Headspace Paul Barrows

HeadSpace HeadSpace Paul Barrows Authors Choice Press San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai HeadSpace All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Paul Barrows No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher. Authors Choice Press an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc. For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 5220 S 16th, Ste. 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com ISBN: 0-595-13896-9 Printed in the United States of America Contents Prologue ..........................................................................................vii 1 Centre Point ................................................................................1 2 Rendez-Vous ..............................................................................17 3 The Net ....................................................................................31 4 Genesis ......................................................................................56 5 Handyman ................................................................................79 6 Deadlock ................................................................................103 7 Corpquake ..............................................................................122 8 Rubicon ..................................................................................144 9 Intell ........................................................................................173 10 The Hit ..................................................................................200 11 Tiph’reth ..................................................................................234 12 Sensorium ................................................................................257 13 Nexus ......................................................................................308 About the Author ..........................................................................349 · v · Prologue It was ninety degrees outside, but the air inside was chilly from the cranked up air-conditioning, and had that omnipresent clinical anti- septic smell that was almost a signature of places like this. The quietness of the corridor was suddenly cut through by the metallic crash of a trolley making its way down the pale-walled expanse, and a burst of deep baritone laughter. A large black guy was pushing the trolley, his hair was tied back into an avalanche of bleach-blonde dreadlocks. Beside him was a petite, pale-skinned girl in her late teens or early twenties. She had short brown hair and carried a clipboard, and both of them wore lab-coats. The girl’s coat was a little too big making her look child-like, and she’d had to roll up the sleeves. She seemed uncomfortable as though self- conscious of this. The guy had stopped laughing now, and was shaking his head in amused disbelief. “Ain’t nothin’ surprises me no more. Not in this place, man. I swear to God they messed up somewhere. Management should be down here with these guys…” He let off another peal of baritone laughter. The trolley clattered to a halt by the first of a series of steel doors. “Okay,” he said. He’d stopped laughing now, and his expression was more serious. “This here’s the firebug. So called for his—uh—predilec- tion with combustion. Five years back, a lotta places started burning down in Pasadena. Our friend here got busted with a video deck full of · vii · HeadSpace live footage. He done them all, recorded the whole thing. Really got off on it, too.” Inset at about head height was a slide hatch which the guy pulled swiftly open. He leaned into the opening. “Hey Mickey,”he said, his voice sounded muffled by the interior. For a moment there was nothing, then there was a shuffling sound, and the thin figure of a male in his mid-twenties came into view. “Attaboy, Mickey,” the guy said. “Candy time. Come get it, my man. Come chew this stuff down for a brother!” He turned back to the girl. She looked bemused for a moment, but then remembered, jumping into action and awkwardly groping through the forest of small yellow beakers on the trolley. Finally she took one and handed it to the guy. He slid it through the hatch into Mickey’s waiting hands. “Way to go!” the guy said, as he watched Mickey drink down the beaker’s contents. Then he slid the hatch shut and took hold of the trolley again. The two of them continued along the corridor, stopping at each door while the guy continued his introduction. Finally they reached the last, and he brought the trolley to a halt. He seemed to pause, as if unsure where to begin. “This guy’s fresh in,” he said finally. “LAPD brought him down last night.”He paused thoughtfully. “So, what’s—uh—what’s he…” The girl trailed off uneasily. “Well, in technical terms, he just plain bat-shit crazy!” His expression broke into mirth and he gave that laugh again. He slid the hatch open and looked inside. Curious, the girl joined him and they both peered through into an interior that was lit by a sin- gle small window up by the ceiling. The figure was