Chapter Thirteen
The Section was put on the back burner after Deckard and Kitka were rotated out. Their rotation out was merely the first step. With the House and the Senate back in the control of the American public, the agency lost its level of influence and importance. It was defunded, it's personnel put in other departments or discharged, it's equipment mothballed or loaned out.
Section X was subverted to a glorified records facility with a few guards. The compounds built all over North America were reduced to the one in Colorado. John J. Spotta faded away like his agency. As far as the public at large was concerned Section X, or as they knew it, the OSS, was dismantled for good.
The ousted corporate lackeys that had taken office then voted out were largely unapologetic. They went back to their homes and resumed lives that were, overall, uninterrupted. Some had fat pensions, paid bodyguards, with money skimmed from taxpayers. They went on speaking tours, extolling the virtues of Corporate-run America. They built libraries and foundations named after themselves, as part of their enduring 'legacy'. Some people actually spoke about the virtues of the Corporate agents and helped raise money for them and their lawyers. A few killed themselves, but these deaths were covered up.
The foreign companies that had invaded America found themselves at the mercy of the unions, stockholders, and new regulations, which seemed to hinder them at every turn. A few large manufacturers moved their operations out of North America all together. This backfired, as the feelings against the corporations were harsh, and even more so when those corporations left entire towns unemployed. These companies found themselves without a market to sell to, no mater how little they sold their goods for. So prosperity had ended in some places, grew in others. The government had been run like a business, like so many had desired at long last. The problem was it was too efficient.
The freedoms that had been enjoyed by Americans had been taken away from them, as there was little profit in freedom. The freedom of the press had been regulated right out of existence. Printing an unfavorable story about a representative or senator or corporate head could get the publisher sued. Newspapers and magazines were little more than ad sheets for products, movies, and politicians.
The constitution had been the victim of massive amending. The military or police could come into a private residence, unannounced, search it or commandeer it without consent from the owners. All they needed was to suspect evidence of a crime. Laws had been imposed that if a person didn't possess an ID and a certain amount of money of them, they were considered to be vagrant. Vagrants were thrown into jail.
Their rights were not read to them, because they had none. Providing the poor with a lawyer cost money, and that was not in plans of the profit minded companies. They were not told that they could be silent, because they could not. To remain silent was to hinder prosecution, and that was a crime. The laws on the books multiplied by a hundred fold. The average citizen was breaking several laws just by walking outside, not that he or she knew. The laws were not made public, and ignorance of the laws was no excuse.
The politicians voted into office had a hard time reversing these laws, and after a while, they didn't really want to. It seemed that having an educated, informed, and armed public did not sit well with most public officials. However, the corporations were gone, the foreign ones were anyway, and that was enough for most voters. The ones that bothered to vote, that is.
.
The walk to the port was uneventful. Most people stayed away because of the battling armies, or by the unsavory reputation. The snow had stopped by now, making everything look new and clean. Deckard pondered to stake out the place and wait until night to strike, or just attack as soon as they found the place. The port township was a couple of dozen buildings near a series of long wood docks or stone jetties. Fog oozed off the water, giving everything a salty freezing grime. The seagulls wheeled about, diving and dipping, cawing out their intentions. The fishermen and sailors hung about and had dealings here, sized Deckard up and let it go at that.
This was not the lively and active piers of Galvez, but a district of trade, not all of it above the table. A few dockside taverns were open, their patrons grim and mostly silent. The back alleys looked like good places to either be knifed or get into a craps game. The ships looked like their crews, shabby and covered with barnacles, more or less.
A big warehouse at the end of the district was the place. Deckard was hesitant to go near it. The snake would be able to smell them out and alert Mallos. The two needed a good meal and a good sleep before they took on another ultra team. The last few days had been restless and nerve racking to say the least. Therefore, they turned about and went down to the other area of the township.
Discovering a pier of little use, they set up a rough camp and set to fishing. Kitka went off in search of bait, while Deckard rigged his grappler for the task. This seemed safer than one of the eating-places they had seen. Kitka trotted up with a small sea creature in her mouth. It looked like a crayfish or shrimp. On the hook and into the water it went. They caught a couple of fish and went to the beach to cook them.
