Dream Drive Ch. 07

"Our lives are more important."

"Emil would stake his life on this," Julia said. "We have to do the same."

The warehouse rattled. The overhead lights swayed. Iron support beams further up groaned. Everyone glanced up, as if afraid the ceiling would come crashing down on them.

"With all due respect to Mr. Mohammed," Dennis said, looking back at Julia, "I don't care if he thinks Isis will bring the second coming. I don't know what bullshit charges they concocted so the government would let them turn this place into a warzone, but if they get down here, and we resist, they will kill us. Mr. Mohammed hired me because I have experience with physical hostile takeovers. Well, this is experience talking at you. It's time to yield."

"You think this is a takeover?" Julia asked.

"What else could it be?" Dennis said. "The government doesn't give a damn about our money. They already tax half of it anyway."

Money? That made no sense. They were dealing with an entity that had contacts in the government and small-scale military capabilities. They already had money. They had to be here about Isis. But who could know about it?

Only 16 people -- the finalists of the Top Gamer competition. But Emil had been more than confident that none of them would say a word. According to him, they'd be too busy playing the game, and they'd want to keep their amazement -- and revelations -- to themselves, at least at first. Gamers were planners and introverts. She felt he was more or less right on that account.

But then, who?

The dots inside Julia's head suddenly connected themselves. She brought a hand to her forehead and inhaled. It was right there the whole time.

"What?" Carl asked. "What is it?"

"Ransfeld," she said. "Ransfeld Security. They've got the connections to law enforcement. There was that phone call last week. Charles Ransfeld knows about Isis."

"Alright, that's good," Dennis said. "If he's after the game itself, we need every bargaining chip we can get." He paused for a moment. "What the hell does Charles Ransfeld want with a video game?"

Julia put her hands behind her back and began to pace. There wouldn't be any bargaining with Ransfeld International. They would be sucked dry of anything of any value. The stain of the situation would be wiped clean on the back of the criminal charges. They would purge any incriminating information, replace the surveillance feeds with their own doctored videos, and make it look like Crux had fired first.

Julia checked her tablet. They were still cut off from the public networks. There was nothing they could do to get the real story out while it was intact.

She rubbed the back of her hand through her gloves. Isis could not be compromised. She had to get the cartridges out. If worst came to worst, she'd have to destroy them.

"Load the VTOLs up with the crates," Julia said.

"They'll be shot down," Dennis said.

"Load them up."

"I'm not risking any of my people on that."

"I'll drive one," Julia said. "I'll set the rest on autopilot."

"Then they'll definitely be shot down," Dennis said. "Computers are better at predicting other computers than people. Miss Fredrick --"

"I don't have the time to explain to you how important this is. It's more important than my life. That's enough."

"Julia," Dennis said, "what you're suggesting is suicide."

There was another explosion. Dust rained from the ceiling of the warehouse. Half the room went dark; a power line had been damaged somewhere.

"Whatever we're going to do," Carl said, "can we please do it?!"

"I'm loading the VTOLs," Julia said. "Dennis, get some of your men to help. Now."

Julia marched toward the row of miniature jets and grabbed a crate from the back of the truck. She hauled it to the first VTOL, propped the box on a knee, then slammed the button on the side, opening the back hatch. There was a pneumatic hiss as it lifted into the air; she unceremoniously dumped the box inside.

She was coming back with her second box when Dennis finally got around to shouting some orders. She let herself be swept aside in exchange for the muscle power of a dozen burly security guards. With that many people, the unloading of the truck took less than a minute; boxes of Dream Drive cartridges weren't the heaviest things in the world to transport.

There was a sound like something striking a metal drum. Everyone looked at the entrance of the warehouse. The steel door was dented. Another blow came; the bars holding it in place bucked inward.

"Shit," Dennis said.

"All of you surrender," Julia said. "I won't have anyone here getting killed."

"What about you?" Carl asked. "Are you seriously going out there?"

"Let's hope it goes better than that," Julia said. She opened the cockpit of the first VTOL and climbed up into the seat.

Dennis caught the hatch with his hand before she could close it. "If you go out there, you are going to die."

