Deus Ex - Icarus Effect (27 page)

intimidation.

Saxon felt betrayed. The mission of the Tyrants, the reason he had allowed himself to be recruited by Namir, was a lie. The faceless men of the

group giving the orders were not using them to help maintain global stability—they were using them as enforcers, eradicating anyone who

might prove dangerous to them, killing or intimidating all across the planet.

He picked a handful of files at random and opened them. June SellersDepartment of Homeland Security—terminated; Donald Teague,

advisory staffer on the United Nations science council—terminated; Martine Delancourt, founder of the French Bioethics Association—

terminated; Garrett Dansky, CEO of Cadin Global—terminated; Ryu Takahanada, cybernetics research scientist at Isolay—terminated ...

The list went on and on, and among it all, Saxon found the data on the men he had surveilled in Glasgow and Bucharest; one was a technology

researcher on the payroll of the British government, the other a politician. Both files had additional information beyond what he had turned

over to Namir; there were still images, digital shots of a body in an alleyway, throat slit and pale, another of a car on fire. Neither man had been

a criminal, but clearly, someone had considered them a threat. Now they were both dead. Both killed by the Tyrants. He saw expedited code

tags on the files, bearing the idents "Green" and "Red." Scott Hardesty. Yelena Federova.

Saxon closed the files and sat in the dimness and silence, musing on what he had seen, silently cursing his own stupidity. At first, he hadn't

wanted to think too hard about what he was doing, about what the meaning of the Tyrants might be. It was only as time had passed that the

nagging disquiet in the back of his thoughts had grown to a ceaseless churn—and now that he had an idea of the truth, it made his blood run

cold. He thought about Janus's repeated question, and nodded grimly. Do you know what master you serve? He was beginning to build a

picture, and he didn't like what he saw. This was what the Tyrants did. This is who they were, and he was a part of it.

With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone, Saxon brought up a search function and keyed in the phrase "killing floor."

He wasn't sure what he had expected to see—the name drew up ideas of some kind of arena, perhaps something like the fight room in Namir's

home. Why the members of Juggernaut were so eager to find it was beyond him; but instead of opening a file, the computer showed a new set

of data panes. It took Saxon a few seconds to realize what he was seeing; the console launched an interface protocol via an encrypted tight

beam signal to an orbiting communications satellite, and then on into the global web of data net connections.

On the screen, the Killing Floor unfolded; a virtual space existing in a realm of pure information. Shielded by layers of smart attack barrier

programs, firewalls, and baffles, the non-place was a shifting island in a sea of data. Program nodes contained files at levels of encryption so

powerful that the console read them as impregnable, spiked spheres—but there were other panels of text that were clearly visible, doubtless

open for Namir or anyone with the same access level. Saxon read them, but in isolation there was little he could glean. He saw references to

Federova's current mission, to the "primary target" Namir had mentioned in passing—but who or where that person was did not make itself

clear. He frowned, activating the vu-phone's wireless link, starting the process to copy the contact protocols from the jet's mainframe.

It was clear that the Killing Floor had no true physical reality to it; it was a synthetic server construct, a clever agglomeration of computer

programs moving through the data net in a chaotic, unpredictable pattern that no outsider, no hacker, could ever hope to calculate. Without the

locational key to gain access, there was no other way in—how could you break into a fortress you couldn't find? It was an encrypted virtual

space, reachable in seconds from any location on earth if one was granted clearance, a place where the group could exchange target information

with the Tyrants without fear of ever being overheard. It was the digital equivalent of a piece of espionage tradecraft over a hundred years old

—the "dead drop."

The vu-phone chimed, signaling the conclusion of the data transfer. Saxon wasn't willing to risk using the device to contact Janus, not yet at

least. After they landed in Europe, maybe then ... But before that, there was still one more thing he had to do.

He entered two words into the search protocol and waited. Instantly, a file tagged with numerous security flags unfolded before him. There, laid

out in stark text, in emotionless, clipped terms, was the reality of what had happened during Operation Rainbird. A dark, fearful impulse made

Saxon hesitate; part of him didn't want to know. He wanted to disconnect, to erase the file and bury the memories of that night deep.

But that would be a betrayal, of Sam and Kano and the other members of Strike Six, of himself, of the truth.

Saxon began to read, and as he did he felt himself detach from the moment, losing all sense of where he was. In his ears, he heard the rattle of

gunfire and the howling of torn metal; he felt the heat of fuel fires on his bare skin, and the sting of burning plastic and spent cordite in his

nostrils. It was as if no time had passed, and he was there again on the Grey Range, fighting to stay alive.

What he read on the screen hollowed him out. He saw the reports from the Belltower recon, the intelligence profiles of enemy strength and

numbers, the warnings of sleeper drones; and with them, he saw mirrors of the same data, only with all threat and nuance carefully bled out of

them. Fabricated reports showing the area of operations for the Rainbird mission clear of enemy contact. Lies and more lies, dressed up like

truth.

A truth Ben Saxon had accepted without question. A truth that had cost his men their lives. He heard the crunch of metal and glanced down; his

augmented hand had fractured the arm of the seat he was sitting in. Sucking in a breath, he released his grip and glared back at the screen.

Where has this false data come from? How long has Namir had it in his possession? Saxon's jaw set hard, and his thoughts turned toward

darker places.

When he heard Namir's voice call his name, it didn't come as a surprise.

