HALLOWED GROUND

  HALLOWED GROUND

  James Somers

  www.jamessomers.net

  Exclusive Kindle Version

  1 LETHAL WEAPON

  Dr. Andre Sarkov watched the biological monitor displaying the current data on his final test subject. His eyes scanned for any sign of brainwave activity which might indicate the subject was regaining consciousness. He relaxed, but only a little, as the monitors conveyed reassuring news. Samuel Stokes, the last living Halo Project test subject, remained securely anesthetized.

  “Pilot, is our sky lane secured, yet?” Sarkov addressed the pilot through a flesh-colored communication implant residing near his larynx. Medical technicians, on the Halo Project payroll, hovered over Stokes’ body, making last minute checks on the stainless steel restraint bands. The staff anesthesiologist secured her intravenous lines and modified the infusion pump. “We’ll keep him deep,” she said, winking. She removed some syringes from the bed, checked the joints on the endotracheal tube feeding oxygen to her patient, then settled into a chair bolted to the floor of the long trailer compartment.

  The pilot chimed in through an overhead speaker. “We’ve secured the sky lane, Dr. Sarkov. May we proceed?”

  Sarkov sighed. “Please do.” He smiled back at the anesthesiologist, Karen Thomas. He’d recently asked her out on a date, hoping to celebrate the end of the Halo Project. She had accepted. Andre looked forward to getting this unpleasant business finally over with.

  He hadn’t been sleeping well for months. All prior test subjects had gone sour on him. Andre had the unpleasant duty of attending to their disposal, before they grew too dangerous. He watched the sedate form of Samuel Stokes. “You almost got away from me, Sam,” he whispered.

  The gentle tug of inertial forces informed him the journey toward Compound Seven had begun. Within two hours, traveling at a speed of two hundred miles per hour, their transport would anchor in Psy-Corp’s most secure facility. There Dr. Sarkov would initiate the final test procedures, ultimate termination, and bodily preservation of Samuel Stokes.

  His only lament lay in the fact that he had allowed himself to get close to Sam. “Are you going to miss him?” Karen asked. Andre looked up at her, realizing he had been staring at Stokes. “Excuse me?”

  Karen paused the video she had been viewing on her PDA, a small floating sphere which projected a three dimensional image in mid-air. “Are you going to miss, Sam? I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. He was a lot of fun and cute, too.”

  Andre smiled. “I suppose, but safety first. We can’t let the life of one test subject jeopardize the welfare of society at large.”

  She pursed her lip playfully. “The Zealots wouldn’t agree with that. They say all life is sacred.”

  Andre stifled a laugh. “What’s so sacred about chemical processes? Knowledge…that’s the precious thing. We evolved by chance, but we’re raising ourselves up by knowledge! Through knowledge, we can become more than what we ever could be otherwise.”

  Karen looked at Stokes’ body lying restrained on the table. “Maybe that’s a dream we’re not going to see fulfilled, Andre. I mean, the project failed.”

  “Not failed, Karen,” he insisted. “We’ve just closed some doors, and with the knowledge we’ve gained from the Halo Project, we’ll open new ones.”

  She smiled, shrugged, then tapped the suspended image with her finger. The video began to play again. Andre looked back at Sam’s unconscious form, muttering to himself. “We’ll unlock our potential safely someday…I’m sure of it.”

  •

  Silas Chang sucked on one of his trademark cheap cigars, then released the smoke through his clenched teeth. He tapped the distance control on his digital binoculars, zooming in on his target. At the base of a huge sky lane support pylon, two of his men entered the security office, shooting the two guards on duty.

  The pylon continued its gentle hum, providing total control for the one hundred sky lanes stacked above it, high into the atmosphere. Traffic moved at a steady pace of two hundred miles per hour. Passengers remained completely oblivious to the minor coup taking place below.

