The Wake Up Call.
(Part 1.08)
Chapter 1.08: Short Curcuit
Inside a chaotic research lab, crouched over a cluttered projection desk sat a long haired, old man in a tatty looking bio-hazard suit. Its material was covered in chemical symbols and smiley-face patches. It was immediately obvious from his appearence and nervous twitch that he was engrosed in his work. In the background the sound from a rack full of military and police communications equipment cluttered the air, weaving its noise filled way through the thick, dusty atmosphere of the lab. The smell of well worn electronic curcuits and junk food was dulled by the sharp stink of ammonia and other chemical cleaning agents. The blackened tiled floor splattered with accidental spillages was crossed every few minutes by a small plate-like droid which traced out the boundaries of the lab. It was a custom-built machine whose purpose was to scan its environment 24 hours a day, checking for intruders and emitting low level ECM pulses to protect its long haired creator from any bugging devices. It was a toy, a joke, a distraction from high stress work, but it was also a useful device which acted like a chrome pet patrolling its territory while its master sat on his throne at the centre. It was a smart piece of thinking. It was a moving target, so it posed a great challenge to any would-be hacker. The constant Doppler sound of its tireless motors gave the man a feeling of paranoid reassurance, like a four-stage pendulum swinging away, along, closer then across, marking out both time and distance with robotic precision.
Through the round window vents and meter thick polarised glass flashes of multi-coloured light randomly peeked inside from the neon advertisement screens which encircled the building like an army under siege, bombarding its intended audience with a frenzy of designer images and sublimbial sounds. Their sweeping holographic beams cut and fragmented by the vents cast disjointed ghost-like pictures inside the lab. Their grainy, low resolution voxels and commerical messages were ignored, beaten by the concentration needed for the electronic surgery which the man was transfixed by. The semi-transparent organic material and electronic mesh of wires were his mechanical pet, his baby, sitting there on the projection desk awaiting to be born, to be switched on, connected and re-booted. His expression shifted from concentration to frustration and then back to confusion at regular intervals.
His burnt and damaged hands were pale and blistered like his face, corroded over many years from the toxic fumes of hazardous material and made worst by air pollution together with burns from faulty electrical devices. Those advertising boards outside and their complex holographic principles which once held his attention as something to hack, were now just a cheap form of free lighting in his cluttered workshop. Their grip on his attention long lost to other more profitable activities like hacking the current batch of security systems in major corporations and then selling thousands of bypass cards, cloning devices and a huge catalog of other hacking goodies from under the counters of his many shops throughout the city. They never worked for more than two months though, security protocols were revised as soon as a break-in was confirmed. Not that he minded this constant upgrade race, it granted him an endless supply of hacking jobs.
BUZZZZZ...
The cheap intercom dragged his mind from his work, and through his microscope-visor perched on the end of his nose he looked towards the cellar door. The bulky door was weighted down by a complex series of beams and locks with reinforced props, bolts, chains and sliding iron blocks. By their appearance it seemed as if it could withstand a nuclear blast, in fact it looked as if one would be needed to open the gigantic structure. Home security was definetly on this guy's mind.... perhaps to the point of paranoia.
Hey, Hey? Anyone there?
said a rough male voice, angry from being forced to wait for a reply.
You, fucking asleep.... or wot?
The man lifted a device from his projection desk and slid it into a deep alloy barrel, then threw a burnt dust sheet over the top of it before switching off the display on the desk's flat screen to conceal the blue prints.
Come on!
The man walked over to the door, but paused every fourth or fifth step to look around, checking that nothing valuable was in sight. He squinted at the cracked green display screen on the cellar door. This ancient security system was covered by the signs of countless repairs during its lifetime and this made it very difficult to see. The green glow from the picture tube lit the man's face as he pushed his eyes closer to the display in order to make out who the visitor was.
Come on, move ya ass!
The monochrome image was filled by the sight of a young, aggressive looking skinhead impatiently peering into the camera and bashing his fist against the door.
BANG!..BANG!..BANG!
Say it!
Oh, come on.. time is money. Can't we just cut this bullshit and open the fucking door?
You know the pre...
...precedure. Yeah, I know.
The skinhead sighed, pushed his forearm against a magnetic plate and waited while the scanning beams of ultra-violet swept across it, examining the skin and interrogating the ID implants under the surface.
Shit. This is worse than visiting day at the detention centre.
he muttered, bored with this time consuming procedure.
BEEP.
Verification complete. Implant cycle Alpha 4A-4B-4C. ID accepted.
The mechanical door releases stirred into life. Their rusty coggs chewed against the cellar door tracks and the air seals hissed as they dispelled their vacuums. The door opened like a giant, iron book and presented its keeper with the sight of a strong, tatooed skinhead holding a heavy coffin-like container which was almost as tall as he was. This wasn't difficult, the skinhead was only 5' 2" at most, and at first sight was almost as wide. His huge, overdeveloped arms were entwined with tatoos and scars. His teeth were decorated with gold and had diamond studs embedded in them. The rings which occupied every finger and thumb on both hands were big, bold and brutal, much like their violent looking owner and could easily be used as crude knuckle-dusters in a fight.
The long haired lab tech-engineer waved the skinhead in and began to walk back to his projection desk, he clearly had something else on his mind, but kept it to himself.
