“A garden cultivating trust
needs constant vigilance.”
- Wisdom of the Vigils
Ottavio found the truck a bit crude and uncomfortable. Not that he expected a limousine, but a padded seat to help out with the rough terrain they were going over would have been a welcome addition.
He had been in the back for nearly half an hour. At first he had thrown himself in and ducked into the corner as it sped off, expecting a hail plasma rounds to come crashing through and tear the vehicle, and him, apart.
Five minutes later, he dared to lift his head and peek out of one of the tiny windows at the back. Since then he had been thinking hard about his situation.
Without a doubt, he had screwed up. Big time.
Based on the words of a woman with a clipboard, he had flushed his promising career as a special front line Agent for Houston irretrievably down a very smelly toilet.
Why did Penelope do this to him? Ideas floated in and swam around his mind. He swatted at a few of them. The whole thing had been a test of his loyalty to Houston.
Or Penelope was really a plant by another Entity to get him to defect. Or she planned on selling him and his adaptive implants to a black market dealer.
Nothing seemed to be the truth, so he decided to worry about his present condition.
Who the hell was driving this truck, anyway? He tapped loudly on the metal sides of the truck, to no response.
He tried again, harder, but the vehicle rolled on. Giving up, Ottavio wedged himself in the corner and planned his next move.
Whoever was driving was in league with Penelope. And he did trust Penelope, mostly.
Everything had happened like she had said, the cameras, the disabled turrets, the truck, so obviously she still had a plan for Ottavio.
There was really nothing left to do but wait and see what came next. And waiting was a viable option. At least for now.
After another bumpy twenty minutes the truck pulled up to a stop.
Ottavio got to his feet and stooped, watching the door like a hawk. Several scenarios, mostly involving fighting, whizzed through his head, but he need not have worried.
The doors were opened casually by a small woman in a dirty gray jumpsuit. Her face was olive and long. A fine crop of brown hair sat neatly on her head. A yellow box glimmered around her on his optical display.
She stood patiently as he got out and stretched his legs. The darkness of his enclosure, a garage it seemed, made him squint a little, but his eyes soon adjusted.
He checked his optical overlay, noting that he was a good eighty kilometers west of Houston's Special Operations Headquarters. It was a fair distance but not nearly far enough to make Ottavio feel safe. Somewhere in India might do it.
“Where am I?” he asked the woman. She closed the doors with a slam and slid the bolt into place.
“You are in a garage, Ottavio, where you are safe from the prying eyes of those that wish to do you harm. I can tell you no more, yet, for we must first deactivate any tracking modules or listening devices you may have on you,” she said.
“I haven't got anything on me,” protested Ottavio.
The lady smiled dimly, “Not that you are aware of, in any case.”
She produced a slim rod and waved it about Ottavio's body. It squealed as it passed his chest. A couple more passes and she marked a spot on his chest with a black pen.
“There, now hold still. This will hurt but only for a brief period.”
She replaced her rod and took out a thermic scalpel. Ottavio pulled away.
“Please,” she said, “The jammer can only do so much. I have to get this out of you before they crack the code.”
Ottavio hesitated.
“Who will crack what jammer, now?” he asked.
“Houston is tracking you via this link inside your chest. The jammer installed in the vehicle is designed to disrupt their signal, making it appear that you are miles away from this location. But the jamming code only makes it appear like you are moving. Any data analyzer worth their weight is going to twig that your movements are too unnatural. They will eventually interpolate...”
“Alright, I get it. Just hurry up and get the bloody thing out of me,” huffed Ottavio, undoing his shirt and looking away.
The scalpel dragged across his skin leaving only a small, red line. The smell of burnt flesh wafted to his nose.
Ottavio looked down. He was genuinely surprised, “Huh?”
“Blast. Hold on, I am going to have to apply more pressure,” said the woman, beads of sweat forming about her brow. After a few more strokes she made it down to the sub dermal layers.
