Resurface Read online

  So he did it anyway. The three men screamed. They each clutched their ears, tearing at them, their eyes bulging as their earpieces overloaded. Their guns clattered to the floor, forgotten. They jerked and then lay inert.

  On the table the laptop was hissing and emitting steam.

  "What just happened?" Mandy picked up two of the guns, the large man grabbed the other. "Who the hell are you, Tom?"

  Tom stared at them all, feeling the pain surge in his head. "You really don't want to know."

  Mandy pulled a knife from her belt. She stepped towards Tom, flashing the blade. "Some things need to be dealt with." She looked into Tom's eyes, seemed to shudder then stepped behind him. "Thank you for saving us."

  Tom felt his bonds being cut. "This wasn't your fight. I suggest you stay out of it."

  "What did they inject you with?"

  "Another thing that I don't know. But what I do know is they won't have come alone." He knelt down and pulled one of the earpieces out.

  The doctor whistled. "Government issue?"

  Tom grimaced. "Probably."

  "Which government?" asked Mandy. "Mine? Yours?"

  "Might be a private operation. Does it matter?"

  The doctor shook his head. "We thought it was just one company stealing from another. Now we might have governments getting involved. What exactly did you take?"

  "Nothing by choice." Tom looked around. "Have you got a street map?"

  Mandy pulled one out of her backpack.

  "Open it up. I'm going to tell you the way out of here." Tom placed the earpiece in his own ear and listened. The voices had cut off. Clearly the others had realised that these three had been compromised, but he could still feel activity. He reached out. And he knew where they were.

  "At least we have some decent guns now," the large shaven-headed man said, examining the pistol, hefting it in his hand.

  "Except you won't get to use them," said Tom. "They'll have snipers. Probably drones." He stabbed his finger on the map and traced a line north. "You need to go this way. It's masked from their line of sight."

  "How could you know that?" asked the doctor.

  Tom hesitated. "Did you really think I was just an office worker?"

  "You're not coming with us?" asked Mandy.

  "I think it's best if I go my own way. Unless you guys have a problem with that?"

  Thirty-Two

  THE WHITE VAN WAS PARKED a mere three miles from William Bern's estate in a small side road overlooking a lake, not another soul in sight. The driver had parked where he had been told to wait, half-watching the road, half-reading the paper, having given up on the crossword. It was a beautiful still evening, not a breath of wind, barely a cloud in the sky. It didn't seem like the type of place where something important would happen, yet that was precisely what he had been told in his briefing - this was not a task in which failure would be accepted. However, on most of the details they had been irritatingly vague. All he knew was that he had to wait--

  There was a knock on the window. With a start the driver looked up and saw a man standing there, wearing what looked like a dark blue boiler-suit. The man bore an odd, flat expression, but he had been told not to ask questions, just to follow instructions.

  The man in blue inclined his head. "Ready to go?" There was only the faintest suggestion that it was a question.

  The driver nodded and unlocked the side door, sliding it open. It revealed a hidden row of rear seats in a compartment clad in special panelling. The man in blue climbed in and closed the door. The driver watched his passenger strap himself in, then pulled smoothly away. His instructions were to drive steadily and carefully. His only objective was to get his passenger to the destination in one piece, having attracted no attention.

  Four hours later, after following a circuitous route, the van arrived on the Dorset coast at a small inlet. The man in blue climbed out and the white van drove off.

  The man walked down to the pebbly beach, chose three small stones and threw them one after the other in quick succession. The pre-arranged signal.

  From around the headland a dinghy with a powerful outboard motor appeared. It bumped and crashed towards the man, then cut its power, gliding the last few metres.

  The driver of the boat touched his cap.

  "You have your instructions?" asked the man in blue.

  "Yes," said the driver, who had also been told not to ask questions. "Although they don't make any sense."

  "I imagine not," said the man. "Just do as you've been told."

  "You're the boss."

  Behind the face-mask of his suit, William Bern smiled.

  Thirty-Three

  KATE PLACED THE ARCHIVE BOX on the conference room table. She'd chosen a discrete room on Level 32 of CERUS Tower and had a colleague make the booking; she knew the risks she was taking and wasn't yet ready to draw her activities to Lentz's attention. Even though her activities had started to bear fruit.

  Her initial plan had been to investigate Bern's records to see if anything still existed about the time when he and Tom's mother had had their affair, but everything about Bern had been seized by the government and any searches she made would immediately flag on the system. So she had started by learning a little more about Amelia from the public record. Kate had the photo Tom had given her in the restaurant. It looked like it was taken for a passport application. Plain, unsmiling, it told her little about the woman. After only minimal investigations, it had become apparent that 'Amelia Faraday' was not who she appeared to be.

  The details were perfect: the birth certificate, the tax records. But beyond that the illusion fell apart. Her parents had only been fabricated in the most cursory manner. It would fool the average civilian, but not a determined researcher.

  Perhaps it was not surprising. Tom's mother had clearly tried to have nothing to do with Bern after Tom was born, and changing your identity was one obvious step in making a clean break. Now I know who she wasn't, thought Kate. How does that help me work out who she was?

