Quake Page 2

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  SCENE DISSOLVES TO BLACK

  PART ONE

  THE BOOK OF REVELATION

  i see priests, politicians?

  heroes in black plastic body-bags

  under nations’ flags

  i see children pleading with outstretched hands

  drenched in napalm, this is no Vietnam

  i can’t take any more, should we say goodbye?

  how can you justify?

  Blind Curve (Part v. Threshold)

  Fish/Marillion

  CHAPTER 1

  GAME ON

  Austria: 11:48 p.m. [GMT]

  Durell’s dark clawed hands clasped the small and ornately carved silver box tightly, almost reverently, to his chest: as if he carried the container which bore the ashes of God.

  He moved, ghostlike and robed completely in black, down the long, damp stone corridors. He turned at intervals, picking passages through the labyrinth until he came to a small, ice-cold chamber. Despite its simplicity and bareness, there was something special about this place.

  Something almost holy.

  Durell’s boots crunched on sparkling crystals. His breath plumed from the hidden folds of his hood.

  Two men waited patiently. The first was tall and massively thickset^ his hair greying and neatly cropped around a heavy skull. He was hulkingly muscled but his brown-eyed stare was serious and stern, fixed impassively on Durell; and he was as strong as steel.

  In contrast, the second man was considerably slimmer, although he was wide across the shoulders in the manner of an athlete; his eyes were blood red and set in a face that carried heavy, vicious-looking scars. The red eyes themselves were criss-crossed with angry, minute marble-veined lesions - a legacy of an old accident involving alkaline chemical agents and a gang of Colombian drug-purifiers. The man’s vision had been saved by the miracle of nascent nanotechnology and the Avelach. His eyes were now fixed in a permanent and terrible expression of pain - and they throbbed with a burning hot-acid intensity in their sockets. He, too, exuded power but in a different, more subtle, even more terrifying way - and both men nodded as Durell entered, the small intricately fashioned silver box clutched within the cage of his fingers.

  ‘Is it ready?’

  The red-eyed man nodded curtly. Durell stepped forward, and there came a glitter of brightness from within the heavy folds of his clothing. He slid past the two men towards a narrow, tiny corridor. Stooping, he moved into its circular confines.

  They journeyed along the winding passage. It led down.

  And down ...

  After many minutes Durell finally stepped out onto a ledge, his breath catching in his throat with a sibilant hiss. It was terribly cold, at least minus fifty degrees centigrade, and he slipped slightly on the slick wide expanse of perfectly smooth rock. In front of his eyes opened a giant chamber, mammoth in its naturally carved proportions. Behind him his keen hearing detected the footfalls of the other two men.

  The chamber spread out, dimly lit, the rocky walls frost-spattered and glinting, leading out into witch light and going on seemingly for ever. Within the chamber stood men and women - suited in black and grey, masks covering their faces, gloved hands clasping ice-rimed automatic weapons. They stood immobile, insect-like in their poise, waiting.

  Durell exhaled a plume of breath-smoke and smiled.

  ‘Does it please?’ asked the red-eyed man.

  ‘Yes, they are perfect.’

  ‘We have worked hard since you left us,’ said the athletic soldier. His gaze surveyed the masked army and he smiled to himself, the smile playing gently across his iron-hard face. ‘And our forces are still growing at an incredible rate.’

  Durell passed the red-eyed man the small silver box. ‘With the new nano-alterations to the Avelach machine, you should continue your work with more speed.’

  Durell turned to the large bearded man. ‘And you, my oldest comrade. Are you impressed with the scale of your invention? What it has achieved? What it can do?’

  ‘Our invention, surely.’

  ‘Yes,’ purred Durell. ‘Our discovery. Our invention. From so many years ago, when the world seemed so much more - simple.’ He let the word hang against the ice breeze, and then led the way down to the metal steps that spiralled down to the vast chamber itself. The two men followed, cursing as they left strips of skin against the freezing alloy of the staircase’s guard rail.

