The Covert Academy (19 page)

They were on the Academy’s firing range, just a
wide-open space surrounded by solid rock walls and dummy targets set up down range. A table of weaponry sat to one side. The younger students crowded around Casey as he showed them the bulky weapon. The Two-Shot looked like an older sibling of the regular Confederate Stunners. It was a hand-held double barrel cannon. There were protrusions sprouting out of the barrel for cooling units and targeting sensors. Joshua had seen quite enough of it. He hobbled over to the table and poked at the other weapons while Casey fired a few more bursts of the Two-Shot. Ichiro joined him at the weapons table.

‘Familiar with all of these? Ichiro asked. He hefted a Stunner and tried to compare it with a
Two-Shot. Joshua nodded absent-mindedly and sorted through the usual lethal weapons. Handguns, rifles, beamers and rail guns dominated the selection. Most were scavenged from Confederate storehouses, a few assembled here at the Academy from spare parts. Joshua picked up a crossbow and turned it over in his hands. It had an engraving on one side that simply read, “Fletcher C00270”.

‘Where did they find this?’ he asked as he replaced it on the table. Ichiro shrugged.

‘They are not exactly common these days, but we still make good use of them since a crossbow is nice and quiet compared to this lot.’ Ichiro indicated the guns. ‘I think Sarah might have repaired that crossbow herself,’ he added.

Joshua threw him a look. He hadn’t talked to Sarah since they’d returned from the Colonnade. He was still angry with her for dislocating his ankle and stopping him from going back for his sister. She didn’t believe Lucia was really alive. Sarah somehow managed to always assume the worst.

Ichiro knew Joshua still felt sore about the incident. Why had he brought it up? Joshua waited for him to speak as the silence grew uncomfortable. Finally Ichiro broke.

‘I had to get out of the
re,’ he said. ‘Sorry Joshua. It is just... all those people in the pit. I... I could not stand seeing them there.’

Flashes of memory came back to Joshua now. The pit... those millions of people waiting for, what? Death? Why were they there at all? The Confederacy never just wasted resources like that. They had to be going to put th
ose people to some sort of vile use. Maybe Meyrick would know. But how to get him to open up? Joshua needed a “bad cop” to his own “good one”.

He suddenly realised Ichiro was still talking.

‘...when I lost them. I was only five years old. What could I do? I was on my own. That was all I could think about when I saw the pit, and I panicked. I climbed to the roof and dug my way out. Sarah found me there, then she saw you down by the pit.’ Ichiro looked up at Joshua. ‘Hey are you even listening?
Watashi wa watashi no tamashī o unda
,’ he muttered in annoyance.

Joshua hoisted the crossbow over his back and it stuck to the jumpsuit automatically, hanging there like a fridge magnet.

‘Sure you can use it,’ Joshua snapped back to the present, taking a guess at the answer Ichiro expected. He slapped him on the shoulder and trotted off. ‘I, uh... gotta go... place.’

Ichiro watched him run off, the look of frustration on his face relaxing as he saw Joshua turn towards Sarah’s apartment.

Joshua was almost to Sarah’s place when he ran right into her.

‘Just the person I was looking for. I need your help,’ he said.

‘Again?’ Sarah folded her arms. ‘You remember how well it turned out the last time you came to me for help. How’s your ankle?’

‘Hurts like crazy, thanks for asking. The jumpsuit took me off the meds,’ Joshua replied. ‘You can make it up to me right now though. Let’s go talk to Meyrick.’

Sarah looked anything but impressed. ‘This isn’t about your sister again is it? Look, I’m sorry, but she wasn’t even there that day. You have to let this obsession go.’

Joshua did his best to hide a flash of annoyance. ‘It’s not about that, I promise,’ he said. ‘We need to know why the Confederacy was keeping all those people locked up. Even you must see that we have to be prepared for anything. What if they are all indoctrinated suicide bombers? Or infected with a super-virus and let loose on the streets? There are far too many unknowns and I for one want some answers. Now are you with me or not?’

Sarah hesitated. She looked back the way Joshua had come, where students endured patiently while Casey hooted with joy as he fired off rounds of valuable ammunition. It was the same enthusiastic yet childish tactics he’d used to try and squeeze answers out of Meyrick.

Needless to say, it hadn’t worked. Meyrick might be a worm, but he was loyal to the Confederacy. No one had ever had this opportunity before, and Sarah didn’t trust anyone but herself to do it right. She let her breath out, not having realised she was holding it.

‘
Okay. You’re right,’ she conceded. ‘We need to interrogate Meyrick properly. Let’s go, I’ll be your bad cop.’

She flashed a brilliant smile at Joshua and he very nearly forgot about the throbbing pain in his foot.

Brock got up from his computer. He had always preferred using an old-school desktop PC. The surgery needed for an iPC was excruciating, at least that’s what he’d been told. It certainly didn’t look comfortable once it was in an eye socket. The robotic implants seemed to bulge whenever someone flicked their eyes around. It was creepy. He felt like those cyborg people were always watching him. Lately he felt that way all the time. He scratched viscously at the back of his head, drawing blood.

Brock was locked up in an isolated suite of rooms. Not quite a jail cell, he had a wide array of facilities at his disposal – laboratory, recreation room,
and a small bare kitchen that had been stripped of potential weapons. Plus a master bedroom with an en-suite. Nothing fancy, but sufficient for his basic needs and comfortable enough.

The difference was that he was all alone here. He didn’t remember anything before he’d left the Colonnade, but once he had been blindfolded everything had snapped vividly to back to life. He had panicked at first, and tried to run. Being blinded, he hadn’t got far. They tied him down after that. The next thing he knew, he was deposited into these living quarters where he now resided.

