Chapter Three
The war had gone badly for the US at first. The only couple of times that the government did try direct force, it was disastrous. Jenset and Hauer Corporations contracted a launch pad so that they could send their own craft into space. This had heretofore been the government's privilege, one they guarded fiercely. Two armed "diplomatic envoys" were sent out to stop the launch construction. The authorities in charge had all the legal right in the world.
It was even specified in the new charters that the Government had control of the space ways and every aspect thereof. They had the warrants and writs and delecti's that could be imagined. All that paperwork did them no good from what J and H did to them. The corporations knew what would happen when their project was noticed and they had been preparing for it.
A journalist from a yellow press magazine, who was late in attending the envoys because he had been drunk the night before, caught up to them after it happened. His was the only report from that incidence. It has been transcribed here as best as could be determined.
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Male voice, raspy, identified as Philip Del Corsio: "This is Philip Del Corsio, it's, ah, eleven forty five on. Let's see...August eighth, and we're following the 131st battalion to the launch pad construction site, and hold it, Kap, do you see that smoke?"
Second male voice, tense, identified as Jake Kaplan: "Yeah, what the hell could it be? The site is another thirty miles ahead... * background noise*
Del Corsio: That can't be...Oh my God... It's the envoy. They've crashed! But *garbled*, like they've been blown * garbled * strong wind or something.. Stop the car, stop the car! This one looks like an officer, Sir, can you tell us what happened?"
Third male voice, faint barely audible, identified as 2nd Lt. Malcolm Stewart: "They've hit us, things, terrible things. All our equipment and vehicles beamed out from under us to somewhere else, miles away. Stole our minds, * garbled * back. My backbone crushed, crushed to powder, eyes leaking out of their sockets...." Sobbing and curses.
Del Corsio: "What's he talking about, he's perfectly fine! Vehicle and equipment gone? As far as I can tell all everything's here. It's * garbled with loud background noise *, here. Hysterical laughter. "What's happened? What the hell is going on here! Somebody tell me!"
Kaplan: "Take it easy, Phil! Calm down!"
Del Corsio: Calm down! How the fuck can you calm down! Look at all this. Tanks and truck on fire! All these guys * garbled * place. Oh my god, Kap, get me out of here, Get me out of hereGetmeoutof here!"
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Jenset and Hauer had developed a nerve weapon that produced severe hallucinations with intense feelings of despair. A sonic beam delivered it. J&H aimed in the direction and turned it on for five seconds. The after effects were so strong that even after it had been off for half an hour, it still affected Del Corsio, possibly due to his state of semi intoxication. Kaplan was unaffected for the most part, but still has strong reluctance discussing the event. Del Corsio recovered, but the men in 131st battalion underwent severe treatment, some never recovered. It was at this point that the Government realized that this problem was not going to be solved by conventional means. The men left in charge of the shell that remained, decided that the table of organization needed to be changed. They sent their forces off to police the world. It was un-Constitutional for them to police themselves.
The Developmental weapons division of the armed forces was put in charge of finding out what the nerve weapon was and how to counter it. Development decided that the best way to find out what the weapon was to steal the plans for it. They sent in some of their best "stealth retrievers" as they were called in development. None of them ever returned, only brief transmitted images. Failure after failure went by and the head of development was removed and a new one put in his place. His name was Rymar Stoltz. He divided Development into two Sections: eXperimental and aDministration. He claimed Section X as his bailiwick. John J. Spotta was put in charge of Section D. Both were buried deep in the military, but they were exclusive and at the top of the chain of command. Soon, under the management of these two men, the entire military and the government were subservient to Section X and Section D.
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The day after the Section Gala, Deckard and Channelle went to the blueprint vault at the Meadows. All of the personnel had been alerted to their presence and the purpose of it. They were waved through every checkpoint by guards and computer monitors that were equipped with virtual IDs of Deckard Blaine and Channelle Kitka. The vault was down a long corridor that was made of high steel walls. At every ten meters was an emplacement of laser optic alarm triggers. The lasers emitters were carefully covered so as not to give them away. The floors were mounted on pressure sensitive plates so that the correct weight would also set off the alarms. The alarms, when triggered, would set off a high-pitched scream that not only alerted, but also incapacitated. Milliseconds after the audio alarms, the sensor array in every base computer lit up, making everyone aware of the break in, even unauthorized users. Milliseconds after that, the electronic doors were shutdown and locked, incapable of being opened until the alarm was shut off at the source. The vault manager who carried the setting device on her belt activated the system. At the door of the vault was a manual shutdown switch, at the very end of the corridor. The door was a time-coded dial in analogue.