“They didn't mention that I had that synthmesh. I thought Simon was the only... Ow! OK, now it's beginning to hurt. I thought he was the only one with, ah, steady on!” said Ottavio, “Geez, you go digging around inside a guy's chest with a scalpel and you don't even tell him your name.”
She looked up briefly, a little annoyed.
“Hanifé,” she said, and busied herself again with her task. After a bit more slicing she managed to make a small incision. She checked again the location of the implanted module with her rod and, satisfied, inserted a pair of forceps into the wound.
A bit of grunting on behalf of both parties produced a small disc.
“Geez, that's going to leave a mark,” grumbled Ottavio, inspecting the damage.
Using a nearby rag, he mopped up some of the blood. He turned his attention to the disc.
“They didn't mention anything about a tracking device, either.”
Hanifé snorted, “I think you had better get used to the idea of being ill informed.”
She walked to the driver's door and handed the disc over to someone inside.
“Open that door, will you?” she asked Ottavio.
He obligingly heaved on the garage door behind him, flooding the room with light.
It had once been a quiet residential street. Row after row of pretty houses had lined a pleasant black strip. Memories of gardening, waving and baking still floated about, although they now mingled with the cold ravages of war.
The truck roared to life, reversed and sped off down the street.
“Hey, wasn't that our ride?” he asked Hanifé.
“Yes, it was. I am glad you are so observant,” she said, deadpan, walking back inside the garage.
Ottavio analyzed her face, trying to get any kind of indication that what she just said was intended as sarcasm.
He followed behind, trying a different approach, “So we're walking now?”
“No. We wait here for a small time. That disc needs to be brought far away. The movements are still being recorded, Houston will have sent out a team to retrieve you. Only they will not find you,” said Hanifé, “Of that you can be sure.”
“I'm not sure of anything right now,” said Ottavio, more to himself than to Hanifé.
Hanifé smiled and sat on a paint can.
“Believe me, I can understand your position,” she said.
Ottavio blustered, “Understand? What the hell is there to understand? I don't know you, you don't know me, I don't know where I am or what I'm supposed to do next! I've got Houston hunting me down, thinking I've defected, and all because I listened to her!”
Hanifé let him rant.
“She said trust me, so I did. I trusted her. And now what? I run? I hide? Like an animal?” he went on, “I should have just done that kid over, like Simon said. Em would be alive, I'd still be employed, and none of this stuff would have happened.”
“And the innocent child would have been dead, with the blood on your hands, and your soul would have been poisoned with his blood,” pointed out Hanifé.
It struck a nerve. Ottavio raised his fist and punched the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster and woodwork.
A few more punches, a few more holes, and he calmed down.
“You're right,” he panted, “I know. And so was Penelope. But what was I supposed to do?”
“Exactly what you did do, and nothing else. You were forced between following orders and following your heart. Which is why you are here.”
“I don't have time for bullshit philosophy...”
“It is not bullshit!” snapped Hanifé. Her sudden change in tone made Ottavio start.
“We all make decisions, and we all must live with the outcomes. Like I said, I can understand completely,” she said, “My story is brief, if you will listen.”
He flopped down next to her. He was not going anywhere, anyway.
“The Lady Penelope was right to get you out of there. She did the same for me. I was a spy for Tsang-Tao a few years back. Espionage, counter intelligence. I was the one tapping into conversations and wheeling my way into the lives of top members of Redden. I was good. Too good. I started turning my talents around.”
“Initially it was for the challenge. The intelligence I uncovered out in the field came far too easily. Flash a bit of skin here, make the right comment there, and people will start to trust you. They tell you things. After a while, I found myself listening in on my superiors. Then theirs. Soon I worked my way up to the top brass. Well, Tao, with all their wonderful predictive software, realized that I knew many secrets, and that those secrets, in the wrong hands, could bring down several key members.”
“I don't suppose you'd care to share?” began Ottavio.
“Ha! No, nothing that would be of interest to you. Besides, those members have either been replaced or managed to bury their involvement in a web of lies – no. And it does not relate to my story.”