  Reaching the smooth rock floor, Durell walked among his soldiers, among the Nex, looking up into copper eyes and smiling with a deformed pride from within the hidden folds of the dark robes.

  ‘Have you heard the news regarding our enemies?’ came the voice of the older, grey-bearded man, his words rich and discordant in this place of cold inactivity.

  ‘Yes,’ soothed Durell. He gazed into the distance, past hundreds of Nex. ‘Spiral are fools. They think they have us crushed; they destroyed the QIII processor and thought that they had won the war ... when in fact all they did was delay the battle. So naive of them to think that we had only the QIII to rely on - when in reality the processor was just a tiny slice of the cake. Their arrogance is a crime against all humanity.’

  ‘And Carter? And Jam? And the other DemolSquads?’

  Durell sighed. ‘Thorns in my side,’ he whispered. ‘Carter has disappeared, but I have scouts searching for him. Jam has been targeted.’

  ‘And the other squads? Spiral have been rebuilding their strength hard and fast since our ... assassinations.’

  Durell merely chuckled, breath-wraiths emanating eerily from within his dark hood.

  ‘Do not underestimate Spiral,’ muttered the bearded man in warning.

  ‘Of course I will not underestimate them. But then, in a beautiful and ironic twist of fate, they have misjudged our strength and our aspirations - they are underestimating us. They have misread our intentions and they are arrogant enough to think that they have nearly destroyed the Nex with their pathetic search-and-destroy teams. The fools. Just look around you - look at our superiority!’

  The two men glanced up, at the fifty thousand Nex who were grouped in battalions within the chamber. Their stares met - for the briefest of instants - and something unsaid passed between them. Hurriedly their gazes returned to the dark husk of Durell.

  ‘We are stronger than we have ever been. Yes, they destroyed our mobile station and the QIII processor - but the development files still exist. The schematics still exist. It has merely cost us time ... and in that time we have developed another weapon which should level the playing field somewhat.’

  ‘May I ask you about the ScorpNex?’

  ‘The ScorpNex,’ said Durell softly, his voice low and menacing, ‘was an accident. We have attempted to replicate the procedures that led to its creation and distortion, but each time the subject dies on the slab. If we could find the correct sequence and inhibitors we could build a superior Nex - but that is a problem for another day. Let me show you what the ScorpNex can achieve ... Kattenheim?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Our new companion needs a demonstration.’

  They moved amongst the ranks of silent Nex - scouts, warriors and the elite assassin Nex5 - until they came to a small clearing among them. All around Durell and his two companions silent, immobile copper eyes watched without a flicker of emotion; the only indications of life were tiny trails of breath drifting from chilled lips.

  Durell turned to Kattenheim and smiled. The lithe man with the scarred face and blood-red eyes nodded once and shouted in a language unknown to the older grey-bearded man.

  Movement from the massive chamber made the large man look up, and he watched in horror as a huge figure lumbered into view. Its skin was jet black, chitinous and threaded with strands of raw pink; disjointed jaws drooled thick saliva from a face that was twis
ted in eternal pain.

  ‘The ScorpNex,’ said Kattenheim softly. ‘Our new and ... accidental breed.’ He laughed softly. ‘Let us say he is one of a kind.’

  ‘Watch,’ hissed Durell softly.

  Kattenheim gave another call and into the circle came three Nex warriors, their movements perfect and smooth, their copper-eyed stares fixed on the huge ScorpNex and then turning questioningly to Durell and Kattenheim. Kattenheim smiled at the Nex, and gestured towards the massive deformed figure of the ScorpNex.

  ‘Kill it,’ he said.

  The Nex rolled, spreading out with perfect timing and unnatural fluidity.

  The ScorpNex turned, folding its arms, talons slicing its own skin and allowing soft droplets of blood to fall sparkling through the icy air ...

  The Nex circled warily, then attacked as a single unit from three different directions, leaping forward with slim black knives extended. The ScorpNex swayed, smashed blows left and right, then backed away a step as a blade whistled past, a single millimetre from its face. Its taloned fist punched out, skewering a Nex and dragging free a squirming blood-gleaming spinal column. The Nex hit the ground screaming a shrill high-pitched scream as the ScorpNex tensed and attacked, blows raining thick and fast. Within five seconds all three Nex were dead, torn and shredded on the smooth rock floor, blood running into kill channels carved three thousands years ago into the ancient rock.