  Tom had said she was a physicist, not a high-level executive. How would she and Bern have met? They likely moved in very different social circles. What about at work? Could it be that Amelia had worked at CERUS? But presumably under the name she had changed from. Photo records from that time period were not digitised on the system, so facial recognition was out of the question. There had to be a more deductive way to the answer.

  What if she kept the same first name? Kate had conducted a few investigations into corporate criminals who had sought to change their identities, and in many cases they had kept the same first name: to change it would have been too much of an adjustment. So Kate checked CERUS' records for someone called Amelia, of the same approximate age, and immediately found an Amelia Fourier, who had worked at CERUS at the right time, then left shortly afterwards. Could it be that easy? The actual employee records were old and in hard copy only. She'd called up the relevant files from offsite storage. And now they were in the box in front of her.

  Kate used scissors to break the tape sealing the box then opened it. The documents were old and musty, crackling as she picked them up. There were five files; the first was for a lab technician, Edna Kim - the photo showed a woman wearing heavy-framed glasses, whose smile looked a little forced. Kate knew she'd given a smile or two like that in the last 12 months.

  The second file made her stop: it was Richard Armstrong. The scientist who had been murdered a year ago - her original contact at CERUS. Was it coincidence he was in the same box? Kate gave a heavy sigh. Delving into the past would likely uncover more questions than answers. She turned to the next file and smiled.

  It was labelled Amelia Fourier. Kate withdrew it and flipped it open. Just a few short documents. Formal employee records. She looked at the photo clipped to the front page and let out a sigh.

  It was Tom's mother.

  She glanced through the other papers - mostly banal, standard stuff. But one item caught her attention: a record of a for
mal interview. Amelia had been questioned in regard to a security breach at one of the company's facilities, linked with a project she had been working on. The last page of the document was missing.

  Kate's phone rang, jarring her from her thoughts. Her eyes widened as she saw it was Lentz. She pressed to answer. "I've been trying to get hold of you for—"

  "Have you heard the news?" Lentz asked in a quiet voice.

  "What?"

  "This is for your ears only right now, but I want you to get your head round it. Bern has escaped - he removed his tracker and left his mansion."

  "What? How?"

  "That's not clear, but it obviously involved a lot of planning. Although I don't think Reems is telling me everything. What did you want to speak to me about?"

  Kate hesitated. She could mention her meeting with Tom, but decided not to. "I heard something from a source. If I share it, you have to promise not to ask who that is."

  "What did you hear?"

  "That Reems authorised Bern's release."

  "A source you say? Are you being a journalist again?

  "I still have my contacts."

  "OK, I'll accept that for now. If you're right... just get ready for the repercussions."

  Kate glanced at the personnel file on the table. "Why? What are you going to do?"

  "Bern rarely leaves clues behind, except those he wants to. But maybe Reems knows more than she is saying. So I'm going to go ask her."

  Thirty-Four

  TOM COULD FEEL THE BUZZ in his brain, the echoing surge of adrenalin, but while he could sense the danger around him, he did not panic. The icy feeling from the injection still lingered, but, free from the effect of the tranquilliser and being tied up, he felt energised. Which was good, because he needed to get away.

  He descended two flights of stairs and pushed through a fire exit. He stood in dusty sunshine, slammed with a cacophony of sounds and smells. This was not a small town: this was a city. And a city was connected, plugged into the rest of the world. He stopped and extended his senses, searching for a network. He found several.

  This was no time to think about the consequences. He had to get away and for that he needed information. Within moments the nanites in his blood, hungry for connection, were interfacing. Protocols were forming and exchanging, channels of communication were establishing and broadening. Data flowed into him.

  Tom's eyes widened at the rush. For a moment it threatened to overwhelm him. After so long away, he was a parched man in the desert, desperate to slake his thirst. He had to slow down, to take things steadily. Then he might be able to use the information, to absorb it. As he throttled back, he began to pluck useful data points from it all.

  He knew where he was: Lima, the capital of Peru. A sprawling, eclectic metropolis of over seven million people, a mix of the modern and the degraded. He was west of the centre, near a business district. There were street cameras, although nowhere near as many as in London or New York. But it was enough to gather an idea of where people and things were, particularly when combined with other data from cell phone towers and GPS devices.

  From one camera he saw his former captors heading east, away from the ocean. They should be safe, at least today. He could do nothing for them in the longer term. But for now he was pretty sure the others would be focusing on him.

  He turned north-west, feeling for his enemies. He still had the earpiece and planted it in his ear. Breaking the encryption to listen in was not proving possible, but he could feel where the signals were coming from. There were three of them and they were closing in on him fast. He knew they would be armed. They might hesitate to use their weapons in public. Or they might not.

  He needed to make sure they didn't have a target. It shouldn't be too hard: he had a whole city to lose himself in. He looked at the street map in his head and began plotting a path.

  Of course, he had to be careful not to ask too much of his body. But that thought was pushed from his mind as he overlaid the signals from the team members closing on his position, with the map in his head. He started running.