As they grilled the fish on rocks heated by a fire, Deckard considered where they might sleep for four or five hours. They were no hotels or houses to break into. The crews slept on their boats and the warehouse workers probably drove in from somewhere else. A warehouse might work, if any were deserted. A boat just in and unloaded might work as well. He ate his fish his liberal sprinklings of salt. Kitka picked out the bones before eating hers. The sky was still cloud covered and tumultuous. Packing up his equipment, he and Kitka trudged off the beach.
Hanging out near several likely candidates, the pair finally stuck gold. Outside one of the more reputable looking taverns, a couple of sailors were discussing which boats were hiring and they ticked through the possibilities.
The ship "Gandolfo" had pulled in two nights ago and unloaded her cargo and paid off her crew. It would be a couple of weeks before she shipped out again with new cargo and a new crew. Her captain paid his docking fees and left town for the heady pleasures of Galvez Town. The ship was locked down, but unguarded. The two sailors went down the dock to sign up for the ship "Elsa".
Fifteen minutes later, Deckard and Kitka were aboard the Gandolfo and in the Captain's cabin. The shower still had a reservoir of water, but Deckard had to light the pilot for the gas heater. Then showered, shaved and dried off, Deckard dropped off to sleep, with Kitka across his knees, between starched sheets and scratchy blankets.
.
Deckard was jolted from sleep by nightmares. The World War battlefield had affected him far more than he thought. The mindless chaos of it, the horrid noise of death being spit out at 425 rounds per second, the smell of blood being burnt and singed away by shrapnel and bullets, all formed an unstoppable Frankenstein monster. A monster that bellowed and roared for more victims; victims to die in filth and misery. His eyes darted around, and his breathing was rapid. Ominous threats seemed to loom in the shadows of the cabin. His vision slowly came into focus and he settled down.
Kitka was lying at the foot of the rack, watching him. She yawned and stretched out her legs and toes and closed her eyes again. Deckard wiped his forehead. He was sweating. The details of his nightmare were lost and he was left with his sense of foreboding. He sat up and stroked Kitka and she began a sleepy purr. The sound worked better than drugs and he was soon in the arms of Morpheus again.
.
It was late afternoon when he woke up again. Completely rested, he ground his teeth together in anticipation of that coming task. Deckard rinsed himself off with cold water and dressed rapidly. Taking Kitka under one arm, they jumped ship and went towards Mallos' warehouse. The docks were busy with goods being loaded and unloaded. The atmosphere was not friendly, but no one seemed to want to turn away from their work to do him harm.
Picking an empty alley close by, Deckard sent Kitka to prowl the outer perimeter, as he monitored by his watch. It was two stories high, with three
loading bay doors that faced the ocean, two on bottom, one on top. Small windows covered glass and wire mesh dotted the first floor, high off the ground. The windows on the second floor were larger. Kitka went up for a closer look. They were wide and looked easy to get into.
The watch face showed a charge of static and he knew that meant that Kitka had shrouded. She was not taking any changes. Good girl, thought Deckard. A look into the window showed a typical warehouse, dark and dank with lots of wooden crates and cardboard boxes. An alarm system was conspicuously absent. Deckard assumed it would be silent, one that would alert Mallos alone, rather than blaring klaxons. He pressed the retrieval button and Kitka soon joined him in the alley.
Taking a deep breath, Deckard tightened both straps on his pack. He ran for the back of the warehouse and took aim with his grappler. Once in range, Deckard fired. The hook sunk into the wooden window frame and he reeled himself up onto the roof. On the roof, he retrieved and reloaded his hook. Kitka caught up with him and, after he broke the lock on the window, they entered. Kitka went left and Deckard went right, around the crates that were stowed on the second floor.