  The ScorpNex folded its thick muscled arms and waited once more, covered in gore and gleaming under the soft light.

  ‘Superb,’ sighed Durell.

  Blood was trickling, pooling into the stone channels.

  ‘The ScorpNex is much improved,’ said Kattenheim.

  ‘Improved?’ asked the grey-bearded man, kicking free a lump of meat from his boot in distaste. He stared at the huge figure as it twisted and hissed in front of him. ‘This thing is improved?’

  ‘It is fast, and it is deadly,’ said Kattenheim. ‘But the coding is still far from perfect and needs an increase in conversion timings. And, of course, we need to master the sequence…’

  ‘Another problem for another day,’ said Durell. ‘What matters now are the QEngines, the Foundation Stones ... and the QHub - and their ultimate integration into the world as we know it.’

  The large man with the grey beard frowned. ‘QEngine? ... I don’t understand,’ he said softly, bewildered by what he had just seen.

  Durell’s thin black clawed arm reached out and touched the man, almost tenderly. ‘You have been asleep for a long time,’ said Durell softly. ‘You have much to catch up on, much to learn. And then I will show you the QHub and the things it can achieve ... it will be like the old days, my friend: we will be masters and Spiral will be destroyed. The chaos of the Old God must reign fire from Heaven - before we can turn this world into the Eden we desire! Into the New World. Into Paradise!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gol, nodding softly, rubbing at his greying beard. ‘I have been gone for far too long; there is much still for me to learn.’

  Northern Siberia: 05:10 a.m. [GMT]

  One Week Later

  The dawn wind howled and cavorted, kicking up flurries of snow and tearing across the harsh icy landscape, flowing and whirling towards the low darkened brow of the tree line that sported tangled webs of branches and glinting daggers of sculpted snow.

  The derrick stood, ominous in its framing obsidian, rigid and stonelike, a golem sentinel staring forlornly over the snow fields. This mighty behemoth guarded the precious drill string, the casings and collar, and the immensely strong titanium-carbide-VII drill bit.

  Movement stirred within a lattice of timber, and a figure wrapped in thick furs moved slowly in heavy creaking oil-stained boots across the high wooden balcony built into the derrick. He lifted dDi binoculars to cold grey eyes that peered out above an ice-speckled bushy beard. A freezing wind blew, cutting through his clothing and biting at his skin with diamond teeth. He shivered, and longed for a large mug of hot coffee spiced with brandy.

  A black Range Rover was moving, slicing the landscape in two with its distinctive 4X4 trail, exhausts pluming, engine a distant low growl as snow chains tore the ice. Lights glittered like jewels through the gloom. Gradually it drew closer, and the fur-clad guard reached out to hit a small digital buzzer that sounded muffled down below, off towards the trees where snow-encumbered huts and cabins lay under a smothering of snow.

  The guard watched figures stirring, and his eyes flickered, darting from the cabins where the workforce was waking from sex-filled dreams and involuntary erections to the large and richly adorned HQ constructed from hardwood and flown to this prospective LVA site by Chinook. He reached down, picked up a Barrett IV sniper rifle with a digital sight, and settled into position against the rough timber railing. The Range Rover looked delectable in the digitally enhancing sights, a soft doe ready for violent slaughter. So easy, thought the guard in idleness. Bang! Dead. He smiled and unscrewed the cap on his vodka canteen.

  Below, the door to the HQ opened and a broad-shouldered man stepped through, clad in a long black leather coat, stamping his boots against the snow and looking up towards the rapidly approaching vehicle. He wore his blond hair shaved to the scalp, a style which only emphasised his heavily scarred face and head.

  Kattenheim’s gaze was wide as he stamped his boots, shrugging off the ice-chill that tore at his skin, ignoring the ever-present pain in his eyes - as he always did and would always have to. He walked forward, his hands deep in his pockets, and stood, legs apart, his stance arrogant, eyes fixed.