  He quickly realised the mere fact of running in this heat drew attention from everyone around him, so he slowed to a brisk walk, then quietly grabbed a cap from a street vendor who wasn't paying attention, and pulled it low over his head. He took a side street, threaded his way amongst a crowd of people in a chaotic street bazaar, then emerged in a large plaza.

  The three signals continued to move towards where he had been held captive. He kept trying to decrypt the earpieces, but to no avail. Still, every moment was putting distance between him and them. They weren't going to find him now. His thoughts started to shift to where he would go next.

  But then something changed.

  There was a sudden increase in activity from the three communicators. Three more signals appeared on the map in his head, west of the building – closer to where he was now. All six signals began moving towards him.

  He closed his eyes. As he did, three more signals appeared.

  Closer to him again.

  Now he had nine pursuers. He wasn't quite surrounded. Not yet. It was like some type of cell structure. New resources were activated when they were needed, cascading as required. He had considerably underestimated the team following him.

  And how did they know where he was, which, given their trajectory, surely they must? He looked up, wondering if a satellite was overhead. But it would never provide the kind of detail needed to follow him in an environment this busy.

  He pushed ahead, the crowd growing around him, a mass of figures going about their business. As he made his way through, someone bumped into him, although the contact was less than fleeting. But he had an odd sensation. Something in his blood almost fizzed, a feeling both strange and strangely familiar.

  He spun around. Was it one of them? Someone he hadn't even detected? But nobody seemed to be watching him. Nobody cared who he was. Then he felt a vibration in his pocket. To his surprise he removed an old mobile phone. He had never seen it before. On its screen was a text message.

  They're tracking you.

  He blinked and tapped back. Who is this?

  The reply was almost instantaneous. Someone who knows they're tracking you.

  How do YOU know? There was no reply. Tom kept walking and typed again. How are they tracking me? If you want to help, then help.

  I'd say 'search me'. But it should be 'search you'.

  Tom rubbed his forehead. He broke into a run again, heading for the container port.

  The phone buzzed. You can run, but you can't hide. They will find you.

  Another three dots had lit up on the map in his head. Now twelve people were converging on his location from every direction except out to sea. He swore and began sprinting. Then three more dots lit up. That made fifteen. Two were directly in front of him.

  He saw them immediately: large, strong, holding odd-looking pistols, that Tom quickly realised were taser-guns. They probably didn't mean to kill him, but apparently had no concerns with making him suffer a little. He reached out, feeling for their earpieces. But as he did so, he saw, with a howl of internal frustration, that the wired devices were hanging loose around their necks. Clearly they'd worked out what he had done to the other team members. His enemy wasn't stupid. Tom looked at the two huge figures advancing on him. He turned and ran.

  The phone buzzed again. You need to learn some new tricks.

  Tom's head pounded as he searched for a way out. He could not keep interfacing like this. It was too draining, even without running at full speed. If he didn't stop soon, he was going to collapse. He felt the map in his head flicker. And then another dot appeared in front of him. He ground to a halt and looked left and right, but there was nowhere for him to go.

  The man waved his removed earpiece and advanced slowly, a grim expression on his face. Behind him the two other men caught up. "We don't want to hurt you," said the man in front. "But nothing in our instructions says we can't."

  To
m thought fast. He wasn't helpless in a fight, but he wasn't equipped or trained to deal with three highly-skilled assailants, each with a fifty per-cent bodyweight advantage. And yet if he didn't fight them, then soon he'd be contending with – he checked his map – sixteen. The men closed in on him. Tom prepared to move, wishing he'd spent more time during the past year learning self-defence. He heard the sharp sound of a rifle firing three times in quick succession.

  The three men collapsed, each with a bullet hole in their head. People nearby started screaming and pointing fingers. Tom realised he needed to make himself scarce. He ran on, until the waterfront was in sight. The remaining thirteen dots continued to follow.

  The phone vibrated again. You're welcome.

  THX, he replied, sending the message with a quick thought.

  I said they were tracking you. You're smart, I'm sure you can work it out.

  Tom hesitated. How were they doing it? He thought back to when the 'buyer' had arrived. He had patted Tom on the... He swore and reached for his shoulder. And there it was: a tiny metal stud, stuck like velcro to his t-shirt.

  He glared at it, then connected to it and forced every ounce of his hatred into its receiver. Somewhere else he sensed something exploding. Then he threw the stud on the ground and walked on. He had so many questions - including who was the mystery shooter who had just helped him - but first he needed to put some distance between himself and the remaining pursuers.

  An hour later, he had covered another five miles and had reached a small plaza on the city outskirts. Intermittent glances at the map in his head showed him his pursuers had lost any sense of where he was. His mobile phone had buzzed no more and, not knowing the motives of whoever had given it to him, he had left it in a waste bin. Perhaps the mystery of who had helped him would remain just that.

  He had won, at least for now. He needed to get back home, back on his own territory. This whole trip had been a bad idea. The game had changed and he could no longer assume he was safe anywhere. But before he could do anything he had to eat: he was desperately hungry, close to collapse. He had used the Interface far too much and it had taken from him: resources his body could not afford.