  Silas Chang now held control over the lives of those traveling this way in the sky lane system. At his command, the pylon could divert traffic or stop it. With multiple pylons under his control, he could even disable the lanes, allowing hundreds of vehicles to break free of the electromagnetic fields guiding and protecting them. Losing control, they would spiral into the ground. Chang’s men had duplicated this attack at nine consecutive pylons along this route. He now controlled them all.

  Only one particular lane and one particular vehicle held any interest for him. Psy-Corp had decided to terminate the final test subject of its highly secretive Halo Project. That meant a trip to Compound Seven and a single moment of opportunity for his organization, The Ring, to gain a human weapon of mass destruction available nowhere else on the planet.

  The Ring had paid a member of the medical staff ten million credits for the information. They had provided dates and times, everything necessary to make interception and acquisition a certainty. The informant would be riding in the transport with a tracking pin attached.

  “Do you have them yet?” Silas asked.

  One of his crew gazed at a handheld display. An icon pinged red. “They’ve just come into range, Mr. Chang.”

  Silas turned to one of his men carrying a laser guided micro EMP blaster. “Ready?”

  “I’m ready, sir.”

  Silas spoke into his communication implant. “Pylon control, execute.”

  The informant had given Silas Chang the number of their sky lane, but even had they not; the secure status of the lane, among all the other public lanes, would have been enough. Silas’ team at all of the consecutive pylon locations, nearly one hundred miles total distance, shut down sky lane number twenty one. The electromagnetic field, which provided the invisible tunnel of energy guiding and protecting vehicles in the lane, collapsed.

  Hundreds of feet in the air, the black unmarked Psy-Corp transport, traveling at two hundred miles per hour, shot off course as the invisible sky lane barrier fell. Silas watched with eager anticipation through his digital binoculars, as the pilot attempted to regain control of the transport, which had been flying on auto-pilot while in the EM sky lane tunnel. “Hit them!” Silas commanded.

  The man who had been aiming his laser guided EMP blaster at the transport, fired. A hypersonic dart flew at the transport, embedding into its hide. “Got it!” the man said.

  “Activate!” Silas said. He watched as a transparent blue sphere blinked around the transport vehicle. All power instantly failed under the influence of the electromagnetic pulse. Even Silas’ digital binoculars snapped off, then back on due to the ambient pulse effect, but only the transport’s system circuits would be fried beyond repair. The heavy vehicle dropped out of the sky like a boulder.

  Silas watched as the Psy-Corp transport slammed into the desert floor, approximately one mile away from his position. “I hope the safety systems took affect,” Silas mused. “It would be a shame, if our prize was damaged.” He smiled, waving to the rest of his men. “Retrieval unit, move out.” He sat back into the driver’s seat of a sand colored Dune Master dune buggy, slammed the accelerator, then launched away from a rocky outcropping trailing the hum of the vehicle’s electric motor.

  A quick, bouncy ride brought Silas’ group to the crash site of the Psy-Corp transport. It lay on its side upon the desert floor with a scorched trail behind and a mound of dry earth pushed forward under the front. Tendrils of smoke pulled away under the gentle breeze as Silas came alongside.

  A pilot’s cabin door, once on the right side, but now facing skyward, opened and was pushed over. One of the cockpit crew climbed out and s
tood upon the hull of the heavy rig. Silas got out of his Dune Master and walked toward the wreckage. He called out to the survivor, now trying to wave their group of vehicles over to help.

  “Are you all right?” Silas called, walking toward the man.

  “Yeah, but the other pilots are hurt, and we’ve got people in the back who might be injured!” the man said, pointing down into the lopsided cockpit.

  Silas raised a mini submachine gun, with laser sighting, and gunned down the pilot. The man fell backward off the hull. Urgent queries rose from inside the cockpit. Silas looked at two of his men. “Finish them, while we secure Stokes.”

  The men obeyed, each of them brandishing a similar mini submachine gun. As Silas found his way to one of the emergency exits on the hull, the two men mounted the open cockpit door and silenced the pleas of those inside with several bursts of machine gun fire.