Brock wandered the rooms of his new home. He picked up a ball from the rec room and bounced it off the walls, humming to himself. Why should he do anything for these people who had taken him? He didn’t owe them a thing. He had a good job with the Confederacy. He was paid well, and the work was stimulating. Sure he hadn’t had a choice in the matter, and the pressure of constant deadlines was tough, but what job didn’t have its stressful phases?

He bounced the ball and caught it off the wall.
Bounce
,
catch
.

The last project he’d worked on... was for Simeon Warner. He couldn’t remember what the goal was though.
All Brock had been able to think of was a burning desire to find... who? Someone. Dr. Prewett, his old colleague. That was it. Was it? He had been told Prewett had passed away peacefully surrounded by his family. Yet he had this strange feeling he should be looking for him. But that was crazy.

Bounce
,
catch
.
Bounce
,
catch
.

Brock hadn’t seen a soul in weeks. Or was it months? Years? He’d
heard
them though. Voices in his head. Or were they? Perhaps there was a speaker system in his new home that he hadn’t found.

He’d come close to taking a screwdriver to hi
s forehead. It was as if there had been a constant whisper tickling in the back of his mind. But when he had arrived here, wherever here was, the voices had been mercifully silenced.

It had only lasted for a week. One day a voice had boomed throughout his accommodation. Where was it coming from? It seemed to echo in his brain. It had asked him to recreate his program
that interfaced with the bio-ID Prewett had made for General Withers.

Brock had groaned and just tried to ignore it. Was this his imagination playing some cruel trick on him? He’d spent the last six months try
ing to emulate Prewett’s bio-ID, now he was expected to make a new interface, and from what? He had nothing to work with except one lone desktop computer. Impossible.

The voice had said he would be released once he completed the interface.

Yeah, right
, he thought.

Brock felt as
though he had come full circle. He would just repeat past mistakes. So he wouldn’t do it. He refused the voices. They couldn’t make him do anything. They could not. Could not.

Bounce
,
catch
.
Bounce
,
catch
.
Bounce
,
catch
.

The voices kept urging him to work. Ordered him. Bullied him.

Create the interface. Find Prewett. Which was right? What was real? The voices swirled around the room and inside his head.

Brock entered the rec room. He sank against the wall, the bouncing ball forgotten. He cradled himself and shook violently.

Then Dr. Prewett walked in.

This guy is a mess
, thought Prewett. Perhaps avoiding contact had been a mistake. Time for a more direct approach.

‘Heyyy Brock.... How are you doing?’ Prewett approached him as though he was a dangerous animal. He avoided making any sudden moves, trying not to startle him further down into his deranged mindset. ‘Do you remember me? We worked on a few projects together back in the Colonnade labs. Oakman Systems? Bright Tech? Heh, remember that time Ian...’ Dr. Prewett trailed off, the laughter dying on his lips as Brock finally looked up at him.

Brock was visibly shaking and his glasses were fogged. ‘David? Is that you?’ he whimpered.

Prewett was taken aback. So he did remember him. And he’d used his first name. No one
used his first name, how did Brock even know it? Only some of the High Council members knew...

‘Listen to me Brock, this is very important. I need you to make a
nother interface for the General’s bio-ID. You were always the one who liked those stone-age desktop computers, well it turns out you were right. I think the iPCs have been hacked. Not all of them, not yet. But soon enough.’ Prewett gave up the gentle approach, taking Brock by the shoulders and shaking him. ‘Do you hear me?’

That finally got Brock’s attention. He seemed to focus on Prewett for the first time.

‘David, I...’ he shook his head. ‘How can that be? The iPCs would show visible signs if they were being controlled by a third party. That’s how they were originally designed... If an iPC has been hacked it turns red.’ His glasses were still fogged, and he avoided eye contact. He curled up into himself and roughly scratched the back of his head. ‘You look okay to me.’

‘I know,’ Prewett said, nodding. ‘The hacker is limited for now. W
hoever he is, he can’t send it over a wireless signal. Hell I’m not even sure how anyone could even do it over a hard connection. It must be something else...’

‘
Line of sight.’

Prewett sat back and regarded Brock with a keen eye. ‘You know more about this than you’re letting on.’

Bounce
,
catch
. Brock didn’t answer.
Bounce
-

Prewett caught the ball. ‘You did it, didn’t you? You created an alternate bio-ID system.’

Brock began to lose his wits again at those words. He shook his head like a baby and rocked back and forth.

‘It doesn’t matter now. We’re dead. All of us.’ He stared into the middle distance as he said it, as if he could see the impending apocalypse. Prewett slapped him. This was getting out of hand. Soon Brock may never fully be here in the present.

‘Are you the hacker?
Is it a virus? Who
else
did you use it on?’ Prewett’s voice broke in desperation. But Brock stopped shaking. He appeared to become more lucid for a moment. He was confused.

‘Who... who
else? What do you mean...’ The truth finally dawned on Brock. He jumped to his feet, knocking Prewett onto his back in the process. Brock scrambled for the en-suite, knocking over furniture and tripping on the rug in his bedroom, heedless of the damage he left in his wake. Eventually Brock made it to the bathroom mirror, and yanked off his glasses. The eyes staring back at him were as red as the Devil himself. He had iPCs implanted in both eyes. They focussed in different directions, then snapped back too far as if cross-eyed. He had no control over them.

‘No! When did that happen... who?! Oh God, no!’

Tears flying, he beat a fist into the mirror, sending a crack snaking across the length of it. The broken monster that stared back at him held no pity in his eyes. That itchy spot on his head! He felt along the back of his skull, and felt the stitches. Brock tore at the back of his head in a rage. ‘Dammit, goddam it, no!’