Icarus Effect de-1 Page 25

When he got there, he found a confusion of crowds strung out along the line of the open plaza, leading to the southern gate of the Palais. They clustered around the base of the Broken Chair, a twelve-meter-tall sculpture of a wooden seat with one shattered leg-a symbol for the victims of land mines and cluster bombs. There were two groups, each as loud as the other, each sporting banners and placards in English and French.

  The first were pro-augmentation, transhumanist activists, rallying around the sculpture as if they could use it as an image to underline their desire for freedom to control the human body; the other, larger group were against them, calling for the regulation of cybernetic enhancements.

  Their banners read Stop Playing God, Protect Mankind and other familiar slogans. He saw the symbols of Taggart's movement, the Humanity

  Front, at every turn.

  The tension in the air was palpable, and between the two opposing sides news crews from SNN, Picus, and the BBC moved back and forth while the Swiss police did their best to remain a discreet but obvious presence.

  Confrontations over the controversial science of human augmentation technology were happening more and more. Saxon had seen the reports of angry demonstrations in Washington, D.C., Tokyo, and Mombasa, incidents where the vociferous clashes had turned ugly in the blink of an eye. He pulled his jacket closer to conceal his own cyberarm, unwilling to have either group figure him for one of their camp, and studied the lines of opposition. He wondered how much of this and all the other global protests had been stimulated by the Illuminati, surrogate fights staged to manipulate media coverage and public opinion. So much bloodshed over something so abstract… At first the thought of it sickened him; but then Saxon found himself wondering about the truth. How many other flashpoints in human history had begun like this? How many had the Illuminati turned to their design?

  Hovering low over the plaza, a drone blimp drifted across the morning sky. The underside was festooned with cameras, while two thinscreens showed the Picus Nightly World News feed. Saxon glanced up and saw the elegant aspect of Eliza Cassan. The Picus anchor was one of the best known celebrities on the planet, a face trusted by millions to be the voice of truth. The mere idea of that now seemed childish and na'ive to the soldier.

  A speaker grille broadcast her voice across the square. "A spokesperson for the Swiss cantonal police has informed Nightly World News that the crash of a light aircraft at Geneva International Airport was a tragic accident and in no way connected to today's sensitive meeting of the United Nations science advisory board." Behind Cassan, images of fire tenders working on the runway unfolded. "The meeting, which has been called to determine if UN involvement in human augmentation technology is warranted, will be attended by controversial figures such as pro-humanity advocate William Taggart-"

  Mention of Taggart's name brought a brief surge of cheers and catcalls from both sides, and Cassan's voice was lost in the sound of the crowds.

  Saxon watched the drone blimp continue on its way. The report made no mention of what happened to Gunther and the vehicle bomb; he reflected on what Namir had said before. By dawn, all this mess you've made will be glossed over and done with.

  He frowned, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. Head down, he threaded his way through the jeering protesters, who were now taunting one another across the closed-off length of the Avenue de la Paix. Beyond lay Ariana Park, the wide commons once open to the public but now heavily patrolled and cordoned by Swiss law enforcement agencies and the private security contractors in the employ of the delegates. Saxon spotted a cluster of Belltower grunts in lightweight ballistic tunics and bascinet helmets with polarized gold visors. They were armed with flechette-firing assault rifles and urban-duty tactical shotguns, more than enough to cut him down if he tried to break the security line.

  In the middle of the park was his target, the Palais des Nations. The meeting Taggart was attending would take place there, in the Assembly

  Hall. Saxon began to think like the assassin Namir wanted him to be, evaluating points of entry and approaches. Once Taggart was inside the

  Palais, he would be insulated from any attack. The man would have to be killed on the steps of the building, or not at all.

  Saxon's eyes narrowed as he turned the thought over in his mind. In the SAS, this was a mission he had performed on more than one occasion; but then it had been in defense of King and Country, to stop conflicts rather than to start them. Here and now, he truly was no more than a blunt instrument, wielded by men in the shadows for a cause beyond his understanding.

