скачать книгу бесплатно
Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. No code. No flash. Nothing.
Turning back to the live feed, Donald Bry leaned forward once again and ran his index finger across the lower right-hand side of the screen, where he had thought he had seen the code flash for a fraction of a second.
Farrell leaned over from a nearby desk, a quizzical look on his face. “Everything okay, Donald?” he asked.
Bry looked up, feeling awkward and suddenly stupid. “I thought I saw something for a moment,” he told the other operator, “but it was nothing. Just tired, I guess. Been looking at the old boob tube too long.”
Bry accepted when Farrell offered to cover communications monitoring for a while, and he got up to stretch his muscles and get out of the room for a few minutes, assuring his colleague he would be back shortly.
As Bry passed him, Lakesh was hooking a new monitor to the recovered computer. “Be sure you save some of the action for me,” Bry instructed Lakesh with forced geniality before exiting the ops center into the vanadium-steel corridor.
Outside the quiet hum of the operations center, Bry stood and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “What did I see?” he asked himself quietly, trying to remember. Whatever it was, if it had been anything at all, had flashed across the screen so quickly that it had to have been there for no more than a nanosecond, utterly subliminal. If it had been anything at all, he reminded himself.
Chapter 4
On the plateau outside the heavy accordion-style doors to the Cerberus redoubt, two figures were sparring. A rough circle had been etched in the dirt around them, stretching to a diameter of roughly twenty feet. The early-morning sun was rising over the mountain, casting long shadows across the ground as the two combatants paced the edge of the marked area as they prepared to battle.
The two figures could not have been more different.
To one side of the circle stood Grant, the dark-skinned, heavily muscled ex-Mag dressed in loose-fitting combat trousers and a dark-colored vest. His outfit was finished by a pair of scuffed, black leather boots, a souvenir of his Magistrate days.
Across the circle, her bare feet crossing each other as she walked around the edge of the temporary arena, her eyes never leaving those of her opponent, was Domi. Lithe and thin, Domi was an albino, her skin chalk-white and her short-cropped hair the cream color of bone. She wore an olive-drab ensemble made up of an abbreviated halter top that barely covered her tiny, pert breasts and a pair of shorts, rolled up high in the leg. The most startling aspect of Domi’s appearance, however, were her ruby-red eyes. The young woman weighed little more than a third of her opponent, yet showed no fear as she prepared to do combat with the bigger man.
“First outside the circle, toss or misstep,” she told him, “either counts as a loss.”
“I know the rules, Domi.” Grant smiled tightly. “Give it your best shot so I can toss your sorry ass out of here and get to the cafeteria in time to catch the decent breakfast chef.”
Domi’s pale lips parted in a frightening, feral smile. “In your dreams, Grant.” She laughed. “I’m saving my best shot for someone good. ”
With that, Grant loosed a cry of offended rage and charged toward her, his boots kicking up dirt as he closed the space between them. Domi watched calmly, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet as this relentless juggernaut of a man hurtled toward her, his head down like a charging rhinoceros.
She timed the leap perfectly, her hand whipping out to scuff momentarily across Grant’s left shoulder where he held it low to the ground. Suddenly she was flipping into the air, her feet at the highest apex as she pivoted off the ex-Mag’s body. As silent and graceful as a ballerina, Domi landed behind Grant, pulling her body into itself.
With Domi out of his way, Grant saw the edge of the circle in the dirt just three steps ahead of him and he rolled his body and slapped his right hand hard on the ground to bring himself to a bone-jarring halt. He slipped for a moment, his hand drifting perilously close to the circle’s edge, and managed to stop just short of the line.
As Grant righted himself, lifting his huge frame from where he had slid, he heard Domi bark out a single laugh. “Ha! You’re getting sloppy, old Mag man,” she told him.
Crouched low to the ground, Grant turned to look at the thin-framed young woman, his lips curling back in a snarl. She was clearly enjoying this rare chance to show off to one of her peers, but Grant was beginning to wonder how he had been talked into this morning sparring match.
