Lieutenant Kelly Jade tore her way down route ninety-five on a black Kawasaki ZX-10R sports motorbike. On her left the pre-dawn sky painted the Nevada Desert a bleeding red; on her right a small roadhouse and a dead neon sign shot past and made Kelly feel like a round fired from a .50 cal. Kelly squeezed the throttle and weaved around a semi-trailer. Ahead of her, Las Vegas.
At 80mh the steel slate of suburbia smashed against the arid desert, giving the impression of teleporting from the wilds to some mechanical place in the blink of an eye, from one realm to another. Kelly had tremendous respect for the desert – the land was ruthless and stubborn – but even this unconquerable land eventually fell to the development zone.
The com unit in Kelly’s helmet sounded a tone and Captain Miller’s name appeared in her visor’s heads up display. By now the traffic had gotten exponentially worse and the air a little warmer, and steamier. She answered the call with a voice command.
“Sir.”
“Kelly. Agent Connors and I are waiting for you. Your escort vehicle hasn’t left the garage.”
“Thought I’d take the Ninja, sir.” Her visor indicated the route she needed to take to reach the warehouse. She pulled a hard right and her bike roared with the momentum. “I’ll be right with you.”
Las Vegas really was a wild mix of ancient landscapes and violently modern industry. The highways were rivers of speeding trucks and rich convertibles, bending and winding in massive overpasses around rock pinnacles and escarpments that had been cocooned in grubby black alloys. As Kelly swung the Ninja onto a high road she caught a glimpse of the old city. The Eiffel Tower, a reminder of all the parts of the world she sorely missed. And the Space Needle, which so much reminded her of home.
Kelly rolled through a set of non-automatic gates and slowed to a stop outside the rendezvous point, a run-down warehouse, a blatant reminder that things were just as bad as they seemed, that the FBI and US Army had to plan operations in places like this, completely off the books, because they were terrified of what enemy intelligence would leech from their systems.
Kelly killed the Kawasaki’s engine and removed her helmet, her auburn red hair fell around her shoulders.
Inside the warehouse, two men leaned over an isolated table where a dim desk lamp cast shadows across their faces. A data-pad, some paper maps and a few official-looking CIA documents were spread out before the men. Kelly’s boots made little sound as she approached, getting close to the centre of the warehouse before the men looked up.
Agent Connors crossed his arms and immediately looked Kelly up and down. He was judging his new asset. His eyes were as grey as his hair. Looking at his suit and his regard for the Special Forces Connors was probably old-fashioned CIA.
Captain Miller wore civilian clothes but he didn’t disguise his tone of voice here, and based on the pristine tidiness in the way he wore that black flight jacket he might as well have been wearing his green beret and service medals. Miller gave Kelly a curt nod.
“Captain, it’s good to see you.”
“You made the arrangements?” said Miller.
“Good to go, sir.” Kelly looked at Connors. “What’s the assignment?”
Connors drew their attention to the plans on the table.
“We’re sending you into the demilitarised zone for a reconnaissance mission. The government doesn’t believe that the recent cultist activities are posing any serious threat to national security. So far the cult have been operating far away from all major cities, preferring to stick to small towns and the edge of the urban sprawl. It is true that they haven’t explicitly caused any problems yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Cult of what, exactly?” Kelly asked.
“Their method of ‘worship’ is based almost entirely around the religion of dataism, new technology, mainly info-tech and AI but reports are a little mixed. Looks they’re treating their AI like some sort of deity figure, but putting it frankly these guys look to me like cyber extremists.”
“Chain of command?”
Connors selected a file and flicked it open. Inside was a profile detailing a man in his mid-forties.
“Anton Harrell, Silicon Valley billionaire renowned for developing advanced cybernetics and other experimental-type technologies, including a handful of off-the-books projects that were later deemed highly illegal. Proclaimed dead 05 April 2021, conveniently a few months before the technological-crash massacred most of Harrell Industries competitors. Right before the crash a few billion dollars’ worth of corporate and private data went missing and it was believed that Harrell Industries siphoned it off from the other tech giants in the valley, of course Harrell dropped off the grid before he could be convicted.”
“He seems busy for a dead man.”
“Our agents believe that Anton Harrell is using his dataist followers to steal information and sell it on the black market.”
“We already have two operatives in the field,” said Captain Miller, hands behind his back, head high. “I believe you and Dunstan Riley know each other?”
Connors slid one of the files across the table. “Your objective will be to rendezvous with the Riley, confirm the identity of Anton Harrell, and recover the stolen data. The cult’s M.O. is similar to your local crime syndicate, they’re hitting us with military-grade cyberware but otherwise they are non-hostile. Any tech you use is liable to be compromised so watch out. Remember these are unarmed American citizens, you are unauthorised to engage or otherwise antagonise the cult. I want this done quick and clean, understood?”
“Affirmative.”
Connors selected another CIA document and handed it to Kelly. “Here’s your mission file. I can’t stress this enough, these cultists are masters at stealing data so be careful with what information you transmit and where.”
“Understood, sir.”
Connors shook Kelly’s hand and nodded to Miller.
“Captain. Lieutenant. Good hunting.”
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