- Joined
- Aug 11, 2010
- Messages
- 2,102
The still of artificial, cabin-crew air pressed against every surface of the aircraft as it cruised, 39,000 feet above sea level, at seven hundred miles-per-hour, a metal bullet in the glint of moonlight. A careful concoction of ozone, lemon-scented disinfectant and the fragrance of used diapers permeated the vents of the hindmost cabin in the Boeing-777. Most of its passengers lay asleep. Still two in the morning in London, where the plane had disembarked an hour earlier, who could blame them? Many were families returning home from their vacations; a fair few were executives whose employers had spared the luxury of Business Class in light of recent budget cuts; but the ones who made their presence most known were the babies to the front—two of them—who bawled and cried for no apparent reason, with parents too exhausted to care.
Among the two, maybe three, passengers still awake was the man in aisle seat 54F. Light from a single bulb overhead streamed onto the Motorola Xoom on his lap, but his eyes were fixed, away from the screen, on the infinite blackness that—paradoxically, despite of the aircraft’s sub-transonic velocity—seemed to stagnate outside the window. He was probably the only man on the plane who had Internet access (a perk of being a national security operative was access to communication satellites unknown to the public, which ensured continuous global connectivity) though there was no real need for it now: his instructions were clear enough, and his mind was elsewhere.
‘The directive could not be made simpler, Demetrius,’ Liam Marcus, Chief of Psionic Affairs at MI6, had instructed twelve hours earlier. Overweight and greying, Liam Marcus was clearly a man of the desk, not the field. ‘Enter, isolate and remove. Do whatever you must—we want him alive, and we want him now.’
The chief had been talking about Doctor Niels, pioneer of the Psionic Synthesis Initiative, who, like Demetrius, wasn’t a practicing doctor, at all (although for different reasons); who had all but vanished from existence for the past half-decade after selling patents for the PSIn virus; and who MI6 had grown a peculiar penchant for in the past year.
‘Our COMINT analysts have intercepted emails from North Korea that have fired up the PSIn keyword filters; someone is talking to the commies about psionics. And the only person enough of an idiot to do business with them, who stands to gain anything from it, is Niels.’ Liam had slammed a fist on the table, paused for emphasis, then continued. His voice was no louder than a whisper, as if afraid to let his secrets slip past further borders. ‘And you can bet that if we’ve picked up on it, every goddam country in the G20 that greed-infected scientist sold PSIn to will have also.’
Demetrius had only nodded at this. He needed no further explaining to understand the global consequences of North Korea acquiring PSIn technology. After all, they had been the first and only to break the almost-decade long period without nuclear tests in 2006. And though the media had harked the success of South Korean fuel aid in initiating its denuclearization schedule a year later, Demetrius was inclined to believe that the threat of an international psionic assault took a bigger cut of the cake. PSIn was the only upper hand anyone really had at preventing a nuclear event.
‘The commies’ last nuke was in 2009. We’ve been on high alert for PSIn since then, because it’s the only thing that’d give them enough balls to whip out their missiles in public and play with them again.’
Demetrius remembered perking up at the implausibility. ‘And you think Niels has been in contact with the North Koreans since then, all the while slipping our net, before ending up next door to them in Russia.’
‘Earlier. We just haven’t been able to pick up their communications until now.’ Liam had rotated the computer monitor around, so Demetrius could see the picture of a stretch more traffic than road in the twilight. For every car in sight—and there were a fair few at peak hour—at least four pedestrians took to the sidewalk. ‘Eight minutes after the last email was intercepted, IP address identified and geography localized, we found this image in the Russian hidden street-cam databank.’
At first Demetrius hadn’t made out what he was supposed to see. Then Liam had pointed a finger at the screen; his clubby fingernails were larger than the blurry faces on it. The realization struck him with all the force of a heat wave in the Mediterranean sun. The features were hazy, yes, but there was no denying it: the elusive Doctor Hermann Niels had finally been caught, even if only on camera.
‘Why Russia?’
‘That, Demetrius, is what you are going to find out.’
A sudden jerk in the airplane threw the man sitting in seat 54F out of his reverie. The jet had hit unforeseen air turbulence, and the usual cascade of events followed: seat belt lights switched on, crewmembers scurried back to their stations, the speakers announced the self-evident and the babies to the front cried that much louder, as if attempting to drown it out. Through all this, the man continued to stare out of the window, at the flashing red light on the plane’s wingtip that darted up when the cabin fell, and down when it rose. He marveled at the strength of the aluminum and wondered what would happen if—between the fourfold pressure difference inside the cabin and out, and the paroxysm that wracked its wings—it decided to give way in one terrible snap.
