Warhead (22 page)

‘We here yet?’ hissed Mongrel, opening his eyes a little.

‘Yeah, pussy,’ growled Simmo, scratching at his freshly shaved scalp.

They trod creaking wooden steps and The Priest moved towards the door which led down to the vaults and to the chamber where Rekalavich waited.

Melentei ‘Rek’ Rekalavich stood in the shadows of the vault of The Grey Church, a foul-smelling Bogatiri
papirosi
cigarette in one hand, his Techrim 11mm pistol in the other. He wore a long black coat that came down nearly to his ankles, and simple dark clothing underneath.

Rekalavich, unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed, had aged a million years since the nuclear strike on Moscow five years earlier which had taken his wife Tanya, and his baby girl. His hair, thick, black and lank, now laced with streaks of grey, hung over his collar.

Rekalavich watched as the Nex was gently nudged into the cold stone chamber. Around the outer perimeter squatted the bulky stone coffins of men and women long dead; religious figures whose names were being gradually eroded by the passage of time.

And one day? thought Rekalavich. One day even their names will be gone. Bones crumbled past dust, into an infinity of nothing. Reabsorbed into the world ...

Rekalavich’s brooding eyes surveyed the Nex with utmost suspicion. In the past five years he had sought only to kill... and with each kill he could picture the face of Tanya, vaporised in a nuclear instant. As that copper-eyed gaze met his in the church vault, his finger tightened involuntarily on the Techrim’s trigger through an instinct of pure and simple hatred.

The Priest stepped forward, explaining everything that the Nex had told them back at the warehouse. Rekalavich—whose working knowledge of the SpiralGRID was greater than that of any other man present—simply listened, smoke curling around his dark grey-streaked hair and unshaved sallow features.

As The Priest’s rumbling voice faltered and silence descended, all eyes turned to Rekalavich. When the Russian spoke, his voice had not just a Russian accent but the distinctive burr of the Muscovite. ‘The Nex have excellent technology—we know this. But the one area in which we excel is the polymorphing metals and use of sentient chips to control technology such as the GRID.’ He took a long drag on his
papirosi,
allowing smoke to drift from his nostrils. ‘The map you speak of does exist—a collection of coordinates, data co-ords on the equilibrium of the sideways shift and, ultimately, the equations needed to allow the GRID’s brain to operate across continents. But it also contains Evolution Tek. You heard of that, lad?’

The Nex, standing with hands by his sides, gave a curt nod. The Priest’s eyes narrowed. ‘Explain it to me,’ said Rekalavich.

‘EC—or Evolution Class—is the ability of a metallic object or objects controlled by a sentient brain to have perfect self-sufficiency. When attributed to the chassis involved, whether that be the chassis of a mammoth weblike network like the SpiralGRID, the prototype of an EC VTank, or the chassis of an EC Warhead, it has the ability to accumulate or disseminate its own mass and size dependent on need, using substances in the air, land and sea for the purposes of reconstitution. Is that good enough for you to believe me?’

Rekalavich turned to Mo and gestured with his cigarette. Mo grasped one of the Nex’s arms and guided it back up the steps, away from the Spiral group.

They stood in the cold of the tomb, dancing shadows cast by bare bulbs lying across the sculpted stone walls.

‘Is he right?’ whispered The Priest.

‘He is,’ said the Russian, inhaling deeply on his
papirosi.

‘How could he possibly know this?’

Rekalavich shrugged. ‘Durell has an intricate network of knowledge—and he has the QIV processor. He seems to know everything else about Spiral’s business; why not info on the top-secret Evolution Class? I am only glad he has not discovered the location—yet.’

‘Location? Of the Evolution Warhead?’

Rekalavich nodded.

The Priest frowned. ‘That weapon was never completed.’

‘But it was,’ said the Russian softly.

‘How do you know this?’

‘I helped design and program the sentient core,’ he said.

Mongrel took a step forward, and all eyes swivelled towards him. ‘
Shto
? What you guys talk about? A warhead? A missile built by Spiral using top-class tech?’