Domi, like Grant, Kane and Brigid, had once been a denizen of Cobaltville, though her position as sex slave had been far less salubrious than that of the Magistrates and the librarian. But circumstance had thrown them all together, a little unit that made up the solid core of the Cerberus exiles together with Lakesh as their mission controller. These days, Domi was sleeping with mission control, but that was a different story altogether.
As a child of the Outlands, she was naturally a loner, used to relying on her own wits and often abrupt around others, making them feel uncomfortable. But now and then she missed true company, that inherent human need for social contact, and Grant and Kane had always shown nothing but respect for her despite her background.
Grant looked to where Domi stood in the center of the circle and he noticed Kane was now standing a little way back from the circle’s edge, over by the large doors to the redoubt. His eyes flicked to Domi once more, just standing there, waiting for his attack. Fine, he decided, you want an attack? You’ll get one.
Grant was a massive engine of muscle as he drove forward, swinging punches left and right as he closed in on Domi. She weaved back, ducking low, and swung her right leg out in a sweeping arc, attempting to trip the bigger man. The front of her calf slapped into the top of Grant’s heavy boot and just stopped, like hitting a solid metal bar.
Domi yelped in surprise, pulling her leg back and rolling her body out of the way of Grant’s pile-driver punches. Suddenly she was standing again, a blur of motion as she darted her outstretched hands at him, holding them flat, like blades.
Grant put up a rock-solid arm to halt her attack, blocking each blow between wrist and elbow as her hands flitted toward his face. He sensed the opening in her attack before he saw it, an old Magistrate instinct, and his right leg kicked out as he pivoted at the torso, dropping low to ensure that his foot made solid contact.
Grant’s kick slammed Domi just beside the breastbone, and she staggered backward, the wind knocked out of her. She looked down as she drew a calming breath, and saw that she was just one footstep away from the edge of the circle that she had marked out before Grant arrived.
“Not laughing so much now, huh?” Grant goaded as he centered himself and walked warily toward her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling, “I’m still laughing on the inside.”
Grant stopped in his tracks, just outside of the range where Domi might reach him, and a wide smile broke out on his face. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
Domi thought for a moment and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seemed the thing to say.”
Kane’s voice drifted over to them from the doors to the redoubt. “Blah-blah-blah,” he said, heckling. “Are you kids going to talk or are you going to fight? I came here to see blood, people,” he added, ensuring that they knew he was kidding by his tone.
Grant gave him a sneer before turning back to his tiny opponent. “You want to finish this?”
She nodded. “Ready when you are.”
Kane had stepped over to the edge of the circle, a little behind where Domi was trapped. He punched a fist into his hand and began counting them in. “This is it, people,” he announced, “Beauty versus the Beast. My money’s on Beauty there, but don’t take offense—I’ve known him a lot longer than I have you, Domi.”
“Har-har,” she responded, not looking back, taking a step closer to Grant. In a flash, Domi had spun her body, swinging first her left leg and then her right in Grant’s direction, repeating the action as he skipped back to avoid her kicks. Grant slapped her legs away from his face as he continued backward.
Grant timed Domi’s movements in his head, and suddenly his arm shot out and he grabbed her right ankle as it swung toward his face. Not expecting the move, Domi overbalanced and tumbled to the hard-packed ground, her momentum pulling Grant over with her.
Together, the pair of fighters slammed into the dirt, with Grant spinning to avoid crushing Domi’s birdlike frame beneath his massive build.
“You okay?” he asked her after a moment, letting go of her ankle.
Lying prone on the ground, Domi peered over her shoulder down the length of her body at Grant’s concerned expression. His vest was darker now, she saw, where sweat had pooled between his pectoral muscles. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she told him. “Thanks.”
Grant eased himself off the ground and stood over her, offering her one of his huge hands to help her up.
“Aren’t you going to finish me off?” she asked, confused.
Grant shook his head, pointing to the ground at his feet. “I stepped outside the circle when I rolled.”
Domi took his hand, a sour expression crossing her features. “Yeah, but you did that to avoid hurting me.”
Grant shrugged. “Still counts,” he assured her. “Besides, breakfast is becoming a nagging priority just now. Tough to fight on an empty stomach.”
