Deus Ex - Icarus Effect (33 page)

The man pulled a vu-phone from his pocket. "Our mutual friend Janus sent me a message. Tells me this thing has data on it you need. For the

Killing Floor." The name brought a moment of silence with it. "That got your attention? I have the access code. So at the very least, you want to

keep me breathing until I give that up."

"He works for them," Powell said, glaring at Lebedev. "First off you bring her in"—he jerked a thumb at Anna—"and now this?"

"Waifs and strays ..." muttered D-Bar.

Lebedev ignored the other man and stepped up to the bobbing trawler. "Who are you?"

"Ben Saxon. I'm just... a soldier." He let out a ragged breath. "I know who you people are. I'm in the same fight as you now."

Lebedev held out his hand and said nothing. After a long moment, Saxon sighed and tossed the phone to him. "Now give me the code."

"I do that, laughing boy there will slot me." He inclined his head toward Powell.

"You want us to trust you?" Anna asked. "Do as he says."

Saxon met her gaze and gave her a long, measuring look; then finally he nodded. "All right. But someone get me off this tub first? I busted both

my legs and it stinks in here."

A year ago, it was the kind of gamble he would never have considered making; but a lot had changed since then, and nothing had made it more

clear to him than the events of the last few days that his life was turning into one long roll of the dice.

He gave up the sister's name and waited for the one called Powell to put a round in his head. The guy wanted to do it, that was plain as day all

over his face; but instead the other guy, the one called Lebedev, had a couple of blokes help him inside a nearby warehouse. Behind the derelict

look of the place it was a regular staging post. They dumped him in a hospital tent and left him to the ministrations of a severe-looking medic.

Fatigue held him in tight coils, tighter than the metal nets that the robo-trawler had used to snag him from the ocean. In the grip of the steel

wire, dragged under the frigid waves, Saxon had been certain that death was upon him.

It was only when he awoke inside the wet, reeking, meat-locker chill of the trawler's intake bay that he started to piece together what had

happened. His attempt to contact Janus from the Tyrant jet had been at least partially successful, enough for the hacker to pinpoint where he

was and track the vu-phone. After his explosive midair exit, Janus had retasked the nearby trawler as an ersatz lifeboat.

In the cold and the dark, Saxon fought all the way to stay free of hypothermia and unconsciousness. His augmentations had kept him alive,

although the high-fall unit was burned out and would never function again; and as for the Tai Yong-manufactured cyberlegs, his impact with

the sea had severely damaged them both.

The medic dosed him with a pan-spectrum restorative, hooked up a nutrient drip, and disconnected his legs beneath the knees with a sparking

beam tool; then he left Saxon alone.

As he lay there, hobbled, Saxon felt more isolated than he ever had before. After the crash in Queensland, during recovery at the field hospital,

he'd always had something to hold on to, to drive him ... the need to find justice for Sam and the others. But now, even that was lost to him.

Saxon felt dead inside, as if the energy to live on, to fight back, had been sapped from him by the icy waters of the Atlantic.

As far as Namir and the Tyrants were concerned, he was a dead man. He was compelled to agree with them.

There was movement at the tent flap and the woman from the docks entered, carrying a plastic hard case. She gave him a level stare. "You

remember me." It wasn't a question.

He nodded. "You're Anna Kelso. U.S. Secret Service."

"Not anymore," she said bitterly. "No thanks to your friends."

"I had nothing to do with that," he insisted, shifting on his gurney. "I wasn't part of it..." Saxon's words died in his throat. That wasn't true, was

it? A nagging voice in the back of his head demanded an answer. You were in all the way. You were just too bloody thick to see what was

going on. Or maybe you did see, but you were too gutless to face up to it.

"Why did you let me live?" she asked. "At the house. You had the shot. You could have killed me."

He glared at her, and an ember of the old rage flickered deep inside him. "I'm a soldier! I don't kill unarmed civilians!"

Kelso seized on his words. "But the Tyrants do. They don't have principles or compunction. They're assassins. And you're one of them."

"Not anymore," he repeated back to her. "I don't think I ever really was. I couldn't... couldn't stop being the man that I was. Before."

She saw something honest in his expression and her manner softened a little. "Why were you working with them?"

"I could ask you the same," he noted. "I know who these jokers are." He gestured around. "I recognize the hardware, the weapons, the setup.

Juggernaut. New Sons of Freedom. They're all on the most-wanted list. That's a long way from the Secret Service."

She offered him the hard case. "I'll tell you what. A trade. You tell me how you ended up on Janus's radar and I'll give you these." Kelso cracked

open the case to reveal a pair of replacement legs. "Caidin make. They're compatible with the TYM chassis you got."

He nodded and took them. "Fair deal." Saxon had extensive field training in augmentation repair, and he set quickly to work on his limbs. As he

spoke, he let it spill out of him; from the incident in the Grey Range to Namir's recruitment pitch, the events in Moscow and Janus's first

challenge, to the moment in the grounds outside Temple's house. "I suppose that's when I knew it," he concluded. "When I couldn't stay silent

anymore. I thought I was going to make a difference in the world. But all we did was exercise someone else's power."

