford detracts from this; Kyrell is almost homeless, staying with a friend.
The reader has little reason to hate Kyrell and this detracts from the idea of his
redemption. In fact, the whole concept of his redemption is so badly described as to be
missed completely. It is Kyrell who saves the human race by insisting that D’Arte pray,
yet his personal journey is almost accidental to the plot. The journey from conscienceless powermongerer to saviour is not properly described at all.
Also, Kyrell is a powerful mage. He commands the most awesome arcane power
and this, too, is barely mentioned. Kyrell needs, early on, to be seen as a truly evil
wizard in every possible sense and this just doesn’t happen.
5.5
Rune and Janice
I’m crap at writing romance and this shows. The idea of a romance between Rune
and Janice came later – it was incidental. Similarly, I never meant to kill Janice. It just
kind of “happened”. I am happy that this happened – this example of the book writing
itself and the characters almost taking my pen from me was a wonderful experience as
an author, however I need to work on their relationship a bit. It’s two-dimensional.
Further, Hell is the place with which I am least satisfied. It seems flat, twodimensional and unbelievable. To a certain extent this was intentional, Hell being the
place of bad people and bad things and generally ill-conceived by ordinary people,
Page 136 of 137
5.6
The Finale
5.10 Other inconsistencies
The book ends too quickly. I did not set out to write the final battle in detail, but it
does require a little more fleshing out. Original drafts, now abandoned, saw the
demonic invasion happening much earlier in the book, but this was well before I
introduced the concept of multiple Armageddons, so it was the Denizens, Knegal and
Gyrotha who commenced the invasion (within the sacred precincts of the Forbidden
City in Beijing). Kyrell took a more active role in the invasion, assisting Kutulu, and
was, from there, to have a change of heart and assist D’Arte. In retrospect, this may
have been a better avenue than Kyrell’s descent to Hell.
The exact mechanics of Kutulu’s downfall are unclear. Nils traps Kutulu in the
satellites by forcing them to communicate only with the Table Mountain dishes and
then infecting them with viruses from these dishes. I’m not sure this is clear. I’m also
not sure it needs to be.
5.7
Micky Jackson is turned prematurely grey by his self-immolation experience. This is
never expanded upon.
Helicopter Gunships
I just like that term. I mean, I really like it. Helicopter Gunship. It’s all
testosterone. Wonderful. The entire climax to the second book is based solely on the
fact that I heard the words “Helicopter Gunship” in a radio news report and just had to
use them. The whole sequence stretches credibility and while it was great fun to write,
it needs a serious edit at least. That was my indulgence, having learnt from Marduk’s
campaign that I enjoy writing military action. Ceiling-mounted cannon firing at
incoming helicopter gunships was just too good to resist. Well, actually it wasn’t and I
should have.
5.8
Syntax
I hope that my use of quotation marks for speech, bold text for neural transmission
(effectively technology-assisted telepathy) and both where the words are spoken and
transmitted neurally is clear, but I suspect it might not be. I could think of no other
vehicle for illustrating the difference, italics being used for true thought rather than
communication.
5.9
Chapter Order
I have agonised over this one. I started the book as I meant to finish it, with a
sense of things happening simultaneously by having shortish chapter sections which
continuously changed focus. Vivian’s gunfight, Rune’s arrival in London, Kayleigh’s
escape and Marduk’s campaign, for example, were all interspersed.
Darren, proof-reading as I wrote, said this was, at times, confusing. I agreed and
re-ordered the already written sections into the groups they now occupy. This did
make writing easier, although I made a few errors in chronology (indicated by chapter
headings, although not yet corrected).
While a useful little illustration of previous races of demons and their etymological
demises, who created the friezes in the entrance hall to Satan’s Cathedral?
Vivian needs fleshing out, as does her clandestine relationship with Kutulu.
I also dislike having a Michael Jackson in my book. There are so many names, why
choose a pop singer? While talking about names, Nils Middelkoop was a school friend,
Janice Workman is a friend… the names need to be changed (“to protect the
innocent”). Rune’s name was chosen because its meaning related to his character,
Kyrell’s surname (Trepan) means to release spirits by smashing a hole in the skull of a
living person. These names meant something and I should choose meaningful names
for main characters and more random ones for minor characters.
The reference to, “The Lord your God is one Lord” when Marduk faces Tiamut is
meant to refer to the creation of monotheism by the angels, further manipulating
mankind’s faith to their advantage. This is not explored. Should it be? Similarly, Kutulu
makes a throw-away reference to the “real” reason behind the crucifixion of Jesus in
his tirade at Kyrell before sending him to Hell. This may be worthy of a little more
exploration – just a few more subtle hints.
Also on Kutulu’s tirade, Kutulu is, at times, speaking truth as best he knows it, but
he is wrong. At others, he is lying. This may need to be made slightly clearer. I used
my earlier theories about the book to flesh out this speech, most of which is “true”
within the context of this novel, but Kutulu’s hate, limited understanding and deliberate
lying mean parts of his speech are erroneous.
Kutulu is able to access information when learning from Kyrell, but later, when
possessing Vivian, is unable to read.
Dragons (Marduk’s Moratau) are also not explored. They are mercenary demons,
not a formal part of Hell’s army. They are a rogue race, neither entirely at Hell’s call
nor at mankind’s. They have their own agenda. For this reason (although cause and
effect tend to be reversed when beings exist because we believe they do), St George
killed the bad dragons but the Chinese worship the good ones. This may be worth
exploring, although it might add unnecessary confusion. They play no part in
Armageddon itself. Perhaps another book…
I am not sure the chapter order should survive in its current format. There are
simultaneous events – or events I wish to have appear simultaneous – which lose their
impact by being so separated within the narrative. An example is the angelic assault on
Hell and the SWAT team assault on Helmsford Manor. Both are the dramatic answer to
D’Arte’s prayer to bring Kyrell to justice and should be seen as spiritual and physical
aspects of a single battle. That said, the assault on Helmsford will probably change
dramatically if I plan on having this thing published anyway.
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