Domi brushed herself down and watched Grant return to the redoubt and disappear into the darkness of the tunnel mouth. After a few moments, she turned to Kane, still standing at the side of the circle. “Did you want to see me?” she asked him.
Kane shook his head. “Nah, I just came out here to get some peace and quiet. Didn’t realize that fight club was in session this morning.”
Domi smiled shyly, the barest hint of color rouging her pure white cheeks. “You wanna fight?” she asked Kane after a moment.
Kane looked out over the plateau, watching as wispy cotton-candy clouds drifted slowly over the distant sky, before he reached for the top of his shirt and began unbuttoning it. “What the hell, why not,” he told her, tossing his shirt to one side. “But no pulling hair, okay?”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Domi promised him as she walked across to the far side of the dirt circle.
As he stepped into the circle and dropped his body into a fighter’s stance, Kane felt the nagging doubts of the past few days ebb away. It felt good to be alive.
B RIGID WAS BESIDE Lakesh in the ops center while Brewster Philboyd sat before them, tapping at the keyboard Lakesh had attached to the recovered computer. They had spent three days trying to decode the encrypted information, and every false lead had sapped just a little of their enthusiasm for the task.
The question remained: what was stored on the hard drive and would it be worth this effort? Lakesh had one answer, and Brigid consoled herself that his was the wisest way to look at the problem. “It doesn’t matter what’s in the files,” he had assured her. “This is a scientific investigation to find out the truth—that there is something in the files.” In their ceaseless quest to find out what that something was, Brigid wasn’t entirely sure that any of them had gotten enough sleep.
An astrophysicist, Brewster Philboyd was in his midforties and wore black-rimmed glasses above his acne-scarred cheeks. His pale blond hair was swept back from a receding hairline, and his lanky six-foot frame towered above many of the other scientists in the redoubt. Philboyd had joined the Cerberus team along with a number of other exiles from Manitius more than a year before, and had proved to be a valuable addition to the staff. He was the first to admit that he wasn’t a fighter, but Philboyd was as determined as a dog with a bone when a scientific or engineering problem crossed his path. He had stepped in to help with the Grand Forks database when he overheard the exasperated cries coming from Brigid and Lakesh on the second day of attempting to probe its files.
“This stuff was really important two hundred years ago,” Brigid said, “but for pity’s sake, couldn’t they have put a time-sensitive release on the damn coding?”
“There’s every possibility that it’s just as important today,” Lakesh said, chastising her lightly before turning back to the streams of code that whizzed across the screen, seeming to blur into one continuous, green glowing mass after three solid days of watching them flash before his eyes.
“Well,” Philboyd chipped in, “we know that the code is alphanumeric and that it uses uniform block placement to disguise any natural patterns that might be there. Maybe if we drop some of the letters and transpose others…”
“And stand on our heads and rub our stomachs,” Brigid added.
Philboyd scratched at his head absently. “That might help, too,” he admitted.
Lakesh took them both in with a kindly look. “We’ll break it, my friends,” he assured them calmly. “Just let’s all take things logically, one step at a time.
“And the first step,” he added firmly, standing up and feeling the twinge in his joints where he had been hunched over the computer terminal too long, “is to make everyone a cup of tea so we can all retain our sense of focus.”
A few minutes later, as the three of them sat nursing mugs of tea, Cerberus’s resident communications expert, Donald Bry, left his post as the day shift began and came across the room to join them.
“I’ve worked up a quick program that you can use to reverse selected batches of the coded sequence,” he explained, brandishing a shiny CD with the words Reverse decoder scrawled across it in permanent marker.
Lakesh reached across and took the CD, thanking Bry as he did so. “We’ve thought of reversing every other sequence, but it didn’t generate any definite patterns,” he told the communications man, “but this will open up more options, I’m certain.”
Bry nodded. “All we can do is try, right?” he told them, trying to buoy their spirits.
Her hands clasped around the warm mug of tea, Brigid nodded. “Thanks, Donald,” she said, feeling the cold ache of tiredness creeping over her and clutching the mug tighter to stave it off.
Lakesh stepped across to a free terminal and began running Bry’s program from the CD, while Brewster Philboyd transferred a copy of the recovered hard drive across for him to work with.