  From out of nowhere, a gruff voice cut through his thoughts. "Keep walking. Past the tram halt. Fourth streetlight."

  He crossed the plaza to the road that paralleled it, and as he approached the lamp pole, a black SUV pulled in and halted. Saxon stepped closer as the driver's-side window dropped. "Hands where I can see them," said the voice. Hardesty's glowering face appeared, eyes narrowed behind dark glasses. "Well," he muttered, "it's true, then. You really are too fucking stupid to die."

  Saxon obeyed and dropped his arms to his sides. He wasted no time with preamble. "This is a no-go. I can't get in there, let alone get close to

  Taggart." He stood stock-still, taking in the man, the vehicle, anything that might give him a clue about where Namir might be. A tag on the dashboard caught his eye; it looked like a security tab, similar to the arfid discs used by the Belltower grunts.

  Hardesty shifted in the seat and Saxon's attention was drawn away. The other man had a Diamondback revolver resting across his folded arms.

  The muzzle was aimed right at Saxon's chest. "You have no idea how much I want to pull this trigger," said Hardesty, ignoring his comments.

  "Put a round into you, blow your lungs across the goddamn plaza…" He grinned coldly. "You almost cost us this op. I had an instinct about you from day one, limey. I should have fragged you in Queensland along with the rest of your squad."

  A calm kind of anger settled on Saxon. "Then do it, if you got the balls. Either that or be Namir's errand boy, like he told you to. I don't have all day."

  For a long second, Saxon thought Hardesty might actually shoot, as his expression tightened into a rictus; but then he sniffed and let the gun drop. "You're right. You don't. So listen up, 'cos I'm not going to repeat myself." He reached for a small bag and threw it at Saxon. "There's an armor jacket in there for you. Follow the avenue around toward the next gate. A public-works crew are laying some new blacktop in the near lane. You got cover there to hop the wall, get inside. The Swiss cops got two-man teams on patrol, so don't get caught before you get to the target."

  "You expect me to walk right up to Taggart and break his neck?"

  Hardesty sniggered and opened the revolver's chamber, shaking the gun so all six bullets fell out. Then he handed the empty weapon to Saxon, who quickly stuffed it into the bag before anyone spotted him. "Here," he said, holding up a single round between his thumb and forefinger.

  "You're supposed to be good. So this should be more than enough."

  He tossed the bullet and Saxon caught it out of the air. "What about Kelso? I don't even know if she's still alive."

  "That's right, slick, you don't" snarled the other man. "Now, go be a good dog and do as you're told, and maybe the bitch lives." He leaned forward, lowering his voice, showing teeth. "Personally? I'm hoping you try something. I want you to refuse, Saxon. I want the excuse to put you out of my misery." Hardesty spat on the ground. "You talk like you're a soldier, but you're nothing, limey. I know your kind, bleeding-heart warrior, all about the good and the noble, but you got no idea how the real world works. You got no steel in you."

  Saxon met his gaze, looking through the dark lenses to the dead eyes beneath. He saw nothing there, nothing but a cold machine soul driven by anger. "You're right," he admitted. "Because if being strong means turning into a heartless fucker like you, I'll stick to being human."

  Hardesty laughed. "Good luck with that," he retorted as the SUV surged away in a gro
wl of acceleration.

  Location Unknown

  Anna clawed her way back to a waking state as if she were buried in wet sand, digging herself out inch by inch. She felt the chemical drag of sedatives in her bloodstream; her last conscious memory was of Federova bundling her into the back of the black helo before something sharp and metallic nipped at the flesh of her neck. After that had come a turbulent dream filled with scattershot images of burning cities, crazed cyborgs, chaos, and conspiracy, rising up from the recall of the vision Janus had put in her head.

  She was in a small room with metal walls, the only decoration a perfunctory cot bolted to the floor, a lamp set in the ceiling, and a steel toilet in the far corner. Anna rolled to a seated position and the room swayed around her. The floor seemed unsteady, and her stomach turned over.

  The fog of drug haze made it difficult to move; her legs were like lead.