"If even one makes it past them, it's worth it," Julia said. "Open the door."

"I can't let you do this. We can just set them all on autopilot."

Julia dragged the hatch shut and hit the lock. Dennis grabbed at the handle and tried to force it open. She hit the ignition; Dennis was forced to back off as the VTOL's twin engines roared, blasting a wave of hot air off the warehouse floor. She let it hover a few feet off the ground, stopping him from making another attempt.

She felt bad, but he didn't -- couldn't -- know that she was just as valuable as the cartridges. She had to escape alongside them.

Julia used her tablet to access the controls for the other VTOLs; a few seconds in the menus gave them all disjointed flight paths toward the distribution center. It was about 100 miles away, which would take less than 20 minutes at cruising speed. Once the crates were delivered, the US automated mailing infrastructure would kick in, and they'd be nearly impossible to track down.

The hidden back door began to open. Clumps of dirt and a few weeds dropped down into the warehouse as the wall slid apart to reveal the night sky. There was a rusty shriek as it widened; they'd never used the thing before. Oiling it had not been a priority.

An explosion made her aircraft rock. She tapped the button for the rear-view camera. It bleeped on next to her main console.

The basement door had been blown open. It fell to the concrete, twisted and smoking.

A mech launched itself through the opening, followed by five foot soldiers in black armor. Julia's own troops dropped their weapons and put their hands up. The armor suit swept its sights around the warehouse as more men and another mech moved in behind it. Its weapon stopped in the direction of the fleet beginning to take off.

The mech's rifle fired, though the sound was more like a grenade going off next to her ear. The round ripped through the engine of a VOTL on the far left. It slammed back down into the ground and started spinning in circles. Another shot felled another VTOL.

Julia gunned her craft out of the half-opened doors. She yanked on the controls, banking tightly. She was almost thrown out of her seat -- she hadn't strapped herself down -- but she made it through the gap. The automated VTOLS shot out behind her, one at a time, but not before the mech took down another three.

She and her dozen or so automated wingmen flew out into the night, away from the skyscraper and over the Brandywine. As she cleared the trees on the other side, she glanced into the rear camera again. Her eyes widened.

Crux headquarters was on fire. Crews of firemen up on ladders were desperately trying to put out an inferno on the fourth floor. The building sported multiple holes, and the front entrance was a shredded ruin of weapon-blasted craters. A tanker helicopter was moving in to dump water on a smoking portion of the tower on the opposite side.

Julia's fleet left the creek behind and sped low over the houses of suburban Wilmington. The police VTOLs were turning to follow, but she had the jump on them, and Emil hadn't skimped. She could outrun even a police-modified Skyhawk.

Julia moved to set her own craft to autopilot -- at the highest speed setting -- but she stopped. She glanced at the VTOLs flying to her left and right. She'd told them to take different paths, but they were sticking close together, trailing her almost in a flying-V formation. She must have made a mistake.

First things first. She hit the autopilot button.

An error tone played from the console. Autopilot already engaged. Julia smacked the button again. The same error popped up, again and again. She tried the controls -- nothing happened.

She was being hacked.

Julia tore off a panel that made for the jet's would-be glove compartment. She pulled the green lever inside, manually disconnecting her plane's wireless network connection to public transport systems. The craft shuddered, listed to the left, then rebalanced as she took the controls in hand. That was a close one.

Immediately, the jets on either side of her came together, sandwiching her in with a nasty crunch. She jerked the controls left and right. Steel grated on steel; her engines whined, but she couldn't shake free.

The momentary sense of relief was replaced by panic. She had regained control over her own craft, but every other VTOL had been compromised. She was surrounded by a swarm of enemy drones of her own making.

There was no way they could have hacked Crux security that quickly. Julia pulled the controls as hard as she could while flailing her tail flap, trying to whip herself free, even if it meant snapping out of control. The VTOLS pinning her in compensated for every movement as soon as she made it, keeping her firmly caged.

That kind of coordination was impossible.

Another VTOL dropped onto her from above; and then another steered in front of her and raised its flaps, braking. She was crushed from all sides but behind and below. She tried to cut her speed, but they were too entangled. They forced her closer and closer to the ground, all the while slowing. They didn't want to smash her into the ground -- they wanted to pin her down.