Bry stood behind Lakesh as he began typing instructions out at the keyboard. “Maybe if you reversed every third or fourth or, I dunno, tenth part of the string,” Bry suggested.
Lakesh’s brilliant mind was already several steps ahead. “I’m adding something to your program,” he told Bry. “A little randomizer so that we can test different parts of the coding in different ways. That should save us quite some time, assuming this provides a key to open the files.”
Still sitting beside Philboyd, Brigid felt Lakesh’s words wash over her as her eyelids began to get heavier. The steady rhythm of clicking computer keys had an oddly calming effect as she closed her eyes and began thinking, for no particular reason, about a game she used to play in her childhood that involved chasing boys to kiss them, much to their disgust. Eyes closed and her breathing deep and regular, Brigid smiled at the memory.
T HE CAVE WAS ALMOST entirely dark, the only light source coming from the faint glow of a computer screen. Five men had come there to confer, away from prying eyes.
“Somebody has tapped into the Keyhole orbital comsat,” Rock Streaming explained to the others as they stood together in a tight circle. Rock Streaming was a tall man in his early twenties, with long black hair tied in a ponytail and light brown skin the color of milky coffee. He had a wide forehead and a wide, flat nose beneath dark, intelligent eyes. He wore boots and combat pants with a long, tan-colored duster worn open across his bare chest. Tribal tattoos could be seen beneath it, dotted across his wide chest, swirls and black flames surrounded by curlicues.
The other men in the cave bore the signs of similar ethnicity, with café-au-lait skin, dark hair and flat noses, and the younger ones had harsh, bold tattoos striping the sectors of bare skin that they displayed.
One of the older men nodded sagely. His face displayed a tangled beard, as dark as his messy hair, and he was dressed in a simple loincloth, leaving the rest of him, including his feet, bare. A strange-looking cuplike object was tucked into his waistband, connected to a long section of twine. “Have you secured the feed?” he asked, his voice a low mutter.
Rock Streaming nodded, flexing his fingers for a moment like a prestidigitator warming up for his act. “They don’t know we’re there, Good Father, I guarantee it.”
The older man nodded once more, his eyes distant as he considered the implications of the young man’s statement. “Where is the link?” he asked after a moment. “Where is it that you are monitoring?”
The long tails of the duster coat whipped behind him as Rock Streaming strode across the cavern to the quietly humming laptop. He crouched, displaying uncanny balance as he dropped to rest on pointed toes, and tapped at the keyboard for several seconds. “The old United States,” he replied as a satellite image appeared to one side of the main display on the terminal. As Rock Streaming worked the keys, labels flashed up on-screen, identifying different parts of the image. “A place called Bitterroot in the area known as Montana by the old mapmakers.”
Another of the men spoke then, addressing his question to Rock Streaming. Like Good Father, this man was older than the other three, with a clumpy beard and flecks of gray appearing in his tangled hair. He wore a waistcoat over his chest and rounded belly, with grubby shorts, and had also left his feet bare. His gray eyes held a quality of tremendous age that seemed somehow out of place in a human being. “And you are sure that they have no inkling that you are monitoring them?” he asked, his voice the low rumble of a distant storm. “You are sure? ” he emphasized.
Rock Streaming nodded, looking up from his crouching position before the glowing laptop screen. “These Americans have no idea that I’m watching them, Bad Father,” he said with certainty.
One of the tattooed young men spoke up, his tone respectful to the older tribesmen but still proud of his contemporary. “They say that to be hacked by Rock Streaming is to be caressed by a secret lover, Bad Father,” he assured the old man in the vest. “The system cries out for more but refuses to speak of the tryst to its operators.”
Bad Father nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “Let me know of any developments,” he instructed Rock Streaming. Then he turned away in unison with Good Father, and the pair headed toward the tunnel that led out of the cave.
Still crouching at the glowing laptop monitor, Rock Streaming turned to his two remaining colleagues and nodded once in silent acknowledgment. In the linear, subjective world, the time was coming.
Chapter 5
The breakthrough finally came two days later, when geologist Mariah Falk recognized a sequence of digits tucked away in the streams of coded information as an old-fashioned grid reference. As soon as she pointed it out, Lakesh slapped his forehead for being so stupid as to not notice it before.