  She wasn't secured by handcuffs or any kind of tether; clearly the Tyrants didn't consider her enough of a threat, which was insulting in its own way.

  Beyond the door to the cell she heard movement, and held her breath, straining to listen.

  "… with Hardesty," said Namir's voice, as he came closer. "Once it is done, we'll need to recover and proceed to the extraction point."

  "Got it," said another man, this one gruff and hard-edged. "What about the li'l punk?"

  "We've got what we need from him."

  "This one, too?" Anna knew they had to be talking about her.

  "We will see," said Namir. "If not, the Hyron Project can always use new materials." She heard him come closer. "Open it."

  Anna scrambled back into the far corner of the cell as the door opened to admit the mercenary. She caught a glimpse of a thickset bull of a man hovering behind him, his face scarred by old burns down one side. He gave her a callous wink and walked away.

  Namir stepped in and closed the door. "Anna Kelso."

  "Jaron Namir," she replied. "Yeah, I know who you are."

  That got her a moment of irritation, but it vanished just as quickly. "Ben should learn when to keep his mouth shut. It gets him into trouble."

  "Are you here to kill me?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Not yet. For the moment, you're required intact. For purposes of leverage."

  She snorted. "Against Saxon? I hardly know him. You think he's going to risk his life for a complete stranger?"

  Namir nodded. "Of course he will. If you did know him, you'd know he will risk his life for you." He folded his arms over his chest. "It's a character flaw. Despite everything that has happened to him, every loss and disappointment, under it all Ben Saxon wants to be the good man.

  The hero." Namir smiled coldly. "Others would have had that beaten out of them by now. But not him."

  "Lucky for me," she offered, with more defiance in her tone than she felt.

  "Not really." Namir stood opposite her. "I'm intrigued by you, Anna. Your tenacity. It's quite impressive for someone with such personal failings to overcome." He cocked his head. "When was the last time you had a dose? It must be difficult going cold all over again."

  "Bite me," she snarled.

  He smiled thinly. "I know this is difficult for you to understand, but you have to realize that you are fulfilling a purpose here. We all are. For a greater good."

  "A greater good?" She spat the words back at him. "Your Illuminati are a cancer! You kill and threaten and ruin lives all because some faceless cabal of old men want to play God with the world? What gives you the right?"

  "There is no God," Namir told her. "That's why these things need to be done. That's why the group exists." He sighed. "The Illuminati were created for that very reason. The future of humanity is too delicate to be left to the whims of passing kings and despots. It's too complex to be decided by the greater mass of mankind. It is the burden of the elite to be fit to rule, to take the reins of the world, and to guide it toward a stable unity."

  "They teach you that little speech?" she replied. "The cowards who ordered the deaths of my friend and countless others?" She shook her head.

  "I've heard the conspiracy theories, but until now I never thought they could be true. But that's how they want it, right? They stay in the dark, pull the strings, and no one knows it. They decide what wars are going to happen, who gets elected… And now they want to control the right to evolve!"

  Namir studied his cybernetic hand. "Is that so wrong? Think about it, Anna. Think of how the free spread of augmentations has changed the face of our species, the divide it has created between 'cog' and 'natch,' the metal and the meat. Think of how it has changed you. Anyone can make themselves into a killing machine with the right hardware and enough money. Wouldn't things be better if there were controls, boundaries, regulations?" He leaned closer. "You know that rules exist for the good of society." Namir opened his hands. "All we're doing is putting them into place."

  For a moment, his words cut deeply; but then she pushed them away. "And it doesn't matter how many freedoms you have to kill to get there, does it? Because you believe you're right."

  He frowned at her tone. "Your young friend Patrick came around, once he had an understanding. I hoped you might, too, I really did. Saxon… he won't change… I thought you were smarter than him."

  "I'm glad to disappoint you," she spat.

  Namir watched her for a moment, before he spoke again.

  "You wonder why you're still alive. It's more than just Saxon. There's something I want to know." When she didn't answer he took her chin in his hand. "Who is Janus? What did he show you?"