Julia flicked on the afterburners. The engines whined and flared; the jet rattled, but didn't budge. She was brought to a halt in midair, and then pressed into the ground.

She didn't extend her landing gear; her fuselage mashed into the street. The other VTOLs dogpiled her as soon as she was still, cutting off any slim hope of trying to break away.

And then, it was quiet. The VTOLs turned their engines off. They didn't need to stay on. She was buried in a mound of miniature airplanes.

Julia glanced up at her essence bar.

She only had 50 essence. It would have to be enough.

Killing small animals wasn't a very efficient collection method. Emil hadn't wanted her exploring Isis. Leave that to the gamers. Why he trusted them farther than he could throw them was beyond her.

She heard the roar of another plane. That would be Ransfeld catching up to her.

If the cartridges fell into their possession, the consequences would be catastrophic. But if they had her -- if they could pick her brain for what she knew -- it would be that much worse. There was having a military-grade hypersonic jet, and then there was knowing how to pilot it. She could not be captured.

She slapped her gloves against the top of the cockpit and called on her essence. Her hands glowed white. Her Double-Palm Strike released in a shockwave of white light and magical pressure, destroying the hatch and shifting the VTOLs on top of her. Her bar dipped by 20 points.

Julia dragged herself through the jagged hole she'd made in the clear plastic hatch and climbed out of the pile. She poked her head up into the night and dragged in a breath. That promptly set her coughing -- the air around the jets reeked of fuel and exhaust.

A hand wrapped itself around her neck.

Julia was lifted up into the air. Her throat clenched up; her hands automatically grasped the arm that was holding her, trying to take the strain off her spine. Her eyes felt like they were being pressed out of her skull.

A woman was holding her. Her skin was pale. Her hair was so black Julia couldn't tell it from the night. Her eyes and her face were emotionless. She looked like death.

Julia's hands glowed white as she called up another skill.

The woman's free hand sparked with something blue, and then it slammed into Julia's midsection. Julia felt her muscles spasm; her heart skipped a beat. Her mind went blank.

****

Five hours later, it was sunrise. Charles had slept in fits and starts on the flight back to Boston, but he was too wired and tense to really get a deep sleep. It was unlike him.

In the bowels of Ransfeld general, in their most secure storage room underneath the drug research laboratory -- which usually held the ongoing prototypes and results of said research - he sat at a simple steel table. On the table was a grey helmet, a Dream Drive, and next to the helmet was a small square data chip, matte black. In red, in a sort of flared, drawn-on font, was an inverted red pentagram, and the word Isis, in cursive.

Behind Charles were 1,053 Isis data chips, tucked securely in their boxes.

Charles searched the chip with his eyes, as if he could discern something vital by staring at it long enough.

This was the source of Rachel's disappearance. This was the source of Gary's semi-invulnerability, and his strange powers. It was either some kind of horrible curse, or the power to change the world.

Or both. Charles smiled to himself. Things that could change the world were usually rather terrible in nature.

The door to the room opened. There were three men accompanying Mivra: the aged, hobbling Miller; Steinson, now a chief officer of Charles's security team; and a third man, Dr. Andrew Hepburn.

Hepburn was a serious looking man in his forties, sporting old-fashioned bifocals and a sharply-trimmed black goatee. He had been rapidly promoted to head of research and development following Dr. Chi's sudden and unfortunate accident. He looked like a well-styled toothpick, standing next to the massive Steinson, but he was an excellent scientist.

"So," Hepburn said. "This is the game." The small room had little echo; his voice fell flat.

Charles smiled slightly. "The very one. You are now one of, oh, twelve people...?"

"14," Mivra said.

"14, people that are aware of precisely what this is." Charles folded his hands together on the table. "So, gentlemen, and lady. Recommendations?"

"The device should be carefully sequestered and studied further," Mivra said.

"For once, I agree with the robot," Miller croaked. "We just captured fire with our bare hands. Let's not run a victory lap."

"We should use it," Steinson said.

"What?" Miller asked. "Are you insane?"