Dundalk—Maryland—United States of America

Passing a network of accessways leading from the rail tunnel, Anna let herself be led by D-Bar and his two minders along a maze of featureless

concrete corridors, until they finally emerged in a parking garage. The hacker brought her to a van with blacked-out windows that was

uncomfortably similar to the prisoner transport she'd escaped from less than a day earlier, and once inside they set off. The trip was brief; the

next thing she knew, the van was halting and the doors were opened once again.

Kelso stepped out into a decrepit warehouse that was little more than a vast box made of bricks, girders, and aged glass. The smell of concrete,

rust, and water reached her nose; she guessed that they were in Baltimore's old docklands. The area was a warren of derelict buildings left to rot and crumble, now that the cargo ships entering the city's port were largely automated.

And for someone who needed space and privacy, a place off the grid, it was a good locale. Glancing around she saw that the old building had

been retrofitted with converted cargo containers, military surplus tents, and bubbledomes—but it was unkempt and random, here a wide

satellite dish, there a cook pit near a pair of armored SUVs. The place was a peculiar mix, like an army's forward command post by way of a

rock festival. The eclectic look reminded her of the same chaotic community she'd seen on board the Intrepid in New York.

D-Bar saw her looking around. "Don't sweat it, you're safe here." He pointed upward and Anna followed his gesture. High over their heads, vast

sheets of silvery material carpeted the ceiling; her first impression was of a giant mosquito net. "Electronic camo screen," explained the hacker.

"Blocks orbital scopes, smothers our EM footprint, that kinda thing. We could have the mother of all barbecues in here and this place would still

look dead and empty." He beckoned her to follow him. "C'mon, you'll wanna meet the big cheese."

As they walked, Anna caught sight of a circle of screens and a group of young men and women working at computer consoles. "Is this your

hideout? Are they ... Juggernaut?"

D-Bar snorted loudly. "Ha! They wish!" He grinned. "You don't just ask to join Juggernaut, Agent Kelso. You gotta earn it. They come to you,

through the 'net. Hell, most of us have never even seen each other. Well, not for real, anyhow."

One of the screens showed a replay of the footage from the Picus News report and she scowled when she saw it.

The hacker gave a solemn nod. "That's pretty good work, if I do say so myself."

"I never-"

He shook his head. "The compositing, I mean. The fakery. It's not easy to pull off something of that quality that quickly." D-Bar gave her a level

look. "It's okay, Agent Kelso. No one here thinks you're a killer."

"Stop calling me that," she muttered, walking away. "I'm not an agent anymore. I don't know what I am."

"Perhaps I can change that." Anna glanced up as someone approached. The man was a few years her senior, with an easy smile and immaculate

brown hair. She couldn't place his origin just from a first look; Anna guessed that by the tone of his skin and the accent he was of mixed Hispanic

extraction. "We're always on the lookout for new recruits. You seem eminently qualified."

She looked him up and down. He wore a tailored Highman leather coat in rich brown that hung to his ankles, and a gold Rolex peeked out from

under the cuff; the man was wearing clothes worth more than her apartment. "Don't get me wrong, but you seem a little out of place here."

The man smiled. "Rebels wear a lot of faces." He offered her his hand. "I have you at a disadvantage, Ms. Kelso. Allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Juan Ivanovich Lebedev."

Lebedev. The name tripped a memory and she reached for it. "I know who you are," she replied. "Your family are some big shots in shipping.

I've seen the name on the side of airships." If anything, she was making an understatement. Lebedev Global was worth billions of dollars and

carried all manner of cargo across the planet via air, sea, and land.

"Sky freight is one of the company's core businesses, that's right. But I assure you, that's not my sole interest."

Anna took a step closer. She was aware of other men, clearly Lebedev's security detail, watching her for any hint of danger. "What would

someone like you be doing with a group of militants and infoterrorists?"

He chuckled. "We both know that's just a convenient label for the world governments to hang around the necks of the people who disagree with

them."

"Still..." She paused, looking around again. "You're running a real risk, aren't you? Being here? Talking to me?"

Lebedev's calm manner turned cooler. "This is not a game, Ms. Kelso. A long time ago, I decided that there was work to be done to preserve our

freedoms, and if our nations would not do it, then men like me ... Men with the money and the influence to do something about it... We could

either serve, or resist. I chose the latter." He smiled without humor. "And as for risk? That van you were inside is packed with mobile screening

gear. If we had found any recording devices or suspicious implants, D-Bar would have dumped you on the steps of the federal building and left

you to their tender mercies."

"He told me there would be answers." She folded her arms. "So if you're the main event, why don't you start with what the hell is going on?"

Lebedev glanced at D-Bar, and then nodded. "All right. But first, I must know I have your trust, Ms. Kelso."

Anna frowned. "That's pretty thin on the ground right now."

"Indeed. That's why I'll start by confiding a secret in you." He walked to a table and poured coffee for both of them. "In your briefings from the

Department of Justice, I'm sure you must have come across an organization called the New Sons of Freedom."

She nodded. "Yeah. A coalition of independent militia groups. Idaho, Utah, Arizona, a few other places. Noise-makers mostly, throwbacks to the

1990s. They're on some domestic terror watch lists, but they're not red-flagged."

"Good," Lebedev replied. "That's exactly how I want it." He smiled as she took his meaning. "The New Sons are my creation. We're one of

many groups banding together across this nation with an eye to the future. Preparing. Waiting for the day when we'll be able to secede from the