‘Yes,’ said The Priest, pulling free his tiny battered Bible and holding it face up in one hand. His stance seemed to relax a little as he gathered strength from his sacred source. ‘I always thought it incomplete. I always thought the
whole technology
incomplete ... the VTanks, the EC Warhead, the whole gamut. But, I suppose, for there to be a working prototype of the SpiralGRID it must surely follow ...’

‘That we completed everything else in the same technology frame,’ said Rekalavich.

‘Can we use this weapon? Against mad
zasranetch
fucker Durell?’ Mongrel’s eyes were suddenly bright—a glint of dawning realisation, a hope that there might be something, no matter how remote, to help dig them from the mammoth pit of despair into which Spiral had fallen.

‘The EC Warhead was completed—just months before Spiral’s demise,’ said Rek. ‘I helped finish the design—and I know that this machine could wreak serious catastrophe upon Durell. It is self-contained and intelligent. If given the correct instructions by a skilled programmer ...’

‘Like you?’ said Mongrel.

’I was a chassis specialist, hence my involvement with the GRID,’ said Rek slowly. ‘There were others who dealt in objective code—target data. But don’t you get your hopes up, my brothers—there are very few alive who even know of the Warhead’s existence, let alone its whereabouts ... Even so, Durell seems to know of this machine’s existence—maybe he has even now discovered the weapon? As we stand here pondering his machinations? Maybe even now he has disabled it... removed any possibility of future discovery?’

‘No,’ said Mongrel, ‘if that fucker found it, he parade it like cheap whore’s prime flapping
pizda
at transvestite party. No, he not got weapon ...’ He turned to The Priest. ‘But we—
we
could search for it, could we not?’

The Priest was deep in thought. ‘But where to start?’ rumbled the huge man. His voice was cold, his eyes dull. It was as if he did not like what he was hearing; as if the emergence of false hope was like a cancer in his soul.

Rek spoke. ‘Recently there was a TV broadcast by HIVE; it spoke of the capture of a Spiral man called Justus. Justus was involved in machine development, in engine codes. He
might
know the whereabouts of the EC Warhead—or at least be a link in the chain to its discovery. If he still lives.’

‘And the Nex have him,’ snorted Simmo in disgust.

The Priest nodded, as a sudden explosion rumbled through the earth and the vault started to shake. The gathered Spiral agents raced up the steps to burst into the main body of the church.

Mo stood with Rogowski, both looking grim-faced and with their weapons trained on the door. The rumbling continued, and outside fire screamed into the sky.

There was an electrified hum which crackled through the air. Suddenly the portal.exit of the SpiralGRID crackled into existence and three Nex leapt through.

‘Impossible!’ growled The Priest. Roxi surged forward with Simmo close behind her and their guns blazed, bullets sending all three Nex crashing to the ground in geysers of gushing crimson.

‘They used the GRID,’ said the informer Nex.

‘They must have the map!’ snarled Rek, hefting his Techrim. ‘The GRID has been compromised!’

The SpiralGRID crackled again as high energies spun around the grey and silver edges of the portal.exit. Everybody could smell the metallic stench of ozone.

‘Out of the doors!’ screamed Simmo, as the Spiral team started to back away from the GRID—once the saviour of the whole of Spiral, now just another redundant piece of technology.
Betraying
technology.

‘The fucking Nex are outside,’ hissed Mo, rubbing sweat from his shaved head and hoisting his sub-machine gun in his huge right fist. ‘They’ve got us trapped.’

Suddenly, a snarl screamed from the portal.exit as something huge, black-armoured and glistening leapt free, long claws scraping against stone and slashing grooves in the ancient wood floor of The Grey Church.

‘What the
fuck
is that?’ breathed Mo.

‘That is a Sleeper,’ said The Priest calmly, stowing away his Bible and pulling free his 9mm Glock. ‘And we are in a lot of trouble.’ As he glanced Heavenwards the portal.exit sent forth another two Sleeper Nex—triangular heads weaving as if searching for a scent, armoured spines bristling as if the creatures were some form of huge wild cat. Outside another explosion rocked the world, making the whole church shudder and sway drunkenly on its teetering foundations.