“So what happened?”
“As soon as they suspected me, they hauled me into the Pit.”
“The Pit?”
“The Pit. It was a place... where we held and interrogated criminals. Starvation, electrocution, debased tortures of the most hideous kind. It was... simply horrible,” said Hanifé, looking at him with sad eyes.
Ottavio understood what she was driving at. He thought he had better move her along.
“But you escaped. How?” he asked.
Hanifé broke into a soft smile again.
“The Lady Penelope,” she said, looking off into the distance as she recalled the moment of her liberation, “She came for me. Security failed, my cell door slid open, just like she said it would. I ran. I ran hard like she told me. Trust in the Lady Penelope.”
Ottavio scratched his head. The box around Hanifé pulsed a slow green.
“Who do you work for?” he asked finally, “Now, I mean. And Penelope?”
“Look,” hushed Hanifé, pointing to the doorway, “Over the top of the roof, do you see it?”
Ottavio did. His vision enhanced a series of black dots in the sky, revealing a squadron of AePCs flying at top speed.
“That's them, isn't it, Hanifé? That's them hunting me down.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Come away from the door now. The chance of them picking up an image of you from this distance is remote, but not impossible, and their software improves constantly. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Ottavio chuckled, “Thirty three percent and forty eight percent respectively.”
Hanifé looked at him sideways, “A simple yes would have sufficed.”
“That was supposed to be a joke. You see, these implants in my eyes tell me, or show me rather, the body's... Oh, forget it. Yes, miss, I could go a bite. If I'm going to be hunted down and killed, it may as well be on a full stomach.”
Hanifé scolded him, “No! You are not to be killed, nor should you feel sorry for yourself. You have been saved. The Lady Penelope thinks you are worthy enough for her attention, and so you must rejoice! You are free, Ottavio, and you will be safe soon, you will see. Now come, I have food.”
She led him inside the house. The paint was peeling off the walls and ceiling, the furniture had been destroyed by insects and vermin.
Dust sprinkled about them as they walked to the kitchen. On the bench was a canister of a pleasant, meaty soup. Soon they were both satisfied.
“What will happen to the driver?” asked Ottavio.
Hanifé replied, “Brother Alistair? Oh, he will ditch your tracker somewhere special and drive off. As the jammer moves out of range, your apparent position will become more focused, and Houston will send in their jackals.”
“I just can't believe it, you know?” said Ottavio, “I spent my best years at Houston. They put me on the front line, modded me up. Now I'm a criminal... Hang on, he's your brother? I mean, you two don't look anything alike...”
A ripple of laughter filled the kitchen.
“No, Ottavio, no, he is not my brother, not in the biological sense. All shall become clear to you soon. Suffice to say that we share a common house.”
“A flat mate?”
“Something like that,” she said, shrugging, “I am being deliberately evasive, as you have probably guessed, about my allegiances. You have a right to know, and as I promised it will come to you soon. For now, please be content to endure us a bit longer. The second transport will be here soon, and in that time we must be ready.”
“GT United?” guessed Ottavio.
Hanifé shook her head, “It is not an Entity, Ottavio. I doubt very much you would understand if I... wait, what is that?”
There was a slight scratching noise coming from the other room. Ottavio and Hanifé poked their heads out and listened. It was coming from the front door.
“Someone's outside,” he huffed, walking to the door, “Your buddy?”
Hanifé ran in front of him and pushed his shoulders.
“Hush! I cannot be them, they are too early,” she whispered, “Here, take this.”
She passed Ottavio a P-67 pistol.
“Thirteen armor piercing rounds pre-loaded. Do not fire unless I say.”
Ottavio nodded. She sidled up to the side of the door, taking out and cocking her own pistol.
“Who goes there?” she called through the doorway. There was no response, only a faint scratching noise at the door.
“Get down!” she cried, throwing herself back and pulling Ottavio with her.
The door splintered in a ball of flame. Shaped charges fixed to the other side made short work of the flimsy wooden door.