Channelle Kitka squeezed under the laser beams, walked along the pressure plates, her body weight too low to set them off, and once at the end, climbed up the wall, with her enhanced claws, and shut off the system at the source. Deckard followed her, and opened up the time coded analogue lock by plugging a modified Multi Integrated Link unit into it and feeding it a virus. They entered the vault and found the manager who had been monitoring them.
"Impressive." She announced. "Most impressive." Channelle sat beside her console and caressed its corner with the underside of her cheek.
"But, other than you two, who else has the capabilities?" She was young, perhaps five years younger than Deck, but grim with duty. Her name was Janette Chaparell.
"We've tried adding on more units, but they either overload the system and shut the whole thing down, or activate with no cause determined." Her Hispanic/Asian features blended nicely to give an almost supernatural look, Elvish, in fact.
"That is another area we're looking into." He commented, looking about. The vault was tomblike in nature. Large drawers implanted in the black marblesque walls stacked on top of one another to the ceiling. None of the drawers were labeled, and there were hundreds, which was yet another level of security. The doors opened downward revealing behind them dozens of round tube shaped holders. The holders had locking lids and were removable. The tubes were metal lined and covered with a composite skin; inside each of them were the blue prints and accompanying materials.
"Show me the vault where the plans were stolen."
The manager rose, dressed in light green coveralls with a long white lab coat stuffed with pens and odd-looking devices. The coverall seemed to supplant other forms of clothing during the last decade. In this instance, the coverall was treated to be resistant toward chemical spills or even light radiation exposure.
"This way," Her heels clinked along the floor, echoing off the walls, down the hallway. There didn't appear to be any monitoring devices inside the vault, which was strange. It was at the end of the hall.
"That's it." She said, pointing upwards. It was a good eight or nine meters above their heads.
"Do you want me to activate the steps?" Chaparell was biting her lower lip.
"Steps?"
"Yes," She pointed to the gaps between every stack of doors. "They are set in the walls and are let down by the control pad at the main desk."
"Coded?"
"Yes."
"Never mind." He cracked his knuckles and began up the wall. The seams of the vault were wide enough to find finger and toe holds.
He heard a gasp from the manager and he looked down. She was staring up at him with wide eyes. He grin
ned down and continued. He retracted one set of "claws" on his left hand and felt around for the key lock. Missing it, he closed his eyes and found it at once. His index finger hook slipped into the key lock and picked it. There was a clank and the door fell open, hinges creaking. The twenty-four racks were full except for one. He looked at the rest of them, all unlabeled. He closed the door, and hung there considering. Who ever took the tube, had to know which door, among hundreds to open and which tube to take among twenty four tubes in a rack. Blaine felt a familiar presence.
"Meoorrr."
"Hello, girl," He scratched her ears, and she purred softly.
"Let's go, At least we know who to rule out."
Channelle turned her head to look at the vault, sniffing quickly, her ears pointed at it. Deckard creased his eyebrows and inhaled deeply through his nose. A faint odor.
"C'mon." He detached and landed on the floor in crouch. Channelle lightly landed on his shoulders after he had straightened up.
The manager was still looking at them with widened eyes.
"That was incredible!" Janette finally breathed.
"Didn't you know?" The air was cool here in the vault, almost chilly.
"Yes, I was aware, but seeing it, and you look so, well, so..."
"Normal." A flat reply from Deckard.
She lowered her eyes and nodded. He stroked Kitka's tail, which was hanging over his right shoulder, her head near his left ear, whiskers twitching. They walked past her and passed out of the vault. He reactivated the alarm system and watched Kitka slink gracefully under the beams.
Deckard removed his shoes and tied the laces together and hung them around his neck. In the field, he had modified footgear that performed much better than his clawed feet. In the beginning, he had been unable to draw them out at all. It had taken a lot of practice to be able to do what he was about to. He eyed the set up and then with one bound reached the ceiling, planting his claws deep into it. The ceiling was covered with sound dampening tiles. With a swing, his feet met the ceiling and stuck. He crawled along the ceiling just above the invisible beams. At the other end, he let go and landed beside her. She rubbed against his leg as he tied his shoes and they continued on their way to the main control room.
