Jack Yeovil - Demon Download

"You're gibbering, woman."

"No, this isn't possible, sir. The system appears to have…to have made something up."

Lauderdale was using the remote guidance facility to lock the androids onto Stack's heat patterns. Once that was in their tiny minds, they would implacably pursue him until he was dead.

"I may not be a brain like you, Captain Finney," Rintoon said, "but I am given to understand that systems don't tell lies. Is that or is that not the case?"

"Sir…usually, but…"

"Fine. That's it then. "We'll finish the sumpsucker now, save the country the cost of a trial."

"Think about it, sir. Stack's been Cav for fifteen years. He hasn't had enough leave days to zap about the country committing 159 murders. And look at that remark there. "Genius level intelligence." You can't believe our psych profiles wouldn't have shown that up. The guy is just a Trooper, for freak's sake!"

"I will not tolerate that kind of language, Finney. Colonel Vladek W. Rintoon runs a tight ship, a clean ship. An officer must conduct herself with honour, dignity and cheerfulness at all times. An officer must be obedient, resourceful, well-turned-out, vigilant, aware…"

Rintoon's tunic buttons were done up wrongly.

Lauderdale knew he would have to end this charade soon, and take command. He could keep the fort's personnel busy while the demon did its work in the depths.

Finney stood up and turned her terminal off.

"I resign my commission," she said, walking for the door.

"This is mutiny, woman, mutiny. I could have you shot down like a dog."

The automatic doors opened for Finney's cardkey.

"…like a dog!"

Finney looked around.

"Anyone else had enough?" she said.

Lieutenant Colosanto got up, her eyes cried out, and went to the Captain. A couple of techies darted out into the corridor. Finney looked at the door guard, who stepped aside for her, and followed.

There were alarms sounding all over the fort.

"This is desertion," Rintoon screamed, "DESERTION!"

The doors closed.

Rintoon wheeled around, looking for someone to tie up and whip, interrogate or shoot down like a dog. Lieutenant Lenihan was clearing his console. He froze as the Colonel bore down on him.

"It's the end of my shift, sir. I have to stand down. I've been on duty for over thirty-eight hours."

Rintoon grunted, and clenched his fists.

"It's regs, sir," said Lenihan. "I'm not allowed to stay at the console longer than that. I could freak up, and get us all killed. I have to have downtime now. It's in the book."

Lenihan backed towards the door, and fumbled with his cardkey. Rintoon had his sidearm out…

Good, let the Colonel take care of spilling the blood…

Rintoon fired at the Lieutenant, and missed. The doors opened, and Lenihan was running down the corridor.

Lauderdale took a console, and finished feeding Stack's patterns to the androids.

"Desertion, mutiny," muttered Rintoon. Lauderdale ignored the mad old man. "Desertion, mutiny, treachery, betrayal…"

Behind him, Rintoon slumped in a chair, burbling to himself.

Lauderdale got on with his business.

Chantal knew London Bridge was too obvious, too easy. The fort would have it completely covered. It was probably mined, too. So she headed through the ghost town for the Colorado basin. She ran past the dilapidated row of Olde Englishe Pubbes, dodging mortar fire from the battlements. A red phone box up ahead exploded, and she had to roll behind a Hyde Park Bench to avoid the flying fragments of glass and metal.

She had never been to London, funnily enough. Unless she was careful in the next few hours, she would never get the chance.

A drone made a pass, its beam strafing a row of statues. Noel Coward came apart at the waist. David Niven got it at chest-height. Charlie Chaplin's bowler-hatted head rolled. Mary Poppins' umbrella melted. Sherlock Holmes' deerstalker was sheared off just above his beaklike nose. Queen Victoria was not amused. And a chirpy Pearly King grinned at it all.

From what she had heard, London was a drab, gray place these days, full of people complaining about rationing and the queues. Maybe she would give it a miss.

She assumed a position, up on one knee, and followed the drone with her gunsight.

She potted it with her first shot. It cracked apart like a clay pigeon.

All the commotion flushed a sandrat out of his hidey-hole. He had been inside one of the pubs. Still clutching a bottleneck, and wrapped from head to foot in Royal Family commemorative towels, he ran out of The Stoat and Compasses and looked around, obviously annoyed.

"Get down," she shouted.

The sandrat's brain must have been completely fried by the sun and his liquid diet, because he gave her the British V for Victory sign and raised the bottle to his lips, dislodging the towel around his mouth so he could take a swig. He had the face of the heir to the throne wrapped over his own.

A shell exploded near the sandrat, and his bottle splintered in his hands. Yellow fluid showered around him. He put his fingers up again, but a piece of shrapnel had gone into his forehead. Prince Andrew's face soaked up the blood, and the sandrat went down. The Stoat and Compasses collapsed on top of him.

Chantal jumped off the quay, and landed like a cat. There were still rowing boats hanging from the mooring rings in the quay wall, thirty feet above the dry riverbed. It would be a dash across the open to the next cover, the other bank, and then a scramble up to the walls of the Fort.

The Colorado basin stank, its mudflats streaked with rainbow-coloured pollution traces. Quite apart from the dead Trooper lying out there, the riverbed had become the repository for all manner of garbage.

Explosive rounds slammed into the crumbling stone and earth wall behind her, and she pushed herself away.

She remembered Mother Kazuko, and concentrated her thoughts within her body. It was a dangerous sprint. The mud was soft, still damp in places, and there were too many half-buried bedsteads, bicycles and prams over which she could easily trip…

…and if she tripped, she wouldn't just have a sprained ankle. She would be dead.

She ran like a dancer, on the points of her toes, hurdling the more obvious obstacles.

Her time for the 300 meters wasn't as good as it would have been on a track. But no one was shooting at you at athletics meets.

Her heart hammering, she shot into the loose earth of the riverbank, and pressed herself flat against the gentle slope. She was close to the fort now. None of the major defences were good against her. If they still poured boiling oil or molten lead, she would have a problem.

There was still fire from the battlements, but the angle was too steep. The best the gunners could do was to place their shots twenty yards behind her.

She elbowed herself up the bank, keeping her SIG out of the dirt, pushing with her toes.

She wondered how Stack was doing in the desert.

Finally, she was out of the river, and, after another sprint, had her back to the wall of Fort Apache. She was next to a sign reading PLEASE KEEP OFF THE GRASS that was incongruosly planted in bare sand. The metal was warm, and smooth. She would have to edge her way around until she found a way in.

The cutting lase in Federico would have been useful about now. She would have to prise her way through a batch with her knife. Or hope someone inside wasn't too far gone to give her some assistance.

She trusted that the Lord would see her through. But she was prepared to give the Almighty some help.

Another sign, reading THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING, was burning steadily. The melting plastic gave off noxious fumes.

Twenty yards down the wall, an aperture opened.