The second floor covered only half of the warehouse space. An electric hoist hung from the second half roof, with a long chain reaching the first story floor. It was musty and the faint sunbeams that broke through the grimy windows lit up dust floating in the air. The wooden floor was full of creaks and groans, and Deckard made his way slowly to the edge and looked over. It was a tall building, more than just one story to the cement floor below.
More crates and boxes bearing strange labels and odd markings sat there, waiting to be shipped out. The truck loading dock was off to the right, two overhead doors. By a small entrance door by them was a black box with a keypad. On it, a red light was blinking. They had tripped an alarm. Mallos wasn't here, but on the way. The inside of the warehouse had no features other than lighting and support posts. It was devoid of rooms of any kind. There was a large desk in the middle with a small computer on it, stacks of papers; a glass full of pencils and several clip boards. Good. That meant no hidden office or room somewhere.
Staying as still as the dead, Deckard survey the scene. Nothing moved, shouted or began to take shots at him. He stayed like that for ten more minutes. Encouraged by lack of giant serpents bearing down or Russian defectors shooting, he doffed his pack and dug out his scopes. He went through all the settings twice, getting no readings. His watch blinked twice and he turned to it.
Kitka had gotten a position on the first floor and was watching the door. It opened and Mallos walked in. It was him, no mistake. Angled face, almost gaunt, sallow complexion, scar diagonally bisecting his mouth, leather mid length jacket, tan pants, work boots. Deckard reacted. He planted his grappler above the open door with a swift well-aimed shot and retracted down on full speed. The wind tore by as he whipped down.
Mallos looked up and pointed a handgun at him. The flashes of the muzzle sent slugs ripping by. Arcing in mid flight, Deckard detached the cable and hit Mallos with both outstretched feet. Both of them crashed into the tin covered wall behind them, the impact making a terrific clatter. Knowing he would have less than seconds until the snake entered and attacked, Deckard rolled over onto his back and flipped onto his feet. The dart thrower slid into his hand and he fired at the moving form of Mallos. Mallos, hit by several darts, rallied gamely and pointed his smoking pistol upwards. The drug was kicking in, and his movements were slower.
Deckard was able to snatch the pistol and haul Mallos to his feet. Holding him like a shield before him, Mallos' pistol in his hand, Deckard dragged him away from the door.
"Kitka, get over here!" He whispered harshly.
Mallos did not succumb to the sedative on the dart as quickly as most did.
"Mallos, call off the snake, get him in here, where I can see him!" Deckard growled in Mallos' ear. He backed up with his victim, until he hit a crate. Kitka deshrouded in front of them, fur spiked out, growling and spitting.
"There's no snake, no snake," He replied groggily. "It's not here."
Deckard dropped him on the floor and stood over Mallos, the gun heavy in his hand.
Mallos called the snake 'it'. Deckard had never referred to Kitka as IT, had never known any of the ultra-team humans to think of their partners in such a way. This one word spoke in a single second had convinced Deckard that Mallos was speaking the truth better than a hundred words spoken under threat or pain. As inconceivable as it was, the snake was not there. Furthermore, Mallos had never been spliced with the snake, had never had a bond with it. The one person that could answer the questions had just posed more of them.
Contemplating this, he watched Mallos fight against unconsciousness and lose. When he passed out, Deckard set the pistol down and bent down to go through his pockets. Keys, wallet, MIL, lock blade, cigarettes, matches. He needed a place to keep an eye on him, where he could not run. Kitka was pacing like a tiger in a small cage. They had wound themselves up for the worst, and nothing had come of it. Deckard, watching her for a minute, picked up a small plastic covered washer that was lying on the dusty floor and chucked it against the far wall. It clanged against the tin. Kitka bolted towards it and brought it back in her mouth. Deckard threw it again, this time to the second floor. Kitka leapt onto one of the wooden beams and scaled it. Mallos lying there, face down, began to stir.
Deckard grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him over to the hoist. The chain was greasy and had a large hook on one end. Wrapping it around his wrists, he secured it and looked for a control panel or button. A red button set in a small metal box bolted to the wall with a black knob beside it was to the left. Deckard examined it, turned the knob and hit the button. The electric wench whined, drawing the limp form of Mallos up. Deckard hit the button again when Mallos was three feet off the ground and he jolted to a stop.