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The supervisor in charge was a small man, small framed. He compensated for it by wearing fluffing his hair out like a helmet. The hairspray he used smelled like glue, so he covered it with cologne. A lot of cologne. He also wore suits that were cut slender, making him look even smaller and slighter than he was. His name was Mr. Kurt Richards. He had been informed about the VIP's arrival but he really didn't pay much attention to it. He spent most of his time in his office, coding and decoding messages and memos. This is what he was doing when he heard a small sneeze behind him. He swiveled in his chair to face his desk. Nothing. He heard it again and could swear that whatever had sneezed was right in front of him. He did a double take at the faint outline of a cat the appeared and filled out in front of him. It was a large dangerous beast and it was staring right at him, looking angry. He remained perfectly still, but his left hand began to creep to the drawer on his desk.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," A man said, seemingly stepping out of the shadows in his well-lit office. "She'd cut your face off before you had time to blink."
"What the hell are you doing in my office?" Arrogant, demanding. "This is a classified area, so whoever you are, you'd better have the right clearance!" He spat at him, with the rage of a control freak that has just lost it.
"I have Richards, I have." Deckard smirked at him, folding his arms. "The question here is: How did I get in this "Classified area" right here to your desk, without you knowing about it?"
"You must be the visitors I was informed about." Sweat began to form on his forehead. Yes, he had lost control and lost it quickly. It was just beginning. The DV screen that formed the left wall of his office turned on. Both men turned to observe it, but Channelle amused herself by pushing things off Richards' desk. The milky image sharpened up to display the image of Rymar Stoltz.
Richards came out of his seat with such speed, his chair was knocked over.
"Mr. Director Stoltz sir!" The small man barked out, his stance tense and rigid.
Blaine glared at the image, and Channelle was on all fours, puffed out, ears back, a low growl issuing from her throat.
"Nice to see you, Blaine, Kitka." The massive video display overwhelmed the room. Stoltz didn't even acknowledge Richards.
Nothing from either of them, their stances remained the same.
"I understand you waltzed through vault security. What have you discovered?"
"When McGregor gets the plans back, he'll tell you. You get nothing directly from me. Ever." Deckard said through clenched teeth.
"I see you haven't changed much, but that's all right."
Each man sized up the other, they hadn't seen each other in a long while, but the animosity from the man and his cat was thick
The man called Rymar Stoltz was a man with aristocratic features, straightforward and blandly handsome. His hair was dark with touches of gray at the temples. It looked so distinguished, that Blaine wondered if it was cosmetic. The flat blue eyes gazed out impassively from a blank expression. His clothing was as high class as he pretended to be. His pocket square matched his tie. The surrounding suggested that he were someplace else besides the Section. It looked like late afternoon there, here was barely out of the lunch period. In a building somewhere, on a high floor, but which building, which city?
"Don't bother trying to guess where I am, Blaine. Security here is so tight I doubt that even you could deal with it. The older man said, reading Deckard's thoughts. Channelle spit at the screen.
"I don't know why you two hate me so much, after all, without me, the two of you would never have met and how could that be?" His tone was mockingly sympathetic. Stoltz appraised the former Ultra team. Blaine was tall and muscularly lean. He wore a simple one-piece body suit that was loose with martial arts shoes. His belt held a variety of devices designed for minimum space and maximum efficiency. The faint stripes that tracked across every inch of his skin began to grow more visible, as they did whenever he grew angry or tense. His hair, dark and slicked back, a blonde streak ran from his forehead to the nape of his neck began to rise slightly. The semi-slit irises opened wider, taking in all. The Ultracat, Channelle Kitka was a large rangy beast, with calico spotted fur in an effective camouflage pattern. Her ears were large and tipped with tufts of fur and whisker. Her tail was long and thick, as it whipped back and forth at a rapid pace.
Stoltz noted these reactions with professional interest.
"Just find the plans and whoever took them and I may send you a new scratching post." He terminated the image. Leaning back in his chair, he chuckled to himself. He could only imagine what the two were doing to Richards' office. The petty little man deserved what he got anyhow, he was competent, but lacked vision. Stoltz knew by provoking man and animal, he would push them into performing at the maximum of their abilities. Nothing like dangling a string before a cat to get it to move quicker. The director mused as he punched up his project list for the day.
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Deckard and Channelle demolished the office in less than a minute, and then vanished seemingly. Richards was left with the pieces to put back together. Back in his convertible, the only type of car that Channelle would ride willingly in, Blaine began to regret even approaching the Section in such a straightforward manner. Better to have gone at night, slipped in, acquired the information he needed and slipped back out. The wind blew swiftly through his nerves, calming them. Channelle stood on the seat next to him; paws on the window ledge, watching the scene go by.