The Spiral agents aimed their weapons grimly. Mongrel and Simmo, Roxi and Rogowski, Mo and Rekalavich. The Sleeper Nex, claws splintering through the wooden floor, began a wary and calculated advance ...

The Priest drew a wide-bladed black knife with his free hand. ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born ... and a time to die.’ With his pistol spitting fire, The Priest leapt forward to do bloody and righteous battle.

W
ell,’ hissed Sonia, face etched with fear, eyes wide and pale in the gloom of the BMW’s cabin. ‘We’re going to have to fight.’ She cocked her weapon, and sighted through the rear window at the fast-approaching GMC truck ... But before she could fire, bullets slapped along the BMW’s flank, spitting bright sparks, and she ducked low against the back seat. With a deep breath and a silent prayer she levelled the carbine, aimed past the inverted T-sight at the five weaving, roaring GMC targets—and squeezed the weapon’s trigger.

The M24 carbine bucked in Sonia J’s hands like a live creature. Bullets smashed through the BMW’s rear window and left trails of tracer fire through the rain and hail, punching holes up the front grille of the lead GMC truck ...

Grimly, Sonia emptied the full magazine — and watched in confusion as the trucks suddenly fell away, veering to one side and halting in the downpour. They were quickly swallowed by the gloom, dropping away as if falling down a long, narrow shaft.

Sonia tilted her head, confused. She licked her lips as she suddenly realised they were as dry as dust.

‘What happened?’ growled Baze, glancing backwards. ‘Did we stop them?’

‘No,’ said Sonia gently. She put a fresh magazine in her M24. ‘We only fired a few rounds—only had limited impact. We didn’t stop them—they stopped themselves.’

‘Why?’

‘Who knows?’ croaked Sonia. Freezing rain spat through the shattered rear window of the BMW. ‘But we were heavily outgunned and outnumbered. Maybe this was just a gypsy’s warning. A jab to the nose, just to bloody us up a bit.’

‘But that would suggest they know who we are,’ said Baze. Sonia nodded coldly.

‘And if they know who we are ...’

‘Then we are truly compromised.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ growled Baze. He had reduced their speed now that the sudden insanity of the mad chase was over—or postponed, at least. ‘Do you
really
believe that they would simply leave us alone? If they knew who we were? Do you
really
think we would be sitting here discussing the situation? No—we’d be minced dog-meat.’

Sonia sighed. She rubbed at world-weary red-veined eyes. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ she whispered as they drove through the freezing, pounding rain.

The snow fell heavily. Sonia J came awake with a start, feeling groggy, her mouth tasting of sour wine and stale tobacco. The glamour which had made her a media queen of the TV screen seemed like an echo of long, long ago.

The fire was burning low in the high-walled natural-stone hearth, allowing a steady stream of heat to fill her cosy skyscraper apartment in the suburbs of London. She turned dark-ringed eyes to the window. Watched the falling snow.

The dreams had been haunting her for a long time now, making sure she would never forget. There were several different versions, different interweaving variations on the same themes of pain, and horror, and death.

Sonia J was too afraid to go back to sleep. But finally she did, coaxing herself and drifting back in gradual stages as the snow outside continued its descent. She felt the dream creep up on her with the precision of a predator—it curled like smoke chains around her mind and she wanted to scream. But sleep whisked her away, an unwilling passenger, and she could not help herself. She just could not halt the unstoppable nightmare.

The nightmare had replayed itself, a stuttering visual monologue beginning with her miscarriage, the untimely death of her unborn child years ago, and ending with the recent murders by Nex of innocent women and children in the street. And, as Sonia J lay in the darkness, remembering the first joy of pregnancy followed by the bereavement, and the later wholesale devastation and death as the years flowed by, so the tears rolled down her cheeks and soaked into her pillows.

After a while, she rose from her bed and, wearing a thick cotton nightdress, padded to the window. The snow was still falling, huge tumbling flakes. Outside, London had become a ghost town—a desolation blanketed in white.