Quake (3 page)

‘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 twisted 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.’

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.

Kattenheim sighed. As if in a dream, he lifted his left hand, gloved in the softest doeskin leather, and gave a small discreet signal.

The man who was speaking was struck suddenly and savagely between the eyes by a heavy-calibre round ... a coin-sized circle of red appeared, there was a
smack
of suddenly struck flesh and his brains and skull erupted from the back of his head, showering his shocked comrades.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Petrinsky screamed something incomprehensible as the Fuel Inspectors separated with military precision - Petrinsky whirled low, came back up with the accuracy of a boxer and hammered a right hook to Kattenheim’s jaw. Kattenheim was rocked, but he rolled, absorbing the punch with a grunt before spitting out blood and a chip of tooth, his stare fixed on the fleeing men who were sprinting for the Range Rover.

Kattenheim lifted his clenched fist into the air; more shots rang out, and another two of the Inspectors fell. Petrinsky reached the Range Rover, yanked open the door and leapt in as bullets slammed steel slaps against the panels. The engine roared into life as the remaining Inspector reached the rear door of the Range Rover and was shot in the back. Strips of his lung tissue splattered against the black panels as his face thumped against the glass. And then he sprawled in the cold snow and his eyes stared fish-dead at the rear tyre.

Kattenheim looked down at the first man to be killed -his half-closed purple-lidded eyes, the V of blood down the bridge of his nose, his shattered head lying in the puddle of melted snow littered with tiny shards of bone.

The engine screamed, chains tore at the ice.

The Range Rover managed ten metres before the engine stuttered and died.

Kattenheim strolled towards the stranded vehicle, rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw. His gaze met Petrinsky’s as he watched the Russian draw a large heavy seventeen-round-clip Smith & Wesson and point it as if in slow motion towards him.

Petrinsky, his face speckled with blood, his hair matted with gore and bone splinters, screamed harshly as he squeezed the trigger—

Kattenheim’s weapon came up, smooth, precise, and there echoed a single shot that smashed Petrinsky’s bullet from the air. Ricochets sang a brief song of metal. Kattenheim fired again, the bullet entering Petrinsky’s shoulder, exiting from his back and drilling into the Range Rover’s dashboard. The Fuel Inspector screamed in agony, and was forced to drop his heavy gun from fingers that no longer worked.

‘Quite a right hook, Mr Petrinsky.’

Kattenheim held his Glock loosely, as if discussing the time of day. Petrinsky stared into those scarred red eyes, seeing the wide expression distorted by heavy scars, and realised that the emotion deep within that well of controlled pain was not surprise, hatred, loathing, or even a clinical determination to get the job done. The look merely held a sliver of deep insanity ... trapped and fighting to be free.