The traffic was light, as one needed a special license to drive a private car. Deckard's car had a hybrid engine running off solar batteries and an internal combustion engine. The typical hybrid would get up to 90 miles to the gallon. Even with this mileage, gas was too expensive to be p
ractical, but with the Section footing the bills, Deckard was being extravagant. Most cars were fully electric, but they were inefficient. It was a tradeoff most people didn't bother with. The mass transit monorail tubes and trains replaced the automobile, and almost everyone used them. There were still taxis and cabs, but they were hydrogen cell powered, much too expensive units for the ordinary citizen. A monorail hissed quietly over head, as the two drove. It resembled a giant silver worm, sliding along a single electric rail. It rode ten floors above the ground, and every building that was that high or higher held a tube station. It was quicker, quieter and easier than private transport. Deckard watched the sliver of metal swim along its route. Easier, and heavily monitored as well. There were cameras in every compartment, and at least two guards in every station, vets from the infowar.
They left the city behind and took to the highway, then a small dirt road that led into an immense expanse of woods. A cabin came into view, large and wooden. It was a neat and tidy as an army base. He slowed and stopped. They exited the car and looked about. Both were aware Murphy was observing them from the woods, maybe Boden as well. The two had run extensive booby traps and warning devices all over the land they walked with the skill of a spider in it's own web. Any move to look for them could result in injury, so they both stayed put. At once, Murphy appeared in front of them, his ears pricked up, sniffing rapidly. He began panting slightly as he came nearer to them, wagging his tail. Blaine spoke to him in low tones, as he scratched his chest and ribs. The three of them then entered the cabin.
Inside was a monument to the great outdoors. Skins lined the floors, climbing, hunting, camping equipment and antlers lined the walls, along with framed photos of the war days, and certificates earned by the two. Unlike Deckard and Kitka, Boden knew exactly how each one of his medals; ribbons and commendations had been earned. The top brass liked him. He was their idea of a real commando. Big, strong, direct, he made them look good, as they pinned medals on him for the news media. Even though he complained about the Section, one had the feeling that he liked some parts of it. A large fire was crackling in the fireplace and a spitted beast of some type; perhaps a deer or large pig was roasting over it. Boden was at the large round table, putting an exotic looking handgun back together. The table itself was covered with bits of rifles and other handguns that were in the process of being cleaned or restored.
"Howdy." Boden commented as Deckard pulled up a chair. Channelle jumped into Deckard's lap and stared at him.
"What did you find out?"
"A number of very interesting things." He struggled with the laser scope of the gun. "Of which the first is something that you brought up." He put down the gun and took a drink off of a dark bottle.
"So then spill it."
"Let me build up to it. First of all, I checked out the first man and animal merge, the ones that killed each other? Do you know anything about that?"
No, I never had reason to find out."
"Did you know that the animal was a leopard?"
Deckard's jaw dropped. Channelle was part leopard.
"Do you know what happened to the guy?"
Deckard shook his head.
"Apparently, he had claws on his hands and feet just like you do, only bigger, a lot bigger. He even grew whiskers." Boden gestured with his hands from his upper lip.
"Then he grew spots. Then one day, while they were doing a trail run on a scaffolding, the guy goes berserk and chucks one of the doctors off of it. The leopard, seeing this, goes right for a guard. The two of them killed everyone in the room, mutilated them, and then just tore into one another." He paused to let this take effect. "Does this sound familiar?"
Blaine's spine felt icy fingers gently caressing it. Channelle sensing this stood and rubbed the top of her head against the bottom of his jaw. He began to stroke her.
"I saw the tapes and even had the grave dug up, both of them are dead, I'm sure of it."
"Dug up the grave, only one?" Blaine didn't like loose ends.
"They put them both in the same grave. As I said, they really went at it, couldn't tell one from the other. Even DNA tests didn't help, the genetics were just altered too much."
Another drink. "The next ones both dead, dug them up. The next? Well, you know Jonesey and Blut. I went to where they were supposed to be, but I got no response, I'm not even sure they were there at all."
"I'll go to see them, I have better luck with them anyway."
"Yeah, anyhow, the next ones, the ones who escaped. I don't think we have to worry about them. The animal was a dolphin. The merge was completely successful, but the guy was a conscientious objector. I guess the dolphin was too, because one night, they both just swam off into the Pacific."
"A dolphin?"
"Yep, I guess they were gonna go hijack ships or something like that. In any case, his feet were more like flippers, and the dolphin could hardly move out of water."
Blaine nodded, the blueprint vault was seventy miles from the nearest water, and that was a small lake.
"Next."
"This is where I think you'll pick up the scent. Mallos and Goramund. A volunteer and a snake."
"A volunteer? For the Section? Do they accept volunteers?"
