Matthew Reilly - Temple

“This place belongs to a guy named Wilbur Francis James, better known as “Bluey’.’ Demonaco said. “He used to be a radio operator in the Army, but he got discharged for stealing equipment from the office frequency scanners, M16s. Now he’s a smalltime crook who acts as a liaison between the Texans and certain criminal elements who supply them with guns and intelligence. A couple of months ago, we caught him with three stolen canisters of VX nerve gas, but we decided to withhold pressing charges if he helped us with our own intelligence gathering. He’s been very reliable so far.’ They arrived at a cramped little apartment on the top floor of the warehouse, guarded by a pair of Baltimore beat cops. They went inside. It was a crappy; disgusting apartment, with damp floorboards and peeling wallpaper. Demonaco was met by a young black agent named Han son and the leader of the Baltimore Police Department’s Bomb Squad, a small squat man named Barker. Bluey James himself sat in the corner of the room with his arms crossed. He chugged on a cigarette defiantly. He was a small unshaven runt of a man, with dreadlocked brown hair and a filthy Hawaiian shirt. On his feet he wore sandals— with socks.

‘What have you got?” Demonaco asked Hanson.

‘When we arrived, we found nothing,’ the young agent said, eyeing Bluey James scornfully. ‘But upon further examination we found this.’

Hanson handed Demonaco a package about the size of a small book. It was wrapped in brown paper and was unopened. With it was an ordinary looking white envelope which had been opened. ‘It was hidden behind a false panel in the wall,’ Hanson said.

Demonaco turned to Bluey. ‘Inventive,” he said. ‘You’re getting smarter in your old age, Bluey.’

‘Blow me.’

‘Xray?’ Demonaco said to the man named Barker

‘It’s clean,’ the bomb squad man said. ‘Judging by the scan, it looks like a CD or something.’

Bluey James snorted. ‘I didn’t know it was a fucking crime in this country for a man to buy himself a CD. Although it probably should be for the shit you’d listen to, Demonaco.’

‘What, you don’t like “Achy Breaky Heart”?’ Demonaco said. He looked at the white envelope, pulled a slip of paper from it. It read: WHEN WE HAVE THE THYRIUM, I WILL CONTACT YOU DIRECTLY. AFTER YOU RECEIVE MY CALL, EMAIL THE CONTENTS OF THIS DISC TO EACH OF THE FOLLOWING ORGANISATIONS. After that there was a list of about a dozen names and addresses, all of them relating to television networks or channels—CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX. Demonaco turned the brown paper package over in his hands. What could Earl Bittiker want to email to every major television network in the country? He ripped open the package. And saw a gleaming silver compact disc. The first thing he noticed about it, however, was that it wasn’t an ordinary CD. It was a VCD—a video compact disc. He turned.

“Bluey, what the hell is this?’

“The Best of Billy Ray Cyrus. Just for you, asshole.’

“Hey, Demonaco,’ Mitchell said, nodding at a VCD player over by Bluey’s trinitron television. Next to the TV stood a black IBM computer. All three objects looked completely out of place in the otherwise dilapidated apartment. Demonaco slid the compact disc into the VCD player and hit ‘PLAY’. The face of Earl Bittiker appeared on the television screen instantly. It was an ugly face—an evil face—pitted with scars and hate. Bittiker had sanguine, hollow features, with stringy blond hair and cold grey eyes that showed nothing but the world of rage that existed behind them. In the background behind the terrorist, Demonaco and Mitchell saw the Supernova. Bittiker spoke directly into the lens.

“People of the world. My name is Earl Bittiker and I am the AntiChrist. ‘If you are watching this message, then you are about to die. At exactly 12 noon today, Eastern Standard Time, you will all be killed at the hands of a weapon that was created by your own taxes. A weapon that in a few hours’ time is going to send this whole vile world to the place where it belongs. ‘To the people of the world—I have no quarrel with you. It is the world you inhabit that I hate, a world that no longer deserves to exist. It is a diseased dog and it must be put down. ‘To the governments of the world—you are to blame for this state of affairs. Communists, capitalists and fascists alike, you all grew fat while the people you governed starved. You all grew rich while they grew poor, you lived in mansions while they lived in ghettos. ‘Human nature is the desire of one man to rule over another. It comes in many guises, many forms—from office politics to ethnic cleansing—and it is performed by all of us, from the lowest foreman to the Chief Executive of the United States. But its character remains the same. It is about power and ruling. But it is a cancer on this world and that cancer must now be terminated.

‘To the television networks who receive this message, contact the Navy or the Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency and ask them what has happened to their Supernova. Ask them about its existence and its purpose. Ask them about the seventeen security staff who died two days ago when my men raided DARPA headquarters in Virginia. I’m sure that noone has informed you of this incident, because that’s the way governments work today. After you’ve done all that, ask your government if this’—he pointed at the device behind him—‘is what they’re looking for.’ Bittiker stared hard into the lens. ‘People of the world, I make no demands of you. I do not ask for a ransom. I do not want political prisoners released from their cells. There is no way you can stop me detonating this device. Not now. Not even There is nothing you can do to stop this from happening. At twelve noon today, we’ll all be going to Hell together.’

The screen cut to hash. A long silence followed as everyone digested what Bittiker had just said. Even Bluey James was aghast.

‘Fuck me…’ he breathed.

‘Very clever,’ Demonaco said. ‘He only stated the time it’ll go off. Twelve noon. Now all he has to do is find the thyrium and get in touch with Bluey and his plan is all set.’

He turned to face Mitchell. ‘I think we just found your Supernova, Commander.’

Then to Bluey: “Am I to assume that you haven’t got that call yet?’

‘What do you think, fucknut?’

‘What do you know about all this, Bluey?’ Demonaco said, changing his tone.

‘What I always know, man. Jack shit.’

‘If you don’t tell me something right now, I’ve going to have you charged with aiding and abetting in the murder of seventeen security staff at a federal—’

‘Hey, man, weren’t you fucking listening? The world is about to end. What does aiding and abetting matter now?’

‘I guess that all depends on who you think is gonna win this little contest, us or Bittiker.’

‘Bittiker,’ Bluey said flatly.

‘Then it looks like you’ll be spending your last few hours on this Earth in jail,’ Demonaco said, nodding to the two cops at the door.

‘Take this little weasel away.’

The two cops grabbed Bluey by the arms.

‘Oh, now wait just a fucking minute…’ Bluey said.

‘Sorry, Bluey.’

‘All right listen, man, listen! I had nothing to do with no murders, okay. I’m just the go between, all right. I deal on Bittiker’s behalf. Like a lawyer. Which I might say hasn’t been so easy lately since he’s been going off the fucking deep end.’

‘He’s been going off the deep end?’ Demonaco waved the two policemen away.

‘Like yeah. Where you been, man? First he lets a whole group of fucking chinks join the Texans. Japs, man. Fuckin’ Japs. You should see these little fuckers. Fucking kamikazes, man. They’re from some messed up cult in Japan. Wanna destroy the world and all that shit. But Earl, he decides he likes what they got to say and he lets ‘em in the movement. But then—fuck—then he goes and does the strangest thing of all. He goes and merges with the fucking Freedom Fighters.’