sat in the corner, bolt upright. He’d been straight- jacketed. His pale face was partially obscured by greasy streaks of black hair, his eyes staring fixedly into space. His jaws seemed to be working, · viii · Paul Barrows muttering something over and over, and a stream of spittle had worked its way down his chin leaving wet streaks down the front of his jacket. “What’s that he’s saying?” she asked. She was on tip-toes chin wedged over the shelf of the hatch. “Zhhhrrrnn…” It was almost a moan, syllables barely audible. “Zhhee..awwwn…” “Beats the shit out of me…” he responded. The two of them listened as he muttered a variation of the same sound time and time again, his head bobbing rhythmically as though he were coughing up the sounds, or spitting them out. “Sounds like…maybe a name. ‘John?’‘Shaun?’” she ventured. “Or mebbe ‘Zion.’ Dunno,”the guy said. “Zee…onn…Zirr…an…Zirran…” The word came clearer now, more decisive. It condensed like an old memory, the word cut through with a breathy urgency, grasped grimly by the act of repetition. “Zirran!…” · ix · 1 Centre Point By the time the sweeper team reached Centre Point, darkness was descending, and the sanguine glow of the western sky reflected omi- nously off the city block’s silica face. Clovier headed the group up the flight of marble veneer steps. He paused momentarily to pass his wrist across a sensor in the door’s steel trimming and then led them through into the main lobby. It was a plush affair, a hundred square metres of polished stone sur- facing interrupted only by the occasional cluster of leather chairs and a pair of glass coffee tables. Ornate vases stood about on ceramic plinths, and replica Rembrandts and Van Goghs adorned the walls. A broad staircase vanished off to the right, and on the opposite wall two indented, stainless steel shutters marked the building’s two elevators. A few security guards eyed the crew with evident disinterest, and then went back to talking amongst themselves, drinking cheap coffee, or watching the sitcom on the foyer screen. He marched over to an elevator and tapped a number into a keypad inset into its alloy trimming. A musical tone sounded acceptance and the doors slid elegantly open. There was more than enough room inside for the twelve of them, and they quietly entered, taking their places about the carpeted interior. Clovier tapped three buttons on the elevator’s destination panel. They lit up in a cool shade of turquoise, and the doors quietly closed. The team stood uneasily as the lift glided smoothly upwards. Clovier was grateful that the synth had been turned off for the occasion—it would · 1 · HeadSpace probably interfere with sensor readings. Either that or the on-site security found the drossy montage of randomised chords irritating, rather than soothing, as he did. When the elevator reached the 58th floor it slowed and stopped with barely perceptible grace. Four men left, and the doors closed again, car- rying the remainder to the next floor. Again, another four left, and the remainder exited on the 60th floor. Each floor was circled by one main corridor, its circumference a row of offices and conference rooms, its interior comprising four more perpendicular corridors converging on a central board room. The team on each floor split up and headed for a designated row of rooms, taking with them a check-list and sensor deck. One office at a time they would work slowly around the edges of the room, extending the probe across every wall, and listening through their headsets for the tell-tale signature of a device. Next across the floor in half-metre bands, then across the ceiling, and finally across all the surfaces of tables, chairs, and other fixtures, finishing off with the orna- mentation that adorned the desks and walls. Once each had finished their assigned row, they would work their way inwards toward the centre of the building, first covering the length of the adjoining corridor, and then moving into the main board room. Here an allotted segment of the room would be covered by each, except for the room on the 60th floor where all four operatives would inde- pendently cover the entire area. The operation took little under four hours, and each in turn reported to Clovier over the com-link. Clovier sat at a desk and scribbled down notes as they reported in. Shortly, he picked up the mike, switched over to a scrambled frequency and tapped in a number. A moment later, a well-bred home counties accent oozed across the line. “What’s the situation?” “Not a lot. Two live fish-eyes on the 59th, and four acoustic taps. Two of the taps are in the floor space of the 59th, one’s in a desk ornament on the 58th. and another’s in the target room. The first three are pretty · 2 · Paul Barrows crude—standard ELF transmission. The other’s a real beaut, though. Quantum-photoarray nanochip. They’d built it into a stud in the leather trimming on the desk. They’re practically invisible because of the detection auto-cutout, but we caught its cut-off signature on play- back and zeroed it.

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