While he did all this, Kitka had returned with the washer and dropped it at his feet. When he ignored her, she picked it up again, followed him over to the wench, and dropped it again. When he still ignored her, she began chirping out her desire, then to howl it out.
"Just a minute, hold on, please!" He said to her, as she stood on her hind legs, doing a sort of hopping movement. Deckard picked up the washer and threw it for her again. They continued their game for a moment, when sense began to pervade.
"Let's check out the rest of this place," Deckard said, pocketing the washer. Kitka shrouded and they searched the outside.
Their search revealed nothing but a garbage bin filled with packing materials, an old red pickup truck, and a stack of wooden pallets. The truck, revealed to be registered to Mark Essex when searched, also was devoid of anything of interest. The warehouse was within the norm for a dealer of antique firearms. It was musty smelling, with spots of water that seeped through the bottom of the floor. The crates had all manner of rifles, pistols, revolvers, machine guns, submachine guns, and all their respective parts, accessories and ammunition.
Here a crate of AK-74s, there a box of Beretta automatics, the smell of gun oil and grease was strong in the air. All ordinance that had hit their prime at least twenty years before Deckard was born.
"Shall we have our talk now?" The voice was Mallos'. He was awake and had been watching them.
"Ok, let's have it." Deckard sat on the desk again.
Mallos hung by his wrists, eyes bright in their sunken housing.
"I need a question first. Also I would like to be let down."
Deckard considered this. He still considered Mallos dangerous, even if Goramund was not backing him up.
Looking around, he spied a chair and took it over. He lowered Mallos enough so that he could sit on the chair, but not lower his arms. Mallos settled in.
"Thank you. Could I perhaps get a cigarette, too?"
Deckard fetched his pack and drew one out. Deckard lit it and then stuck it in his mouth. Mallos inhaled deeply and held it. He let it out slowly through his nose. Deckard made to take it out of his mouth. r />
"No, that's okay, the smoke won't bother me."
"Okay, tell me where Goramund is."
"Yes, my supposed splice animal. I don't know. It could be dead or alive somewhere, I have no idea."
Deckard turned his head and stared at the ground.
"Look, you know what I want to know, so just tell me. I don't have the time for this retarded nonsense. I assume you know where we come from and what we're after."
Mallos sat there calmly, smoke trickling out of the corner of his mouth. "I've been waiting for something like you to come along for some time, now. You want to know about my involvement with Wouk and Section X. I have nothing to hide, but my name, and you already know that."
Taking another breath of smoke, he began.
"I was part of what you know as the Russian 'Mafia' before I came to this country. I ran booze and cigarettes and sold them without paying taxes to the Soviet United or to the Russian government. I also possessed a cunning talent for sports of all kinds. Eventually, I was sent before a judge I couldn't bribe. But he was a great sports fan, especially of the Olympics. He was from my hometown, and had seen me play hockey, track and field, that sort of activity.
The judge gave me a choice, get on the team or go to jail. I was able to secure myself a spot on the team with no trouble. This was long after the days of state run sports programs and so the track and field team really needed me. I ran Triathlon for them. It is really a shame that the Olympics aren't going anymore. The athletes want money for their skills, no profit in the Olympics for them, I guess. Anyhow, I found out where we were going and America looked profitable, but I needed a way to get protection from the Soviets and Russians when I defected.
There was a lot of talk about a new agency, the OSS, wanting scientific research and was willing to supply whatever you wanted to have it. I put out a few inquires at home about what I could get my hands on. I put a few inquires about what OSS wanted. They wanted it all. I got in touch with them through the Infranet and displayed the first pages of about eight different project dossiers I had managed to steal. I was given instructions about where to go and what to do. All the dossiers were reduced to microdot and concealed in metal capsules. The capsules were coated with gel and I hid them in a bottle of vitamins. After all, who would question an athlete having vitamins?