He sealed up the last of the connections and pushed off the gurney. Saxon stumbled a little as the gyros in the replacement modules ran

through start routines and synchronized.

Kelso nodded at the legs. "You can consider that repayment for not shooting me."

He jerked his chin at the door flap and the warehouse beyond. "And the rest of this raggedy lot? What's their take?"

"Half of them think you're a security risk and want you killed. They found an inert tracer in your damaged leg. The other half want to

interrogate you. Pull out everything you know about the Tyrants."

Saxon snorted. "Hell, I'll give you that for nothing. I'll sing like a bloody canary, as long as you promise me I get to be there when the Tyrants

are taken down." He looked away. "I got no loyalty to them. Once, maybe ... I thought I did. But right now, the only thing I want to do is break

them."

The woman gave a nod. "Well, we got that in common, then."

The tent flap opened and a young guy peered in. His face was flushed with excitement. "Kelso! We got the uplink! Looks like our new pal here

was on the money."

Saxon stepped forward, limping slightly. "This I wanna see. Show me."

Kelso followed D-Bar back to the hacker's work pit. In the center of the warehouse was a section of the building that had probably been a

cluster of bathrooms; now all that was left was a square patch of yellowed, cracked tiles and the brick roots of partition walls demolished in the

name of some refurbishment project that had never come. There were ragged holes in the tiled floor, from which snaked thick knots of cabling;

the Juggernaut hackers had helped the New Sons set up their base here by drilling directly into the municipal power lines running from the

city, snatching watts from the raw feed.

A ring of consoles, server units, and eclectic computing hardware circled the cable trunk. Every one of the decks was alive with screens and

holos showing complex, overlapping panes of data. D-Bar dropped into a canvas chair and set to work. Lebedev and Powell watched like a pair

of sentinels, faces grim.

Anna saw the flash drive, the case broken open and festooned with jury-rigged connectors. Nearby, another of D-Bar's team had Saxon's vu

phone wired up to a console, which in turn was cabled to a collapsible satellite antenna.

"Here we go," D-Bar said, cracking his knuckles. "Data sources are linked in parallel. All we need to do is ping the main Tyrant server and the

rest is easy."

Lebedev folded his arms. "How much risk is there to us? We're opening a live connection to the Tyrants. What's to stop them backtracking it to

this location?"

"Agreed," Powell added. "We could be calling an air strike down on ourselves."

D-Bar made a face, as if those were the dumbest questions he'd ever been asked. "Okay, forgetting the fact that I'm bouncing our signal

through a hundred other locational IPs around the country before we even send it, forgetting the copious layers of active subnet masks being

run in real time by my troop of monkeys here"—he threw a wave at his team—"not to mention nigh-invulnerable firewalls written by yours

truly, there's this." The hacker laid his hand on a black box lined with glowing indicators. "It's a speed-imager. I need to get only a couple

milliseconds of access to duplicate what we need from the Tyrant server. Then we can disconnect and run a virtual analog of it right here,

without them ever knowing we were there."

"So there's no chance we'll be detected?" Saxon asked.

D-Bar grinned. "I never said that. But if I screw up, the last thing we'll see is the sky going white as some orbital laser array burns us off the

face of the earth. So why worry, yeah?"

"Yeah," Saxon replied flatly.

Lebedev sighed. "Do it."

Anna stood back and watched. She really didn't know what to expect; on the screens, timer windows opened as a web of virtual system nodes

unfolded, depicting a representation of the connection, the servers, the target. D-Bar's face became a study in calm as he plunged into the lines

of code. His augmented hands were a blur across the keyboard in front of him, and flashes strobed down the connector cables that wound from

a terminal behind his ear to the console.

Saxon looked up at the grimy skylights over their heads. "Nothing yet."

Rods of data reached from node to node across the screen, the alarm timer falling with each passing moment. At zero, the network would go

into lockdown and the tiny window of opportunity to invade the server would slam shut. It would be the virtual equivalent of sending up a flare

in front of the Tyrants.

Nodes turned green where the hacker team had been successful, others blinked red where the invading code was not taking root. Anna realized

that D-Bar and the others here in the warehouse were not the only members of Juggernaut working on this digital attack; other inputs from

across the globe were leading their own assaults. But of Janus, there was no sign.

"Ten seconds," Powell said, reading off the time. "Can you do this or not?"

"Do it?" D-Bar sniggered. "It's already done!" With a flash, all the nodes went green, and the hacker lolled back in his chair, jerking the

connectors from his skull socket. "Piece of cake." The film of sweat over his pale face put the lie to his words.

With five seconds left on the clock, the connection was severed; but now a new construct was blossoming on the holographic screens. A meshing

of three complex clusters of information—the flash drive, the vu-phone's memory core, and the duplicate server.

D-Bar saw her staring into the display. "We still gotta work fast," he said. "The ghost copy of the Tyrant server won't maintain parity for long.

It's like trying to catch an echo. Longer you hold on to it, faster it degrades."

"Open it up," said Saxon. "Let's see what I almost died for."

A fourth data node emerged from the shared flux and blossomed like a flower made of newsprint, petal-pages spilling out. "The Killing Floor,"