  The Range Rover came to a halt and the engine died. Plumes of exhaust smoke dwindled as doors opened, and five men with experience-lined brows and aged faces climbed down, slamming doors and approaching the man with the red eyes.

  ‘You Kattenheim?’

  The man in the leather coat nodded, slowly.

  ‘We are the LVA Fuel Inspectors, TF Division, and we are currently responsible for Siberia and neighbouring states. I am sure that you have heard of us? Here are our papers ...’ A sheaf was presented, tattered and coffee-stained, curled at the corners. ‘We have permission and directives from Director-General Oppenhauer, Commissioner for the Fuel Inspectorate of Eastern Europe, to inspect this facility and work out sequential plans for the eventuality of LVA discovery. My name is Petrinsky.’

  Kattenheim reached out and took the papers, but he did not look at them, instead meeting Petrinsky’s gaze. ‘Oppenhauer exceeds himself with his timing, for only yesterday we were fortunate enough to hit a lode of LVA which would seem very promising. We are just determining its environmental boundaries, and currently await instructions from our science lab on the best methods for extraction, and for the return of our exterior seismic trucks. Anyway, gentlemen, I am being somewhat rude. It is uncouth to speak like this in the snow. Please, follow me.’

  Kattenheim’s voice was curiously soft, a gentle low-level growl, and turning on the heel of one boot he led the group of Inspectors to the low steps of the raised hardwood cabin, up the steps and into the luxury of ice oasis within.

  Out of the cold, Kattenheim removed his gloves and looked the men over, especially the one who had presented himself as Petrinsky. They were veterans, he could see that immediately, and probably as adept with machine guns as with diplomacy. They carried themselves well - ex-military of some sort drafted in to do what was an increasingly unpopular job - and Kattenheim searched the nuances of the leader’s name and accent for hint of his origins; Russian, he finally confirmed, probably St Petersburg, but laced with a myriad of other inflections which suggested a lifetime of travel ... either travel, or covert operations, around the globe. And now? Why employ ex-military men as Inspectors? Was the Fuel Inspectorate suspicious? Was the job that fucking dangerous?

  ‘I will allow you a little time to compose yourselves, and then I will guide you around the complex myself. Please, make yourselves at home. There is vodka and brandy in the silver cabinet over there.’

  ‘As you
wish.’

  Their gazes met, and Kattenheim smiled again, a slow feline smile without humour. ‘Please excuse me.’ He gave a brief bow and left the cabin, stepping once more back into the snow, his glance taking in the snipers at the tree line. He gave them a nod, and watched as they melted into the early-morning gloom.

  Bright winter sunshine illuminated the scene, but was soon obscured behind threatening dark clouds. The LVA explorers had gone to work, and the titanium-carbide-VII drill was spinning slowly, searching the depths of the lode rock via its vanguard of diamond drill casings. The distant diesel engines rumbled, their power translated through the turntable at the base of the derrick, and large groups of engineers stood in and around the turntable near the blow-out preventer. The generators hummed through the gloom.

  ‘What depth is this newly discovered LVA lode?’

  ‘Eight kilometres.’

  Petrinsky whistled softly, and turned to the other men; they scribbled on DigitalPads. Kattenheim’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced left, past the huge spinning bulk of the titanium-VII drill to where the glistening black pumps waited for the removal of the derrick and their subsequent integration into the LVA extraction process.

  The drill ceased; steam hissed from pipes as core samples were extracted and gas sensors were lowered down the carrier stem into the heart of this new breach in the Earth.

  ‘We will have to carry out digital stability checks,’ Kattenheim heard one of the men say over the noise. ‘There must be some fucking pressure in that drill - I mean, look at the size of it! It must be ten times the size of a conventional oil drill ... I suggest we close down the machines and reconvene in two weeks’ time with the council, then decide upon ...’

  The other Inspectors were nodding.

  Snow started to fall from the heavy broiling clouds.