If I found out about a search, I could swallow them. The gel would dissolve, but not the capsules and I could retrieve the dots later. Nothing went amiss and I disembarked at Galvez and met up with Wouk. The criminal organization there facilitated the entire process. Wouk and I got into a car and were driven to the facility in Colorado. I was relieved of all my microdots and told I would be needed to be retained for a little while in order to invent a cover up. I had my part to play and they had theirs. I was to be a volunteer for a new gene-splicing program. The pretense was I thought it would improve my track time or something like that."
Mallos stopped and eyed his cigarette, which had ashed down. His eyes asked the question and Deckard replaced it with a lit one. Mallos continued.
"It sounded ridiculous to me, but everyone seemed to believe it. I watched the snake, Goramund as you call it, hatch and I was supposed to train with it after a time had passed. Wouk kept me out of sight many times, telling others that I was undergoing "gene therapy".
Deckard interrupted. "If you were not spliced with Goramund, who was?"
"I assume that it was part of the ruse, that no one was."
Deckard stood up. "No. To cover you up, that would've been easy. Escaped, shot while trying to escape, died on the operating table. There were a thousand ways to tuck you away without the involvement of a giant serpent. That cost money and time. Someone was being spliced. That's why they went through that part of the deception. Not to fake your death, but to fake Goramund's. Someone was being spliced to him."
Mallos considered this. "If that's the case, I can't tell you who. As I said, I was kept out of sight from everyone but Wouk for a lot of that time. The accident that I 'died' in was carefully orchestrated. Wouk was the only one on the floor at the time, the others were all monitoring by DV."
"Just you and Wouk?"
"Yes."
"Spotta wasn't around."
"No, I never met the Director of Section D."
"Okay, go on."
"Well, that's it, for the most part. The Snake was put in with me, we climbed up to these platforms and that was it. Wouk called the snake down and I got down. He showed me through a hallway, told me that a car would be waiting for me outside. The keys would be in it, along with credit chits, cash, several false IDs, everything I needed to begin a new life. I drove away and never looked back."
"How did you get set up here? The Texas Highway patrol pulled you over and you said you were in with the Tri. Did they just accept your application?"
Mallos lifted an eyebrow. "No, I bribed the Tri head in Houston to let me operate here. I was given a large payoff, and you need to spend money to make money, so I spent it. I had heard of the Texas Tri back in Pskov and was able to arrange a meeting. After assuring them that I was not bringing the Russian Mafia here, they gave me the credentials to drop in case of trouble and expected a cut every month. Which I give them."
"You behind that slaughter outside of town there?"
"Von Garcia and Malkhart? No. They are merely the insane trying to make sense of their existence. The N-beams and what it spawned are responsible for that. I merely supply them the goods in which they can pursue their cause."
"You talked to Leila Mawson to get set up."
"No, I spoke with 'Cowboy' Mawson. He has since died and Ms. Mawson and I have much the same arrangement."
"How did you know to expect us?" Starkweather might have tipped him off, no matter what he had said about Mallos before.
"Logic and experience. I wasn't expecting you exactly, but I knew when the Section lost its importance, someone would put the pieces together and come looking for me. I had little to do with it, and am in fact, more legal in this country that you are. I have nothing to lose by cooperating. You were looking for information and I gave it to you. I was under the gun back in Russia and needed a clean slate. An opportunity arose and I took it. Mark Essex is now my legal name, my business is well within the concordances of the law here. Even the graft that I send to the Tri is tax deductible. There is no hyper-intelligent snake with me, waiting to attack. I possess no superhuman abilities. I've seen the file which you probably have a copy of, and I tell you that it's a smoke screen, a lie. A complete fabrication made up to fool people just like you into thinking that the past is dead and buried."
Deckard walked over and hit the button on the hoist. It revolved down and Mallos/Essex freed himself. Deckard tossed his cigarettes to him. Mallos crushed out the one he was smoking, drew out another one and lit it.
"Just remember, Mr. Blaine." Mallos said, getting out of the chair. "The past is never dead. It is like a corpse at a birthday party. Everyone ignores it, but they can all smell it."