  The limousine swung around Building C, where the council chambers were located, and pulled to a halt on the gravel drive in front of the United

  Nations Assembly Hall, the white pillars rising up across the entranceway behind it. A handful of Swiss security staff stood on the upper steps, while Belltower guards waited at the drive. Standing in a line before the nearby library, a group of reporters trained their camera drones on the vehicle as one of the guards opened the rear door, allowing Elaine Peller to exit; the Humanity Front's media relations staffer and personal assistant to the founder stepped clear and addressed the hovering cameras.

  "Mr. Taggart will make a short statement. He will take no questions."

  As she finished speaking, Isaias Sandoval was the next to step out; his thin Hispanic features were perpetually set in a nervous frown, and today was no exception. Despite what they had been told by the authorities, Isaias had been awakened in the predawn light by what could only have been an explosion out on the bridge near their hotel. He was still smarting that his employer had outright refused to take his advice about postponing the meeting with the UN science board.

  William Taggart followed him out into the bright light of the day, smiling warmly and sparing the cameras a fatherly nod and a wave. The face of the largest pro-humanist movement on earth appeared, as ever, impeccably groomed and perfectly at ease; and yet he never seemed to lose the cool sense of intent, the quiet, scholarly charisma that made so many people listen to him.

  Taggart stepped around to the front of the limo and nodded again. "My friends," he began, "it fills me with hope to be here today, to talk to these good people and present our point of view to them. At no other time in human history have we found ourselves at so delicate a juncture, when the very nature of what we are is under threat by scientific avarice ungoverned by any moral code or-"

  It happened with unnatural speed and violence, with a fierce, controlled power that could have come only from the union between human will and machine strength. A muscular figure in a security officer's jacket slipped out from behind one of the Belltower patrol vehicles and punched the closest guard with such force that he spun and bounced off the hood of the car. The man swept in, pivoting on one leg to kick away a second

  Belltower trooper, the heel of his boot smashing the gold visor across his face. He dropped, blocking the falling blow from a crackling electro prod as a third man tried to tackle him; th
e attacker rose back just as quickly, brutally snapping the man's arm against the direction of the joint, putting him down in a screaming heap.

  All this in less than a few seconds, every motion and attack powered by nerve-jacked, hyperaccelerated reflexes and brute-force cybernetics.

  "Get back in the car!" Sandoval was shouting, grabbing at Taggart's suit jacket, pulling him toward the rear of the vehicle. On the steps, the

  Swiss police officers were rushing forward, pistols out. Taggart stumbled against the limo, panic in his eyes, catching sight of Peller as she fumbled at the door handle.

  Taggart's personal guards were two thickset men, both of them ex-military, trained and strong with it; but they were still only men, neither of them with a single augmentation, as the Humanity Front's founder demanded of his staff. For all they could do, they could not match the speed of their attacker.

  He put them down as they blocked him, both bodyguards striking together, trying to split his focus. In one hand he had a heavy-frame revolver, and he used it like a club, shattering the nose of one man in a gout of bright blood. The other of Taggart's guards took a shattering strike to the knee that broke bone. His gun didn't clear its holster; instead, a following hit spun him into the dirt.

  Taggart was at the door, Sandoval's hands on his back, shoving him toward the armored safety of the limo's interior.

  Isaias turned and the killer was there, his face twisted in a grimace, cold augmented eyes that still held a spark of very human anger. "No, please don't!"

  Kicking the door shut, the assassin threw Sandoval to the ground and leveled the revolver at William Taggart's head.

  The target raised his hands in a gesture of self-protection.

  All around there was screaming and shouting, the buzz of the drones, the clatter of weapons snapping into fire mode-but Saxon didn't hear that. The only thing that reached him was Taggart's question.

  "D-did they send you?" he stuttered. "Was it them? Did they send you?"

  The Diamondback's hammer clicked to the ready and he held the aim. The moment stretched like tallow, becoming long and fluid, extending away. All it would take would be the slightest pressure on the trigger. One shot and one kill, and it would be done.