"Look," Steinson said, "you know why Morgan was the only one I brought in for questioning? He was the only one I could find. That competition had 16 people that got an early beta copy. We've got people in this alternate universe -- wherever the fuck it is -- running around and turning into superhumans. You gotta fight fire with fire."

"You throw my own words at me," Miller said. "It's much too dangerous. We already proved bullets will still kill them."

"That's beside the point," Steinson said. "You read the intelligence we got from Morgan. They can improve themselves. What happens when the one autist throws everything into his health? When it takes a whole armory just to down one of these people? They've been in the game for over a week."

"Calm down," Charles said. "They can't improve that quickly. Otherwise, Jackson wouldn't have just run away when I sent the police after him."

"Maybe so," Steinson said. "But every second we spend talking about it, we're falling behind."

Charles had already made up his mind about what to do -- asking them their opinions was a formality designed to make them feel as though they were contributing. But Steinson's argument was compelling. It reminded Charles of their prosthetic development cycle -- it was always a fight to keep your head above water, above the pace of the competition.

"I agree with Steinson," Dr. Hepburn said.

"You too?" Miller asked. "I thought a scientist, of all people, would see reason."

"I am seeing reason," Hepburn said. "It's not just the quarter-finalists that got a copy. 4,000 of these things are out there. We're trying to compile the addresses..." He took a quick glance at Mivra.

"Gaining access to government-protected delivery information is difficult," she said. "We risk exposure."

"There you have it," Hepburn said. "We can't rely on being able to isolate all of them. We have to think long-term."

"Go on," Charles said.

"Let's say this thing starts spitting out supermen left and right," Hepburn said. "We're talking about world-changing repercussions. Can you imagine what this will do to the war with the BLOC? To society? But right now, we have a huge advantage, and that's organization. If we can equip and train our personnel with Isis chips, the sky's the limit. We have the resources and the means to do so. The beta testers -- the gamers -- they're still one-man teams. They'll have no idea what to do. Some will die. Some of them will do something stupid and out themselves. The majority will probably keep it quiet until they have a better grasp of the situation. But we had Morgan, and now we have Fredrick, once she wakes up. And once she talks, we'll get to the bottom of this and find Emil Mohammed."

"How exactly do you suggest we train men with Isis chips?" Miller said. "Men are loyal to money and power. When they have too much power, they have no need for money. There's no way to keep that kind of military in check without some kind of discipline, some sort of control method. How do you propose to leash your little army or ubermensch?"

Hepburn frowned, but didn't respond. Steinson opened his mouth and raised a finger, but he faltered. His hand dropped.

"Mivra," Charles said, "what do you make of this?" He slid the chip to her across the table.

Mivra picked up the data chip. She brought it close to her face and turned it over, examining it from all angles. To Charles's surprise, she sniffed it.

"This is blood," Mivra said. "Human blood."

"The writing?" Hepburn asked.

"Correct."

"Steinson," Charles said, "grab a box. Mivra, check the others."

Steinson hauled a carton up to the table. Mivra flipped it open. The black cartridges were packed in layers; a thin film of Styrofoam provided padding for each one. Mivra tested several of the cartridges.

"They're all blood," she confirmed. She extended her index finger. A small metal wire protruded from the tip. She scraped the top of a cartridge, then withdrew the wire. She repeated the process for several of the chips.

"Well?" Charles said.

"Sequencing," Mivra said. "A few more seconds." She stood silently, then spoke again. "The DNA from all the samples matches. Someone used their blood to make all of these."

"Emil Mohammed?" Charles asked.

"Possibly," Mivra said. "Note subtle differences in the lettering and the pentagram. It is likely that they were all drawn by hand."

"Jesus," Steinson said. "What did the guy do, finger-paint them all with his blood for five years?"

Charles refreshed his smile. "What if he did?"

Miller slapped a hand to the table. "Why?" he asked them. "What the hell is he trying to accomplish? How did he do this? None of it makes sense."

"Until we get answers from Fredrick, we can only speculate."

The group fell silent. Miller stood straight again -- or as straight as his hunched back would let him stand. Hepburn fiddled with his glasses. Steinson had his arms folded, his face deep in thought.