Bring it in.
The skinhead grunted before lifting up the long, heavy coffin-like container and struggled to get it up through the narrow cellar door opening.
Thanks for the help man! It was bad enough getting this fucking thing here.
Drop it down over there, by the crates.
Whats in this shitty thing? Lead or what?
The lab technician emptied the contents of a number of cabinets and placed a large array of weapons, ammo and electronic gadgets onto a double bench.
You still haven't told me why you want this, or whats inside it.
No. I haven't.
replied the technician as he pulled his long hair back away from his face
and tied it in place with a metal crocodile-clip which still had a piece of
red wire soldered to the end.
Do I get three guesses? Or is it double jeopardy?
NO! Look, we don't have time for any bullshit chitter-chatter. Are you carrying?
Yeah, a pistol.
Right, grab all the 'metal' you can carry, including a shit load of ammo.
The skinhead immediately knewn that something big was going down. That large pile of weapons wasn't there for decoration. He picked up an ammo belt and a pump-action 'lock-pick' before filling his combat trouser and coat pockets with some grenades, two knives, a crowbar and a folding claw-ladder. The pockets were very deep, almost down to the knees in both his trousers and coat. Simple, but effective hiding places for carrying weapons of all descriptions.
Grab that medical kit and those transquilizer darts.
Are we going hunting?
The lab technician dragged a bench away from a side wall to reveal a small, dark recess. He reached inside and brought out a black, armoured trench coat, the sort of protection used by covert security forces. The semi-flexible composite plates inside the coat banged against the top of a crate after it was thrown towards the skinhead for him to wear.
Shut up, and suit up. The money-meter is already running on this one.
Oh Shit, not another rush job?
The technician pushed an inhaler up his nose and sucked up the white powder. The effects were instant, his naturally high energy was driven even further skywards.
Ain't it always a rush job? Wanna hit?
The inhaler was offered to the skinhead who shook his tatooed-skull.
Nah. I stim'ed up in the monorail on the way here. Whats with all the
hardware, you planning to start another riot?
the skinhead laughed, but soon stopped when he realised the technician was
st0ne faced, deadly serious.
Forget the silencers, where we're going we'll need fucking ear plugs!
What's the plan?
Rip off some transport and leave it at the back of the Colossus club, then wait for me while I visit the freaks.
The McKaff brothers?
The technician stared at the skinhead with a look of horror mixed with determination. It was clear that he had little choice in the matter.
Shit!
The skinhead picked up another handful of ammo and explosive shells and stuffed them into every empty pocket he could find.
Man, messing with those 3 freaks is a BAD move. How much?
What?
How much are you getting paid? A kilo, or a couple of new implants?
Some prints.
I guess it ain't some kinda of new pop-up toaster design.
These cube blue-prints are 'gel' pure angelic A-1 hardware heaven. I mean these will clean up, big time!
You and your 'gel' schemes. It's a sucker-line... If it is SO gel why aren't the McKaff touching it themselves?
CLICK-HISSS..
The technician injected himself with a modified electronic tagging gun. A tiny lump appeared under the skin behind his ear and the short term communciation device was in place. Its microscopic curcuitry had enough power for a few hours before the capsule dissolved into the bloodstream.
Come on. We've wasted enough time. Wanna sit on your ass and grow old or earn some major stuff?
The skinhead nodded his head in reluctant aggreement. He turned his head so the technician could inject him with a similiar microscopic device. They left the lab through the cellar door before splitting up in the damp, garbage filled corridor and starting to walk in opposite directions.
Just one question.
Yeah?
How many chalk-outlines?
Two. One male, one female.
Any other info you wanna share? Like, are they packing any heat?
Unknown.
Is it a delivery or a take-away?
Take-away, we collect a case and escort it to the McKaff brothers...
The skinhead looked really pissed off at the mention of those three individuals again and he had very good reason. Their reputation alone was enough to collect protection money from the police.
This stinks already. No wonder you keep snorting that white junk up yer nose, I guess to block the smell, right?
Just get to the fucking club, and don't be late! Trust me, it will be pure 'gel' yeah, pure gel man...
With this the technician stormed off down the corridor, leaving the skinhead to curse at himself for being so stupid at getting involved in this plan. He had heard the same reassurances a million times before, usually just before it all went pear-shaped and left him knee deep in corpses with a flashing blue light in the distance.
It better be, else I will gel yer ass!
Hey, keep radio silence until you're at the club.
came the noisy reply from the microscopic radio implant in his neck.
Just, testing the coms... to make sure that this trash works.
replied the skinhead, tapping his finger on the pimple-like bruise where the implant was. He kicked out at a pile of trash which littered his path along the corridor and sent it tumbling along the dirty stone ground. His frustration and violent temper heighted by his recent orders gave his silhouette the brutal quality which it deserved. His outline was consumed by the darkness and his heavy boots stomped their way into silence. Only the cries of the rats, kicked out of the way, gave any indication that someone was in the inky black passageway, and this someone was out for blood.
Two individuals and a metal case were about to recieve a surprise visit from the skinhead and the long haired technician, and it didn't look like it was going to be for a picnic in the park, more like a massacre in the morgue.
To be continued...