And then he noticed something ... something glittering behind the scars, behind the haemorrhage of finely woven tissue; it was a gleam, a bright gleam ... the gleam of copper.
‘Why, Kattenheim?’ he asked. ‘Why have you killed them?’
Kattenheim shrugged. ‘I simply cannot allow the time deficit.’
Petrinsky frowned.
Kattenheim lifted the Glock and put a bullet into Petrinsky’s face, smashing the man’s teeth through the back of his head to bone-clatter from the glass of the Range Rover’s windscreen. Petrinsky slumped back, a torn marionette. Kattenheim turned, and strolled off into the gently falling snow.
The bodies had been dragged to the edge of the mighty derrick; the titanium-carbide-VII drill was silent. The five corpses were perched on the edge of the Mud Pits, a huge crater of waste from the drilling process — dirt, rock, and any impurities that the drill had torn from the ground. Kattenheim watched the industrial Grade IV Element drop into the crater with a crash and sudden hiss; steam screamed from the pit as the frozen mud and rock and ice was loosened, and started to liquefy as the temperature rapidly rose above freezing.
And still the snow fell.
Kattenheim lifted a small black cube in front of his face and looked into the eyes of another man a thousand miles away.
‘Are they dead?’ asked Durell.
Kattenheim watched the corpses slither into the mud. The gaping cavity in Petrinsky’s destroyed face - the now much larger hole where his mouth had been - filled with grey liquid shale and mud that then flooded his eye sockets until he disappeared from sight. Bubbles rose and died. The Range Rover was pushed to the edge of the giant pit and rolled into the rock swamp; steam rising around its metal flanks, it sank like a dying dinosaur. The industrial Grade IV Element was withdrawn; within minutes the Mud Pits would be frozen solid once more, a silent grey graveyard, a sinister hiding place for the murdered - the slain.
‘Dead and buried,’ said Kattenheim softly. ‘Dead and fucking buried.’
Data log #12300
CLASSIFIED SADt/8764/SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT
Data Request 777#12300
QIII
The QuanTech Edition 3 [QIII] Military Cubic Processor
The QIII was the first ever cellular processor - the prototype of a true electronic mind - semi-organic, silicon-based and with a mixture of synthetic substances at its core. Via design modes and mechs, the QIII processor was a totally independent piece of hardware.
Working around a digital model of WorldCode Data, the QuanTech Edition 3 was digitally capable of almost anything. A successor to the all-powerful QuanTech Edition 2 [QII] processor which runs at the heart of various Spiral mainframes across the globe, the QIII was capable and fully compliant with any and all global operating systems - from UNIX to Windows it could decode way beyond current 64- and 128-bit architectures. The QIII was so powerful that it could decode and re-encode DNA in millionths of a second when it would take a conventional computer many hours. The QIII was at least 50,000 times faster than any current processor in development. It was destined to have groundbreaking effects on all aspects of computing, from military applications to world economics.
The pinnacle of the QuanTech 3’s development was the ability to use WorldCode Data combined with probability math - equations allowing it to successfully predict the future in the simulation of any given probable event. This feature was nearly 100% successful and required only occasional calibration.
The QIII was destroyed when a rogue Spiral operative named Durell abused the military processor (and its sub-systems) and attempted to use this all-powerful machine to take over global military systems, financial institutions and satellites, including the highly destructive Russian PredatorSAT modules.
The QIII was destroyed by Spiral operative Cartervb512. All schematics were lost/destroyed. Further development of this kind of mind were subsequently abandoned.
Keyword SEARCH>> QIII, NEX, SAD, SPIRAL_sadt, DURELL, FEUCHTER, Spiral_Q, Spiral_R, SVDENSKA, PAGAN
N
atasha leant on her elbow, staring out at the freshly falling snow. Mountains reared in front of her, grey and jagged rock scattered with ice and forests sprawling across the lower slopes, all viewed through a reality snow-globe that had been freshly shaken. She smiled, her pretty brow creasing slightly, gaze fixing on the dominant pyramidal peak of the Matterhorn and hand moving protectively to her slightly swollen belly where her baby nestled within.