"They made an exception for this guy. He was on the United Soviet Republics Triathlon team the last time the Olympics were held. He defected and went straight for the Section. Seems he had an idea that the merge would boost his athletic ability. Guess he was wrong."
Deckard leaned back in his chair; he was shaken about the leopard part.
Boden went on. "An interesting side note here. Yurgei Mallos had an extensive criminal record in the Soviet Territory. Racketeering, Conspiracy to commit, Smuggling, the list goes on. Seems he had significant ties to the Russian Mafia."
"Tell me about this snake."
"Mostly Ball Python, with Anaconda, Cobra, and Rattlesnake thrown in. I understand that when the rattle went off, it sounded like a machine gun going off in your ear. There's not much to tell on these two, but it's a cinch that the guy was an EastMeg-Moscow spy. He was the oldest member on the team, had an unlimited passport, put on a "stupid Russian jock" act to put normals at ease. But other than that, they dug through the remains of the building, which, by the way, was about ten thousand times hotter than it was supposed to be, and found the remains of the guards. No sign of them though. It was assumed that they were vaporized and the official investigation was dropped."
"Sounds like a set up."
Another hit off the bottle. Murphy lay on the floor under the table. Every now and then, he would thump his tail on the floor loudly. Boden leaned back, waiting for Blaine's conjectures.
"I figure that Mallos, the EastMeg spy, dreams up a beauty of an idea to spy on the states, and gets them to pay for it to boot. He crosses over, volunteers, learns all he can, then escapes, including a fire that so hot it destroys every scrap of evidence. Then he and Goramund cross back over the line." Blaine looked dissatisfied with it, though.
"With the plans?"
"No. Maybe. I think one of two things happened. They made it over, with no plans, or they intended to cross back over, but their plan backfired and killed them both.
"Why no plans?" Thump, thump, thump. Boden reached down and reassured his companion. Both animals, although ignorant of the specific circumstances, realized that something was going on, perhaps something dangerous. But they were only sitting around for now, and both of them were on edge. They trusted their "masters" and counted on them to guide them to the action, so they could be turned loose to best it. It was what they were designed for.
"Well, the fire was a while ago, plenty of time to construct whatever this thing is. It would've been built by now. Besides, if they'd even tried to build it, you know we would've been sent in. I don't think that they made it though. I think they're dead. Maybe."
"Yeah, You're right about sending us in, but why do you think that they're dead?"
"I played enough in that part of the
arena. I think if they were alive, we would've crossed paths by now."
Deckard paused to reconsider. "If they are alive, I'm confident that they didn't get the plans."
One more remained. Neither one of them wanted to discuss this one. Halidan and Shea were their comrades in arms, and their ways had parted badly. Jeff Halidan had been paired with a neosimian. A monkey type animal that had genes from all of the other animals combined in it. What's more, he had limited speech ability, the only ultra animal to display such talents. The two them performed flawlessly. So flawlessly, that the Section kept sending them out on assignments, almost back to back.
Then Shea snapped during an exit out of a seventy-second floor. They were crossing a communication wire. He curled up like a frightened child. Halidan had to dump the "pouch", as the pick-ups were called, and literally peel him off the wire. The job was scrubbed and both barely escaped with their lives. They were treated for their injuries inside and out, but neither could be trusted with an assignment again. They were cashiered with a sizable pension. They were hurt, really hurt. Deckard found out later that Halidan had begged the Section for a leave of absence, which they promised, after one more mission. That mission was their last.
.
The silence grew, each thinking about the two. Halidan, cheerful and easygoing, Shea, the oddly furred simian with large bat like ears. Both of them were young and eager. They loved the job, and unlike Boden and Blaine, trusted Section X.
Boden finally spoke. "Shea is a lot like his old self."
"Yeah?"
"Halidan is, well, you know."
Yes, Blaine knew.
"Shea expressed an interest in seeing Channelle. He and Murphy sat for a while. They seemed to be having a sort of conversation. After that, Shea seemed to be a little more, well, you know."
Yes, Blaine knew, knew very well. But somewhere in the back of his head, he still needed to check this one out for himself. Bowden was good with facts and figures, but was more trusting than he should've been. He was of the opinion that if Halidan and Shea had the ability before, it'd been knocked out of them. Deckard was not so sure. A lone thunderclap rumbling close by startled the party out of their silent reverie.
Blaine made a mental note to visit the two. The first time he'd see them since the war. One move was made, but what about the next one? No closer to the facts, no closer to anything, but the pain of what happened to all of them, a long time ago.