Ottavio's reflexes kicked in. He rolled over to see figures in shining black armor carrying machine pistols storming through the flaming breach.
He peeled off two rounds at the first intruder, hitting him squarely in the chest and neck.
The bullets passed through cleanly, spraying a rich red cloud upon the men behind. He scrabbled wildly at the neck wound, impeding the progress of his companions.
Ottavio pulled Hanifé back into the kitchen. One of the remaining intruders fired wild bursts of lead after him as the other struggled to wipe obscuring blood from his visor.
Plaster and paint flecks showered the pair as they ducked behind the wall in the kitchen. The oven, having outlived the ravages of war and years of neglect, finally succumbed to a persistent stream of bullets, and fell noisily to the floor.
Poised, Ottavio looked at Hanifé, who was crouching next to him, holding a flash bang grenade.
“Do it,” he mouthed. Hanifé skidded the grenade into the next room and ducked back behind the wall, covering her ears.
A bright light flashed, a stunning crack sounded and Ottavio hurled around to see the black clad men retreating in confusion toward the garage entrance way.
Four well placed rounds saw them crumple uselessly to the floor. A creak on the stairs behind him alerted Ottavio to another presence.
Whirling, he drew his gun up to face the threat, only to have a strong fist belt his pistol away.
A round buried itself into the roof as his gun sailed over to the other side of the room. Another fist caught Ottavio across the face, spinning him around with its momentum.
He stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding another crushing blow.
His aggressor launched off the stairs at Ottavio, knocking him down. The full weight of a solid mound of muscle sat on Ottavio, stealing his breath momentarily.
The flash of a blade swinging down brought him to his senses.
He grasped the wrist with his left hand and squeezed with his inhuman might. The grisly crunch of cartilage moving against bone sounded, outdone by the yelp of the man on top.
The knife dropped onto the floor, with the razor sharp tip narrowly missing Ottavio's ear.
With amazing strength Ottavio pushed with all of his might and hurled the massive hulk off his chest, slamming him soundly into the wall opposite.
Dazed and confused, he did not see Ottavio bearing down upon him like an enraged bull.
Ottavio plowed into him with his elbow, led with a fast jab to the head, followed with a solid punch to the stomach and a neat upper cut to the chin, shattering the black helmet and knocking the surprised assailant unconscious.
Panting, Ottavio danced on his feet, wide eyed, scanning the room for signs of another threat.
There was none so he ran back to the kitchen.
“Who the hell was that?” he panted, “Did you piss off the neighbors or what?”
Hanifé pushed past him, checking the bodies on the ground. She stopped short of the large black hulk sprawled out on the stairs.
“Well, do not just stand there,” she muttered, feeling for a pulse, “Give me your knife.”
Ottavio paused and frowned. Hanifé sighed loudly, “Come on, Ottavio. This one is only unconscious, not dead.”
Ottavio remained where he was. He kept his knife sheathed.
“He is unarmed,” he protested, “Can't we just tie him up or something? They might have some cuffs on them.”
“He is a danger to myself and to yourself. He must die. Besides, you had no problem killing the others. Do what must be done.”
“That's different. They were a direct threat. This one has been subdued,” said Ottavio, “Killing him now would be murder.”
“It would have been self-defense a few seconds ago, and we do not know when the rest will arrive.”
“The rest?” asked Ottavio.
Hanifé nodded, “Yes, the rest. This was clearly a forward raiding party, designed to subdue or otherwise distract us while the others catch up. Someone must have noticed your getaway.”
Ottavio held his hand up, “Wait up, I hear an engine.”
Sure enough, the sound of a diesel engine was rumbling closer. Ottavio sidled up the window and looked out. Down the street came rolling a van, dark and forbidding.
Hanifé looked as well and smiled, “Good. Our ride has arrived and not before time. Be ready to leave. Grab these bodies, and that live one and put them in the back with you. You can kill him on the way.”