He perished the thought and found himself once more in Liam Marcus’ office.
‘And one more thing,’ Liam had said, just as Demetrius’ hand touched the bronze handle. ‘There will undoubtedly be other PSIn agents present. While we would prefer to have him in our custody, we don’t care who brings him in—his unsupervised presence is a global threat. Until further instruction, cooperate with, not eliminate, them.’
Among the two, maybe three, passengers still awake was the man in aisle seat 54F. Light from a single bulb overhead streamed onto the Motorola Xoom on his lap, but his eyes were fixed, away from the screen, on the infinite blackness that—paradoxically, despite of the aircraft’s sub-transonic velocity—seemed to stagnate outside the window. He was probably the only man on the plane who had Internet access (a perk of being a national security operative was access to communication satellites unknown to the public, which ensured continuous global connectivity) though there was no real need for it now: his instructions were clear enough, and his mind was elsewhere.
‘The directive could not be made simpler, Demetrius,’ Liam Marcus, Chief of Psionic Affairs at MI6, had instructed twelve hours earlier. Overweight and greying, Liam Marcus was clearly a man of the desk, not the field. ‘Enter, isolate and remove. Do whatever you must—we want him alive, and we want him now.’
The chief had been talking about Doctor Niels, pioneer of the Psionic Synthesis Initiative, who, like Demetrius, wasn’t a practicing doctor, at all (although for different reasons); who had all but vanished from existence for the past half-decade after selling patents for the PSIn virus; and who MI6 had grown a peculiar penchant for in the past year.
‘Our COMINT analysts have intercepted emails from North Korea that have fired up the PSIn keyword filters; someone is talking to the commies about psionics. And the only person enough of an idiot to do business with them, who stands to gain anything from it, is Niels.’ Liam had slammed a fist on the table, paused for emphasis, then continued. His voice was no louder than a whisper, as if afraid to let his secrets slip past further borders. ‘And you can bet that if we’ve picked up on it, every goddam country in the G20 that greed-infected scientist sold PSIn to will have also.’
Demetrius had only nodded at this. He needed no further explaining to understand the global consequences of North Korea acquiring PSIn technology. After all, they had been the first and only to break the almost-decade long period without nuclear tests in 2006. And though the media had harked the success of South Korean fuel aid in initiating its denuclearization schedule a year later, Demetrius was inclined to believe that the threat of an international psionic assault took a bigger cut of the cake. PSIn was the only upper hand anyone really had at preventing a nuclear event.
‘The commies’ last nuke was in 2009. We’ve been on high alert for PSIn since then, because it’s the only thing that’d give them enough balls to whip out their missiles in public and play with them again.’
Demetrius remembered perking up at the implausibility. ‘And you think Niels has been in contact with the North Koreans since then, all the while slipping our net, before ending up next door to them in Russia.’
‘Earlier. We just haven’t been able to pick up their communications until now.’ Liam had rotated the computer monitor around, so Demetrius could see the picture of a stretch more traffic than road in the twilight. For every car in sight—and there were a fair few at peak hour—at least four pedestrians took to the sidewalk. ‘Eight minutes after the last email was intercepted, IP address identified and geography localized, we found this image in the Russian hidden street-cam databank.’
At first Demetrius hadn’t made out what he was supposed to see. Then Liam had pointed a finger at the screen; his clubby fingernails were larger than the blurry faces on it. The realization struck him with all the force of a heat wave in the Mediterranean sun. The features were hazy, yes, but there was no denying it: the elusive Doctor Hermann Niels had finally been caught, even if only on camera.
‘Why Russia?’
‘That, Demetrius, is what you are going to find out.’
A sudden jerk in the airplane threw the man sitting in seat 54F out of his reverie. The jet had hit unforeseen air turbulence, and the usual cascade of events followed: seat belt lights switched on, crewmembers scurried back to their stations, the speakers announced the self-evident and the babies to the front cried that much louder, as if attempting to drown it out. Through all this, the man continued to stare out of the window, at the flashing red light on the plane’s wingtip that darted up when the cabin fell, and down when it rose. He marveled at the strength of the aluminum and wondered what would happen if—between the fourfold pressure difference inside the cabin and out, and the paroxysm that wracked its wings—it decided to give way in one terrible snap.
He perished the thought and found himself once more in Liam Marcus’ office.
‘And one more thing,’ Liam had said, just as Demetrius’ hand touched the bronze handle. ‘There will undoubtedly be other PSIn agents present. While we would prefer to have him in our custody, we don’t care who brings him in—his unsupervised presence is a global threat. Until further instruction, cooperate with, not eliminate, them.’