Deckard took a deep breath and began to hand back Mallos' wallet and knife. Mallos stretched out his hand for them. Deckard gave him a swift chop to the side of the neck and caught him before he fell. Easing him into the chair behind the desk, Deckard shook his head.
"I never told you my name." He put the wallet and lock blade on the desk. The warehouse was built for security so it was easy to secure. There was no cradle jack in the place, so Deckard locked it up with the security panel on the outside. He took out Mallo's MIL and ground it under his heel.
Deckard wanted to make sure that he was well out of Port Arthur and its ramparts before Mallos could do anything to stop him. The Russian may have told some of the tale but not all of it. He had been in contact with Starkweather, that much was for sure. Wouk remained the only lead left. The snake could have been spliced with him. That would explain his hasty departure from Section X and the feigned failure of it would insure that no one made a fuss about his leaving. But where to look for hi
m?
His one option was to go and see Leila "Sissy" Mawson. She was expecting him sooner or later. It looked like it would be sooner. With Mallos' keys, they got into the truck and started it up.
"Corpse at a birthday party?" Deckard snorted. "Who says things like that, honestly?" The truck didn't sound too good, but it would get them out of town, and past Verdun day. They might have to walk to the train station after that. The truck fishtailed a few times on the slushy road. Kitka howled and stood in her seat, her claws firmly planted in the fabric.
"Sorry, but this heap isn't easy to handle, you know." Deckard snorted. Kitka kept up a running commentary as they went along. The tires must have been as bald as an eagle as they provided little traction. It was good camouflage though, he had to admit that. The heater worked well, too well in fact. He had to roll the window down to cool off a little. Deckard parked the truck well away from the station and put the keys under the drivers side floor mat. Kitka was now in a grumpy mood, and Deckard had to carry her the rest of the way.
"We'll get some food on the train." He promised her. The snow had dissolved into a chill fog. It clung to them and made their hair wet. Deckard stopped and dug around in his pack. He had hung on to his German field cap. He didn't know why, but he felt an odd attachment to it. After putting it on, he picked up his pack and his unhappy ultra cat and went on. The township was even more deserted than it had been. The gas station attendant had closed his garage doors and was sitting inside, next to a space heater.
The dinner had one car in front of it and that looked like the cook's, because the waitress was not there. Deck and Kitka stopped for some eggs, sausage, and coffee. The cook grunted at them as he served it.
"Crazy out there, eh?" He seemed to be in a cheerfully resigned mood.
"It always get this empty when it snows?"
"Yep. Believe it or not, twenty years ago, snow anytime, particularly in October, would caused news flashes and winter sporting. Now it just causes folks to stay at home. We've not gotten used to it yet, I guess."
Deckard savored his sausage. It was much better than he had expected.
"Why do you come out then?"
The cook pushed his watch cap back on his head and looked around.
"You're not from around here, right?" He asked. Deckard indicated that was so. "Then I guess I can tell you. I was born in Minnesota. Born and raised. This stuff is nothing to what I've seem. In fact, kinda makes me homesick." The cook turned to put more coffee on.
Deckard paid and tipped well. Kitka was now too full to want to move, so he had to carry her again. They went to the station. The conductor was not even there, but a timetable was tacked to bulletin board outside the office window, which had a Closed sign in it. An hour until the next train. They lay on a bench, curled up, dozing until it arrived. The trained arrived and they got on, purchasing their tickets from the conductor as he came by. The cold weather had dampened everyone's spirit it seemed and he barely looked up as Deckard passed over his chit.
They slept the entire way to Houston. Deckard was troubled again by dark dreams. The images this time were much less coherent.
Standing on a hill, Deckard was surrounded by storm clouds. He could hear his heart beating and his breath was harsh, like he was sick or wounded. Then suddenly he was standing on a high pentacle, looking down on a huge city landscape. The aircars seemed to be going in slow motion. The pentacle was made of sharpened steel and it began to cut through his shoes into his feet. Deckard was losing his balance, and the he fell head first into the air traffic. The plummet was in slow motion. He could hear the whirr of the engines and long streaking honks of their horns as they swerved to miss him. As Deckard fell, a number of severed head fell past him, their mouths trying to silently voice the same warning. He could not make it out. The ground came up quickly and Deckard hit with a sickly thud. The dream faded into a smoky gray color.
