Spiral (25 page)

‘Get him inside. In the cool. Now!’

‘What is wrong with him?’ came Gol’s deep rumble.

‘I don’t know. He’s exhausted ... Help him, father. Please help him.’

Gol gestured and the large black men approached, lifting Carter easily and helping him to stumble into the house. ‘I will help him now, but I cannot guarantee what will come later.’

‘You cannot see it?’

‘See what?’ growled the huge man.

‘Can’t see the fucking wood for the trees, father - he is you. He is the
same
as you. You call him an assassin; a destroyer. And what the fuck were you under Spiral? What the hell were you doing in Prague, and Egypt, and later Afghanistan, in the first place? You are like brothers... and you are a fucking
hypocrite
.’

Gol stood for a moment, staring hard at Natasha. She lowered her eyes then, in fear, almost as if reverting to childhood. Distant memories taking over; reflex actions from a lost world. Gol stepped forward, took her in his arms and hugged her, kissing the top of her head. ‘I have missed you, girl. Despite everything I said to you back in London... and the world has moved on since then, the world has changed ... savage events have brought us together. The attempted smashing of Spiral has brought you back to me, hasn’t it, my girl?’

‘Yes.’

Gol lifted Natasha’s head. Wiped tears from her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me for the evil words I spoke? That was not me, Natasha. That was not me... and ... I understand what you are trying to say. About Carter. I understand.’

‘I forgive you,’ she whispered, and hugged the huge man tight. ‘I missed you, father. I have been so alone without you.’

Gol held her close as the sunlight played over the two embracing figures among the orange trees.

Transcript of recent news incident

CodeRed_Z;

unorthodox incident scan 455827

Between 05:00 AM and 05.25 AM (GMT), a variety of high-tech jets and attack helicopters from a range of countries including Germany, Italy, Japan, USA, Norway and Israel crashed in or around their respective countries within a few minutes of one another.

All jets were modern fighters, including MIG24s and newly revealed Comanche NV prototypes. All air vehicles were on practice manoeuvres and all pilots are reported dead.

Prior to crashes, no pilot reported adverse conditions, technical failures or any suspicious factors.

A spokesperson for the US military made this comment: ‘The US is working closely with all other countries who have suffered recent similar tragic events. We are comparing logistical data including weather reports and are also combining retrieval efforts in order to examine black-box recordings. We hope to have answers within the next few days. Terrorist activity has not been ruled out.’>>#

T
he Boeing 747 flashed through the sunlight, engines whining in deceleration. Mountains reared all around, peaks soaring skywards. The Boeing banked and came smoothly down to land amid and seemingly
within
the mountains, suspension dipping as the tyres met with the sand-blown runway, an incredible feat of skill by the pilot.

The plane taxied to a halt and the single emergency vehicle at the rough rocky edges of the runway sat watching lethargically in the heat. A huge black Land Rover rumbled across the hard-packed dust as rusting makeshift steps were laboriously hauled by two heavy-set men and attached to the large plane’s exit hatchway.

The 747’s singular passenger stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He was a large man, his dark hair flecked with grey. His greying beard was neatly trimmed and combed, and he wore an expensive German suit and the finest handcrafted Italian shoes. He carried a small bag in one large hand, and descended the steps with measured care, apparently unaffected by the blast wall of heat that contrasted so dramatically with the coolness of the recently pressurised aeroplane cabin.

‘Count Feuchter, welcome.’ The voice was heavily accented, and Feuchter nodded at the man garbed in desert-combat gear. Feuchter seemed unconcerned that his host carried a black sub-machine gun, its matt surface dull in the sunlight.

The driver of the black Land Rover opened the door and Feuchter climbed into the cool interior. The door clicked solidly shut, shading the occupant from further harassment by the sun. The military-clad man climbed in the opposite side, and within minutes the heavy-duty off-road vehicle was purring and bumping along the primitive runway and out of the tiny desert airport carved from the mountains.

They drove in silence. At first the roads were narrow, dusty, unused. They drove for several hours, down narrow passes and around sharp bends, along roads little more than tracks and crowded by scrub bushes and wild hardy trees, and through explosive-blasted rock canyons, They reached the flatlands, the Land Rover’s heavy tyres humming and bumping, and eventually came to a city. All the while Feuchter sat, perfectly composed, eyes closed, mindset calm.

They passed large tenement blocks, some crumbling and run-down, surrounded by fencing and barbed wire. Children dressed in rags scattered from their path; and then the Land Rover moved out from the suburbs, out into a stretch of dusty rural land that was poorly irrigated, populated by obviously poverty-stricken workers who glanced up as this ridiculously luxurious vehicle - so out of place in this area of Saudi - cruised past. Feuchter forced himself to smile at the contrast. The thought pleased him.

They had to stop once, where a cattle herder had his herd milling in the road. With a wave of apology, the man slowly - painfully slowly - herded the ragged collection of goats and worse-for-wear cows out of the vehicle’s path and Feuchter was on his way without any emotion flickering even for an instant on his neatly barbered face. His dark eyes stared straight ahead.

The Land Rover passed through the suburbs of a tiny town. The low, sand-blown sun-bleached houses were fashioned of brick and stone and breeze-block, many only half-built; chickens skittered, clucking madly, from the vehicle’s path and people turned to stare, shading their eyes from the harshness of the sun.

Feuchter watched, his intelligent eyes twinkling as a man failed miserably to control his three camels and had to sprint after them into the sand and scrub, past rickety rusting corrugated fences and ramshackle boarded huts.

Feuchter finally settled back—

Closed his eyes—

And slept.

They drove for hours.

They passed no more settlements.