“But where is this coordinate referencing?” he asked her as they sat together in the cafeteria that sometimes doubled as a meeting hall for the Cerberus personnel.
Brigid sat with them, prodding a fork through a yellow swirl of scrambled eggs on her plate. “Let me see,” she suggested, looking at the deciphered location code on Lakesh’s printout.
Mariah, a large woman who, while not especially attractive, had an ingratiating smile and an amazingly resilient personality, closed her eyes tightly as she tried to work out the reference numbers. Her arms moved before her, gesturing up and to her right for a few moments before she opened her eyes and spoke. “Northwest Russia somewhere, I think. I’d need to see a map to get you any closer than that, though,” she admitted.
“Great,” Brigid muttered disconsolately, “more snow.”
Lakesh was already standing, and he took in a hearty breath as he looked at his companions. “If Mariah is right, we can use this system to decrypt the contents of the computer and find out what it is we’ve been looking at for the past five days.”
It took another half day to write the decryption software and run the program through the files they had found, and even then parts of it appeared to be horribly vague or incomplete. But it turned out that Mariah’s observation was a Rosetta stone, giving them the key. After a few tweaks, a refined version of the decryption was applied and a wealth of military reports opened up to Lakesh and his team.
A lot of the files were nothing more than personnel records and requisition forms, but several items held interest. Brigid took it upon herself to investigate one sequence further, putting in long hours to piece together all of its scattered parts.
Lakesh called Kane, Grant and Brigid together for an informal meeting in the empty cafeteria the next evening, and he sat beside Brigid, facing the two ex-Mags. Brigid had worked throughout the past thirty hours, transcribing important details from the files and piecing the information together with her own formidable knowledge. What she had come up with had been quite astonishing, Lakesh agreed, assuming that it was accurate.
“The main files on the recovered computer dealt with information from one of the U.S. spy networks,” Lakesh explained as Grant poured everyone water from a large jug in the center of the table. “From what we can divine, this network was a crucial player in the days leading up to the Cold War, when the U.S. was focused on the growing threat of Russian military might. They kept files on a variety of military projects that were being researched behind the iron curtain, some of more questionable value than others.”
“Watching folks through gaps in the drapes.” Kane smiled. “Nice work if you can get it.”
“Now, the vast majority of this information is bitty and of very limited use over two hundred years after it was amassed,” Lakesh continued, “but we’ve found one item of exceptional interest. Brigid has been concentrating on going through and deciphering all of its related notes.”
Lakesh turned to Brigid and she picked up the explanation after stifling a tired yawn. “According to the U.S. report, it seems that the Russians had developed a project dubbed Chernobog. Chernobog is the name of a Slavic god known as ‘the bringer of calamities.’”
“Sounds like a honey,” Grant chirped.
“Now, the mythology behind the name isn’t important,” Brigid continued, “but the threat that it implies may very well be. From what the intelligence network could piece together, Project Chernobog was set up as a subsection of the Cheka Agency. The Cheka was the government division that ultimately became the KGB, a lethal secret police force at the beck and call of, at the point of its inception, Lenin. In 1920, with the First World War just behind them and growing alarm at the potentially disruptive influence of outside forces on their then nascent communism, the Russian Communist Party set things in motion to create a weapon so powerful that it could eradicate all forms of life from a specified area.” She drew a long breath before continuing. “Furthermore, this weapon was apparently proposed as a fail-safe not for the ‘evil’ outside forces of America and Western Europe, but for something conceived as a far more insidious and dangerous threat—the Archons.” She stopped, her emerald eyes skewering each of the three people sitting at the table. “Aliens,” she said finally.
“Kind of stands to reason,” Kane admitted after a moment’s thought. “Our boys are spying on them and they’re spying on us. They see the U.S. government getting pally with the Roswell day-trippers and they start to think, ‘Hey, maybe we need one of those ultimate-weapon-type things just in case.’”
“The Roswell visitation was in 1947,” Brigid told Kane, “over twenty years after Project Chernobog was initiated.”