‘I wish you could see the snow and mountains, bubba.’
‘Who are you talking to?’
A hand rested on her shoulder, and Nats turned, smiling up at Carter, who grinned. He was bearing a small silver tray on which were two squat glasses of Lagavulin.
‘Baby.’
‘Ahh,’ nodded Carter with mock understanding cascading across his - some would say brutal - features. ‘Of course - “baby”. How is baby? Is he well?’
‘He?’
‘Just a wild stab in the dark.’
‘Yeah,
she
is well.’
There came a long and comfortable pause. Natasha reached out daintily, took the proffered glass, sipped at the distilled warmth. ‘I love this.’
‘The whisky?’
‘No, this place, the atmosphere. Snow falling gently outside with the Alps nestling in the background; the logs burning on the open fire and filling the room with real heat. The thick carpet between my toes, the glow of candlelight across the perfectly still surface of the whisky ... and you, here by my side, the father of my growing child. Picturesque, eh, Carter?’
‘Hm. How sweet. You’ve been reading that book by bloody Gillian Brewster again, haven’t you? Tsch! Look, did I tell you about the new mod I’ve got for the Browning HiPower 9mm? It’s brilliant, I got it from Simmo down in SP1 stores - a needle clip which slots on the top of the gun and ... and ...’ He saw Natasha’s dark frown.
‘Carter.’ Her voice was low and dangerous.
‘What?’
Her eyes became more focused, her frown more intense.
‘What?’
‘My love, you are
so
romantic. Here we are, holidaying in Switzerland, our very own log cabin within the winter gardens of a five-star hotel overlooking the Zermatter Valley - a honeymoon of sorts for the unmarried ... and you have to talk about your
large weapon
.’
‘It’s always worked for me before.’ Carter grinned, knocking back the Lagavulin and allowing a look of ecstasy to pass across his battered boxer’s features. Carter: ex-military, Spiral operative of the first order; his face had been used too many times to cushion the impact of large men’s fists. But still, thought Natasha as she watched him through the crystal sparkling of Scotland’s finest malt, he
was
handsome - ruggedly handsome ... yes, battered and ruggedly handsome ... yes, beat up, rugged, battered smashed and very definitely ruggedly handsome.
‘Are you
flirting
with me, Mr Carter?’
Carter carefully placed the empty crystal glass down on the marble table top and gave her a fearsome scowl - the scowl that had impaled assassins, the scowl that had felled Nex warriors, the scowl that had detonated entire armies into piles of pulp ... Natasha giggled as he swept her from the low couch with its fur throw-over and lifted her lithe supple form high in the air. He cradled her to him, to his chest, nuzzling her neck, inhaling her scent, prickling his stubble against her short spiked black hair. He could feel her agile limbs beneath the silk kimono, felt the robe writhe across her flesh in an incredibly erotic manner. This sensuous fabric standing between their coupling was far, far more erotic than simple nakedness. Carter’s breathing deepened and he looked into Nat’s mischievous sparkling eyes.
‘You going to come snowboarding with me tomorrow, pixie?’ he whispered, and kissed her full red lips. They were too good to abuse by leaving alone, and both of them enjoyed a languorous kiss that spun from long seconds to minutes ...
Natasha finally pulled away with a pout. ‘You
know
I can’t do anything vigorous; not in my condition. The doctor ordered!’
Carter glanced down at her belly.
‘Nothing vigorous? What a shame.’ He sulked. ‘I had so many fine games planned for you.’ He trod carefully across the plush thick-pile carpet, towards the bedroom and the glow of candles within.
‘Games?’ Natasha seemed to consider this.
‘You remember that DPM commando outfit I bought you?’
‘You mean the peephole one?’
‘Mm.’
There came a long pause.
‘Well ... if I must,’ she murmured huskily as Carter’s size ten military boot kicked the door closed and shut off the candles from the sight of anyone out there in the thickly falling snow.