Deckard, supine on the train seat, turned over, disturbing Kitka, whom he was using as a pillow. She opened eyes for a moment then slowly closed them.
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Houston was a place that held memories of atrocities committed on its black asphalt. It was a sprawling behemoth of a city, more like its own nation-state. Growing at a geometric rate for decades, it encompassed all the smaller towns around it and industrialized them. Highways connected office buildings, malls, strip centers, and airports. It was also one of three cities that had legalized antigrav vehicles. Regulated by power levels, the antigrav pathways closely mimicked the roads below it. There were five separate pathways, each one on top of the other.
The lowest level was for the public antigrav transports called the Metro lift. Above that, was for private aircars. The more money an aircar cost, the higher it could go. Subsequently, the highest level was transversed by the wealth and greed disciples of the world. There was also an elevated track system and a subway. A haven for the corporations Deckard had combated against, he had only been here once before. There was too much security here.
The mission designers had preferred to infiltrate the Houston Systems through less guarded terminals in other quadrants. The one time that he was here to plant the "peek-a-boo" virus. An insidious program, it did not activate right away, but only spread.
It attached itself to every program in a computer, and to every E-mail, file, and download that was committed. There is lay quietly, bonding to every bit of hardware and software that it could. Watch pilots, MILs, cradles, mainframes, and everything else that could be plugged into the net were infected. The virus lay dormant until a year after its infiltration. Then it "ate" the programs it was attached to one by one. The only computers that did not suffer its attack were the ones that had the "Peek-a-boo" decorative graphic theme program.
Deckard never found out if the virus had actually worked as it was supposed to. He merely executed the parameters. It had actually been an easy mission in retrospect. He wasn't required to go inside a corporate building or even go near one. Just a remote programmer put in the hydroelectric plant's mainframe and it was done. Getting into the Hydroelectric plant provided a challenge, but it was not as guarded as, say, the MircoPact HQ.
Still, for being the world's largest Mega city, it was creepy at night. The dwellers of Houston scattered like mice when the sun set, fearing the dark. A long time ago, there had been viscous gangs that prowled the streets. One street in the heart of the city was nicknamed "Gunfighter alley'. A single policeman had been involved in 27 different shootouts in one year.
There was also a serial killer called 'The Head Thief'. He (It was assumed that the killer was a white male) killed his victims with an ax and then chopped off their heads, taking them with him when he left the scene.
The Head Thief claimed 13 victims before he stopped. He was never caught, the majority of his gruesome trophies never found. No one could explain why he stopped and several theories were batted around. The Houston press made a near folk hero out of him. This was a mistake, as copycat killers began to pop up. Usually, they managed only behead one or two before being apprehended. They all confessed to being 'The Head Thief'. Investigations disproved all their claims.
After some years had passed and 'The Head Thief' was forgotten, a contractor was knocking down an old house and discovered a human skull with a seven branded on it. It was determined to be the seventh victim of the infamous killer. The uproar flamed up again. It happened five more times, with the same set of circumstances, different builders. It got to the point that news crews would be on hand every time a 'Head Thief' era building was demolished or renovated.
Fan clubs sprang up in the mega city and grew in strength every time a new head was found. Some of these clubs brought old properties that seemed promising and searched through them in hopes of finding the grisly artifacts. The remaining heads were never found.
The victims were from a vast array of backgrounds and not connected in any way. They were just people out on the streets at the wrong time. This spoke out to the citizenry of H
ouston. It told them that anytime, anywhere, they could be horribly murdered by a bloodthirsty demon that walked like a man. Even the most reckless criminal, the most foolhardy juvenile delinquent, avoided being out in the open at night. The Head Thief did not discriminate between good or bad, rich or poor, those that deserved death and those who did not.