The Land Rover rumbled and bumped into the desert on an unnamed road, its destination the middle of nowhere, its purpose unguessable.

Feuchter did not dream. Feuchter never dreamed. To Feuchter, sleep was a pure form of regeneration so close to death that it shared the same stable. And dreams: dreams were something that happened to other people.

‘Sir.’

Feuchter rubbed at his eyes. He felt refreshed. The air-con worked reasonably well. ‘Are we there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Land Rover halted at a high electrified fence. Passes were flashed and armed guards peered into the vehicle’s interior. Then they were allowed through. The Land Rover swept down a long winding concrete road, between two hills of sand and scrub and into a circular depression in the landscape, which housed the single visible storey of the stone, glass and steel complex of Spiral Section Q.

The car was met by a squad of semi-military personnel, heavily armed. Feuchter stepped from the Land Rover and the men saluted him. He smiled in acknowledgement and, with a small entourage, walked through the steel doors that hissed open in response to the group’s proximity.

The interior was cool; controlled. Marble floors stretched away in a huge reception hall; it was almost like a hotel, with low couches and tall potted plants at strategic intervals. A huge reception desk stretched along one wall and glass elevators in clear shafts went down to the carefully temperature- and humidity-controlled depths where the bulk of chip and other hardware production and research was carried out.

Feuchter shook hands with Adams, the Head of Developments.

‘How are you, sir?’

‘Well, considering I was shot recently.’

‘I heard about that, sir. We were all glad to hear of your swift recovery. Was it true that it was an assassination attempt? On you, or your niece?’

Feuchter stared hard at the man, who suddenly went white.

‘I... I... meant...’

‘You will never mention my niece again,’ he said softly.

‘Yes, yes, of course, Count Feuchter.’

‘Explain to me what the communications situation is with our companion Sections.’

‘Since the explosion in London nobody seems to know what is going on. Communications are suspended between many Sections - we tried to find out if you were in London at the time of the explosion, but this information was withheld from us. And considering that the Hub had been destroyed ...’

Feuchter merely nodded, then asked, ‘How successful has the Accelerated Group Phase been?’

‘We have garnered 95% reaction factors.’

‘It needs to be 98%.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Within the next two days.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is there any news on the QIII Proto Schematics?’

‘No, sir. This is still a mystery to us. Mr Durell has called several times, and wants to speak with you upon your return.’

Feuchter left the entourage behind and stepped into the elevator and the welcoming silence. The tube hissed away and carried him down to the lower floor that he occupied alone. He kicked off his shoes, draped his jacket over the back of a low couch and walked past a variety of carvings and statues towards his twenty-foot-long ebony desk. He pulled a fine Cuban cigar - a Vega Robaina Dos Alejandros - from a carved rosewood box, then poured himself a brandy and sat back in his plush leather chair. The comm buzzed.

Feuchter took a long draw from the cigar, enjoying the flavour, which filled his senses with its richness, then hit the button. ‘Yes?’

‘Several things, Feuchter. How long will you need to fully implement the cubic math events?’

‘Two days. It just needs tweaking.’

‘And we will start to see these probability equations emerging?’

‘Yes. I am promised they will work at a 98% rate.’

‘And the world data factors have been implemented? The WorldCode?’

‘I am assured, by my top people, of success. The WorldCode will be able to predict the future, in a fashion. The prediction algorithms have all been implemented.’

‘Good. How are you feeling after tasting the bullet?’

‘I have felt better.’ Feuchter smiled nastily. He stubbed out the cigar, took a sip of brandy and twirled his seat to stare at an extravagant oil-painting representation of the desert of the Empty Quarter; he loved this place, loved the serenity, loved the feeling of culture and history. He could still imagine the ancient armies of Alexander marching over the sand, thirst-dying Macedonian soldiers battling the massive expanses of the Great Sandy Desert and meeting with other armies... armies clashing, battle cries, the clangour of swords, the screams of the dying ...

‘I have some good news for you. This Carter man - he has been located. Tracked. He is presently in Africa - in Kenya, to the south, near the borders of Tanzania. Despite Carter’s best attempts to evade us it would seem that your QUI-based implantations have worked. We tracked him, but his destinations are quite obvious - he would seek to contact Gol, at that fucked-up Spiral outpost I wish I could forget about.’

‘Gol,’ said Feuchter through an exhalation of smoke. ‘There is a name I have not heard for a long time.’

‘I had hoped he had died,’ came the soft voice at the other end of the comm. ‘But then, Carter is almost doing us a favour. They have discovered the location of the schematics. Yes, by an amazing coincidence, it would seem Gol is the man who seeks to create his own version of the QIII processor.’

‘The fool,’ snorted Feuchter. ‘It would take him years!’

‘Yes,’ said Durell, ‘but the fact still remains that he has working knowledge, available technology, and copies of how the QIII operated at a basic machine level. We need those plans - we must either retrieve or destroy them. We can kill two birds with one stone.’

‘How many Nex will you send?’

‘I will send enough,’ said the voice of Durell softly. ‘There cannot be that much resistance; after all, they are only human.’ He laughed softly. ‘The Nex will wipe them out.’

‘Good.’

‘Our time is coming, Feuchter. Can you taste it? Our fucking time is coming and when we have complete control, we will not abuse our power, we will not squander our resources like Spiral has done and let evil men rule the world. We will be just and fair... not weak and spineless ... but to get that far, first there must be mayhem ...’

Dark eyes glittered and there came a pause. A long and thoughtful pause. ‘I have a request,’ said Feuchter eventually. He was still facing the large oil painting that dominated the wall, but something was changing within him, something strange, something acid. Somehow the colours were disappointing to him now; what he craved was reality.

‘And what is that?’ asked Durell.