  The rear door sat on its side, but when they opened it, Silas found the compartment within sitting perfectly upright due to its gyro controlled stabilizers. The transport’s spiral to the earth had left it unaffected, save for the actual shock of impact. Silas saw that the crew had just now begun to unfasten their safety restraints in order to move about the compartment. There, in the middle of everyone, lay Samuel Stokes. He remained unconscious, completely anesthetized, and held secure with buffer restraints as Silas’ informant had promised he would be. The prize was safe.

  Several technicians lay dazed upon the floor. They evidently hadn’t been strapped in. A man, who appeared to be in charge, stood up when Silas entered the compartment. “Who are you people?”

  Silas ignored him, instead speaking to his own team. “Secure Stokes.” His men obeyed. They floated a containment capsule through the door and began removing the restraints.

  “You can’t move him!” Sarkov said.

  Silas turned to the doctor with his gun raised. “Can’t we?”

  The doctor, who’d been moving toward Stokes’ body, halted abruptly and raised his hands. “He’s under deep anesthesia. If you move him, you’ll kill him.”

  “Considering the nature of your mission, I’m surprised that would bother you.”

  “How would you know our mission?” Sarkov asked.

  “Dr. Sarkov, I know everything,” Silas said.

  The doctor’s eyes widened. Silas paid him little attention. “Karen, why don’t you explain the situation to him…permanently?”

  Dr. Sarkov’s jaw dropped as he watched the anesthesiologist, Karen Thomas, take a pistol from Silas Chang’s hand. “Karen, how could you?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “For ten million credits, anything is possible,” she admitted.

  Silas’ men secured the IV lines and tubing from the anesthesia machine to a portable unit built into the containment capsule. “Time to go,” Silas said. “No time for chit-chat, Karen.”

  Dr. Sarkov raised his hands defensively, pleading. Karen raised the weapon and gunned him down without mercy. The other medical personnel watched in horror, but didn’t dare say anything. Silas’ men moved the body and prepared to leave.

  “Quite ruthless, my dear,” Silas said. “Exactly what I would expect from a traitor.” Karen turned to protest, only to find Silas’ submachine gun pointed at her chest. She raised her hands, as Sarkov had with the same pleading, and received the same end.

  2 CHIEF EXECUTIVES

  Jay Young woke to the chime of an incoming message. He glanced at the digital clock display on his bedside table. It read 3:20 a.m. He groaned, then tapped the receiver button next to the clock. An image of his personal assistant, Todd Metz, appeared on the far bedroom wall. “Yes?” Jay tried to unwind from his blankets and sit up in the bed.

  “Dr. Young, we have a problem,” Todd said, looking grim.

  The word “problem” snapped Jay completely upright and awake. He tapped the table console button allowing his assistant to see him, as well as hear. “What problem?”

  Todd swallowed hard. “It’s Psy-Corp, the Halo Project, sir.”

  “What about it? That project was terminated months ago.”

  Todd sighed.

  “Wasn’t it?” Jay asked.

  “Apparently not like we were told, sir. I’m afraid Dr. Sarkov has kept the last subject alive, and now there’s been an accident.”

  “Give me the quick and dirty, Todd.”

  “Dr. Sarkov and his team left the Psy-Corp facility just after midnight, apparently with the intention of finally disposing of the final subject, Samuel Stokes, at their Compound Seven facility. From what we’ve gathered, a terrorist organization has intercepted their transport, killed Dr. Sarkov, his team, and taken Stokes.”

  Jay closed his eyes, sighing. “What about the police?”

  “We’ve quarantined the transport crash site for now, but these terrorists killed sky lane, pylon workers in two states to pull this off. The FBI is already involved.”

  “We won’t be able to keep them out of the crash site for long,” Jay said. “Try to contain this as best you can until I get there.” He threw off the covers and stood up in his red silk pajamas.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.” Todd ended the transmission.

  “Light,” Jay said. The house computer complied, bringing up the illumination in the room gradually. Jay stood there, staring at a picture of his adopted daughter, Margot, hanging upon his wall. The picture frame segued between still photos and limited-motion images of the little girl.