The happy couple had failed to observe a broad-shouldered figure outside, arms folded across his black-clad chest, his balaclava-masked gaze fixed through the tumbling flakes on the window of the room where seconds earlier Natasha had reclined.
Snow fell.
And in the blink of an eye, the figure was gone.
Carter lay, dozing on the bed, Natasha’s perfect long naked legs languishing beside his sleepy gaze. He moved close, nuzzling her sweet-smelling skin, and she murmured in sleep, rolling away from him and pitilessly stealing the heavy duvet. The room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of candles around the low bed. Carter rolled to his back, then sat up, stomach grumbling from a lifetime of whisky abuse. He popped a tablet, rubbed at his eyes, then picked up the small alloy ECube from the low carved pine table beside the bed.
An ECube was an electronic communications device issued by Spiral - the current model ran a V4.5 ICARUS operating system, sported a 24GHz RISC processor and 512 gigabytes of static RAM. The tiny alloy machine which doubled not only as a GPS but as a link to the massive Spiral CDb (Criminal Database) was completely solid-state, and had many tiny tricks up its little alloy sleeve. Communications, information, weapons system -the ECube was
the
invaluable asset for any Spiral field operative.
Carter grinned, tossing the ECube in his hand like a softball. He squeezed, and the surface came alive with soft blue digits. Reclining, Carter skimmed through recent reports - global activity, criminal, political, social. He yawned, and dropping the ECube beside the bed once more moved to the living quarters of the cabin, running himself a glass of water and standing, naked, staring out at the softly falling snow in the darkness.
It’ll be dawn soon, he realised.
‘Exercise is what you really need
,’ taunted Kade at the back of his mind. ‘
Burn off that puppy fat... show us you’re the real man you pretend to be, fucker.
‘
‘Yeah, yeah - drop dead.’
‘
You wish.
‘
Carter poured himself a second glass of water, then moved to the low pine table and sat, staring at the small flexible GridMap entrusted to him by Jam. ‘Keep that safe for me, fucker,’ Jam had said, grinning over a pint of Guinness.
‘What is it?’
‘A map.’
‘Of what?’
Jam had tapped his nose conspiratorially, giving his cheeky trade-mark grin. ‘Trust me Carter, you do
not
fucking want to know. Just keep it safe. I’ll be back for it soon.’
Carter stared at the GridMap now. On it were markings, coordinates, and tiny tags reading ‘AnComm Post’. Carter had heard a rumour about AnComms, a back-up form of an analogue communication network Spiral were - supposedly - in the process of installing in the event of ECube failure in the future. Of course, Spiral was admitting none of it. The official line was that the ECube was infallible. And if their digital wonder-toy was flawless, then why integrate a back-up system?
Still, Carter toyed with the tiny flexible digital GridMap. What was Jam up to?
Pushing the item to one side, he looked down at his paper notes - notes for his speech which he had been diligently working on. His discarded pencil accused him, and the sheets looked far too blank for his liking.
‘Shit.’
He sipped the water and, taking the pencil, chewed the end thoughtfully as he remembered Natasha’s words -
it’s a huge responsibility, you mustn’t fuck it up for Jam and Nicky ... they have placed their utmost faith in you ...
‘Yeah, right. I wish the bastard had asked Slater instead. I can do without entertaining a bunch of drunken friends and family ... I would die for Jam, but perform his best-man speech?’ Carter realised that he was grumbling to himself, and he forced his mouth to shut. He stared hard at the page, chewing splinters, but inspiration was denied him. He knew that this leisurely atmosphere, this heady relaxation in the mountains should be highly conducive to work and creativity: but the words just would not flow.
He read what he had already written in his untidy pencil scrawl:
The Marriage of Nicky and Jam: Alexander the Great, ruler of the Greek Empire between 336 BC and 323 BC and the only man to ever conquer the exotic continent of Persia, quantified his Royal relationship with the Proletariat as this:
‘It is better to rule by fear than to rule by love. If you rule by love, the people can give it
-
but they can take it away. If you rule by fear, then you can enforce the fear and nobody can take that away from you.’