The truck pulled up neatly into the garage. In two trips Ottavio hauled the bodies in bundled them into the back like sacks of potatoes. The last groaned as he dropped it down.
“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, and closed the door behind him.
Hanifé scrambled into the front and they were away down the street.
It was more comfortable than the last ride. There were a couple of seats bolted to the side, for starters, and there was an open metal grill separating the front cabin from the back.
Hanifé turned to face him. “We may have cut this a little fine, I am afraid,” she said, “Ottavio, this is Brother Janus. Hold on tight. And take care of that one if he comes to.”
He looked back through a portal window in the rear door. Ramshackle houses drifted past as they sped through the suburb, turning right here, turning left there.
Ottavio kept his eyes on the side streets, expecting an AePC to come swinging down to drop off troops, or to find a road block bristling with guns and vehicles.
Just as they were about to swing another left, a silver transport rolled into view.
“We got someone behind us, guys,” said Ottavio.
“All good, taken care of, but thank you all the same,” said Brother Janus.
The engine roared a little higher and the truck raced over the empty streets. The silver transport turned left as well.
“Hang on, chaps!” yelled Brother Janus as he took the vehicle over the remains of a car park. He dodged among empty, burnt out shells, missed black piles of melted plastic and ash and launched up a ramp to the second floor of the car park.
“Wait, you're going up? What if they block of the exit?”
“Then we will need to clear a path, boyo! Sister, does this one think before he talks?”
She rolled her eyes, “Just keep your eyes on the road.”
The silver transport reached the top of the ramp and turned to follow them through.
The pillar up in front of them exploded in a cloud of dust. Part of the roof slumped, causing the truck to swerve dangerously past the next pillar.
“Damn it! Those sods are using cannons! Well, two can play at that game!” laughed Brother Janus, “Sister, if you would do the honors?”
He flicked a couple of switches and a panel flipped up in front of Sister Hanifé. The truck lurched as she launched back a volley of plasma.
“Keep her steady, Brother!” she called, fighting to train the cross hairs as Brother Janus heaved the truck around a concrete barrier and into the dark bowels of the shopping mall.
The mall had been home to squatters for some time. Safe from the rain, full of interesting finds, it had been a natural attraction for the survivors left destitute after the war.
A little citadel, it had established a quasi-society of squatters and drifters, each claiming the empty shells of shops as their own, each doing their all to protect their meager belongings and live what passed as a life.
It was into this delicate microcosm that Brother Janus drove his transport. Squatters scrambled out of the way as the vehicle tore around their makeshift tents and slipped and raced along the cracked floor.
Brother Janus flashed his lights and sounded the horn.
“Come on, you lot, move it! Move it!” he yelled.
Crowds of derelicts, huddled around flaming barrels, watched the show with interest as the silver transport burst in after. They scrambled for their lives as it fired its cannons. They huddled against barriers as it smashed through their beds.
The silver van launched volley after volley of cannon round, tearing the walls to pieces and raining concrete down on the frightened people.
Brother Janus pulled on the handbrake and flipped the truck to the right in a perfectly executed turn. They were headed to what used to be a food court, a ring raised over the dining area below.
“Hang onto your butts, people!” yelled Brother Janus.
Ottavio gripped his hand rail tight and braced his feet against the floor. Sister Hanifé did the same.
The truck skidded a sharp right, smashing noisily into a pile of mannequins. Brother Janus gunned the engines, threw the truck forward and launched it through the barrier.
It sailed cleanly over the defunct fountain in the center of the court, and bounced, skidded and bumped on the floor below.
The silver transport screeched to a halt over the breach and hurled a few more rounds at the tail of the truck as it disappeared out through the glass doors.
Brother Janus laughed, “Well, Sister, what did you think of that, then, what? Do I still have it, or do I still have it?”
She ignored him, but kept her eye on her targeting console for any sign of another transport.
Ottavio looked through each window, trying to see if there was anything else following them. The streets, however, were empty.
He started to relax but then suddenly lurched