  He closed his eyes. “Lord, what have we gotten ourselves into.” Memories of Dr. Sarkov showing off his Halo Project kids plagued him. They had been genetically mutated and then re-implanted invitro. It was just another version of the horrific tampering with man’s supposed evolution Jay had seen over the years. This time, there were innocent children paying the price.

  Jay remembered watching as Sarkov put the children through their paces, levitating objects, bursting concrete blocks with their minds, and even manipulating the thoughts of others. Sarkov had envisioned a race of super men. Instead, he had produced telekinetic children living on borrowed time, until their brain mutations carried them steadily into madness and finally death.

  Of the ten children originally produced, all had either died, or become too dangerous to remain alive. Of them all, Samuel Stokes had been the most gifted and clever, not to mention the longest survivor. As his degeneration progressed, following the onset of puberty, it had been decided that he finally held too great a risk to the public. His power had grown exponentially, so much so that he’d killed a dozen Psy-Corp employees in an escape attempt.

  Jay sat back down on the bed, feeling weary. He remembered his experience nearly thirty years ago with Trenton Hallowed. Jay had been tortured by the geneticist-gone-mad. Hallowed had killed dozens more in his attempt to spread his mutagen to the city’s masses. “I can’t let it happen again,” he whispered. “Please help me know what to do, Lord.”

  •

  Silas Chang unfastened his safety harness as his huge transport docked within an underground staging area used by their organization. The pilots reduced the engine power levels as Silas walked to the rear of the cabin, through a door leading into the rear compartment. Samuel Stokes lay safe and sound in his capsule with Silas’ own medical technicians attending to minor adjustments and monitoring his vital signs. “Take him on to the containment chamber,” Silas said, lighting one of his cigars. “We don’t want to keep the old man waiting.”

  Minutes later, Silas ran his fingers through his moussed black hair and straightened his tie in the reflection on Ming’s shiny, black office door. He took a final puff on his flavored cigar, then ground it out on the door facing and flicked the butt down the hall. Silas knocked, and the door opened revealing a mammoth slab of meat named Garth—one of Ming’s personal bodyguards. His twin, Anders, stood at Ming’s right side. The old man sat behind a black desk that obscured most of his body.

  “I see you’re still smoking those repulsive cigars,” Ming said, as Silas entered the roo
m.

  “Watching the hall again, were we?” Silas countered.

  “I see everything, Silas. I even see the hidden motives of my men.” Ming brushed his graying hair to one side. He removed his spectacles and wiped them with a monogrammed handkerchief.

  “When are you going to have your eyes done?” Silas asked, taking a seat where his back remained to the wall.

  Ming replaced the spectacles on his face, then leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. “I’m too old to bother with such things.”

  “It never hurts to try new things,” Silas said.

  Ming gave him a knowing look. “I suppose you’re referring to that monster you’ve brought into our midst, against my wishes.”

  “I assumed you—”

  “You assume too much, Silas,” Ming snapped. “I’ve noticed you asserting your own agenda for some time now.” Silas remained silent. The pistol under his coat gave him comfort. Even two brutes like Anders and Garth would lose against a well placed bullet. Ming continued. “I am still in control of the Ring. I was responsible for its organization forty years ago. I decide the course of our enterprises now.”

  Silas interrupted. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for us, Ming. Stokes is the last one, and if we can control him, maybe even learn how this power of his works—”

  “No!” Ming stood up, pounding his fist on the desktop. He pointed a bony at Silas. “You cannot control him. Even the scientists who made him could not control him!”

  Silas tried to control his temper.

  “I’ve seen all of this before, Silas. Thirty years ago, I longed for immortality, dangled before me like a carrot. I danced with the devil and it nearly got me killed. As it was, I spent a year in prison before getting off on a technicality. I thought I might be able to control Trenton Hallowed, but he nearly destroyed my operation…never again.”