Dark Time: Mortal Path (37 page)

The carpet was very thick and ran halfway up the walls. After the carpeting ended, the upper part of the hall was soundproofed with foam shaped into rows of small cones. Lights were set alternately in the 123 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

floor and ceiling. There were doors every twenty feet. Ahead on the left was a door with a rectangular glass area, a window into whatever that room contained.

There were two guards, one on each side of that door. It wasn’t hard to guess that whatever little party was going on here tonight was in that room.

The guards had to go.

Maliha reviewed her moves in her mind. The morality of killing guards who were not necessarily evil in themselves was something that bothered her. They were just standing there, paid employees, possibly supporting families. She had no proof that as individuals they were thugs or killers, and she went out of her way to spare lives in the absence of that proof. But tonight there was no opportunity to be a kinder, gentler Maliha; she couldn’t have those guards alive and blocking her escape route if they regained consciousness.

She burst out of the door and crossed the space in few seconds. She lashed out with her foot underneath the first guard’s chin, snapping his neck. Ducking below the window in the door, she punched the second guard beneath his ribs, doubling him over, then took his head in her hands and twisted. Both were dead, silently, bloodlessly, in less than ten seconds. She dragged the bodies back to the storage closet and pushed them to the side, out of her way.

In the hallway, her back pressed against the wall, she moved toward the door, then got down on hands and knees so that she wouldn’t show up in the door’s pane of glass. When she reached a lower corner of the glass, she raised her head to look in.

G
reg was in his element, strutting in front of the people who were going to make him very wealthy.

Very, very wealthy. No more drug-smuggling schemes to raise cash. No more lying to bone-headed
investors and shitty creditors to cover up the real way things are at the company, which is down the
fucking toilet.

A couple of shaky decisions, a competitor roaring onto the scene, and the company he’d put a decade of his life into was spiraling downward to ruin. The people who knew about the sham he’d been perpetrating were dead now. An hour ago, he’d stood over the convulsing body of Edward Rupert, the CFO who’d fought the decisions Greg had rammed down his throat. He’d slit that throat and enjoyed it, too.

The senators, Homeland Security, Edward, Fawn, the coders—he’d cleared the runway for takeoff.

All except for Marsha Winters, and she had to die, too. After first leaving it out of his report, Subedei had admitted that she’d been talking to the Homeland Security guy at the very time the guy got his throat slit.

If she was talking to Cocomo, she knew everything, or at least way too much.

That had been a disappointment.

The little bitch. She wasn’t interested in a charity donation, she was just sniffing around the whole
time. Thought she’d get a book deal out of it or something.

He smiled.
Subedei said he wants her for his own. The man’s got his appetites. Didn’t take her out
right then because he wants more time with her, I’ll bet.

His money worries would be over soon. The only question was how rich he was going to be. Then he’d fix up ShaleTech’s financials to get himself off the hook, cash out neat and clean, and disappear.

Somewhere there was a beach chair with his name on it, and a drink with a little umbrella waiting to be claimed. A lot of women waiting to be claimed, too.

I swore I was going to own the world by the time I was thirty-five. Well, I’m coming fucking close.

When the last guest was seated, it was time for the show to begin. He was in a semicircular theater.

There were rows of seats, each raised higher than the previous one to allow an unobstructed view of him.

Although there were at least fifty luxurious seats in the room, only a few were taken by the men—and one woman—who’d come in the limos outside. That alone had been a power trip, having these sinister leaders respond to his call.

124 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

A power trip. Good one.

Greg stood on a platform at the front. Subedei was nowhere in sight, probably out sniffing after the Winters woman. Greg hadn’t wanted him at the presentation, anyway. What could go wrong? He was the only one in the room with a weapon; he’d made sure of that with the metal detectors. And he was very close to the door that led to his secret escape route. He could be out of the room and gone in seconds in case of trouble, and he had a little surprise for the occupants of the room if he had to take that route.

Tucked underneath a few of the seats were explosives set up for remote detonation using a switch taped under his shirt, near his belt. If he had to leave, he was going to leave with a bang.

Studying the faces of the attendees, he found that several of them had hoods that kept their features from being observed. Old habits, he supposed. The lights in the seating part of the theater were dimmed, the more to emphasize Greg in the front, and dim lighting appealed to those who chose not to flaunt their identities—nor had any need to.

One of the hooded men caught his eye. Something about the shape of the shoulders, the bulk across the chest—it could be Subedei, or just some other man with more muscles than brains. Greg was aware that although his invitation clearly stated “Principals Only,” it was likely some of the people sitting in the audience were surrogates.

Since the day he’d arrived, the Mongolian seemed to be dancing to someone else’s tune, not Greg’s.

At least Subedei didn’t know the precise details of Project CESR, and Greg preferred it that way.

No matter. The need for secrecy would soon be over. Greg would be fantastically rich.

Do I need Subedei then?

He tried to picture his bodyguard in the tropical paradise Greg intended to call home, maybe sitting in a swimming suit and shades, lounging on the beach, holding a tequila sunrise. It was difficult to keep from laughing. There was never a clearer case of a man not fitting into the picture.

He might just meet with a little accident. Poison, maybe.

The platform was similar to the control room adjacent to his office. Banks of computers surrounded Greg. The wall behind him held huge monitors that displayed global maps, arranged in an arc facing the audience. He stepped up to speak, knowing that he had to establish credibility right away.

“My friends, thank you all for coming here tonight. I’m going to present to you a triumph of planning and technology, Project CESR. CESR stands for Critical Energy Supply Redistribution.”

He tapped a button, and all the screens behind him worked together to display a single huge map of the United States.

“The United States of America is an energy-hungry country. Natural gas, nuclear, electricity whether produced by water or coal, alternative sources—it all comes down to power. Power for economic growth, national security, transportation, sanitation, and of course to warm houses. Power to keep the computers running. Power for lights.”

He waved his hand and the lights in the presentation room went off, including the glowing monitors.

He left them in the dark for a few seconds, then waved again and turned on the lights. Most members of his audience were out of their seats. They settled back, frowning at the simple but effective demonstration.

“That was one tiny example of a phenomenon feared by every citizen of this country, indeed the world: the dark time. Our caveman ancestors feared it because the dark brought predators and death. We fear it for the same reasons. Riots. Hospitals gone black. Freezing cold. And we have our modern twist: massive technological and economic disruption. One could say that the more advanced a country is, the more susceptible it is to the dark time.”

Greg was soaring. It was hard to contain his excitement. Heads were nodding in the audience. He could see his wealth going up by powers of ten.

“This country has at its disposal a vast amount of power. A problem is that sometimes it’s not in the right place. Lights go out in New York, but in Florida, people are enjoying themselves at Disney World.

Los Angeles has rolling blackouts during heat waves, but those in the Midwest are smug in their air-conditioning. It isn’t just a matter of sweat, it’s a matter of security. What if Los Angeles needed power and twenty medium-sized Midwest cities each had a little to spare that afternoon? Add up those small surpluses and route them to Los Angeles.
Poof!
Problem solved.

“That’s what Project CESR does, on a nationwide scale. The Department of Homeland Security purchased CESR from me, and as of six months ago, it was up and running. If a major distribution station 125 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

goes offline, the system compensates, and what would have been a huge problem becomes a harmless blip. Critical Homeland Security uses are guaranteed all the energy needed, at the expense of those air conditioners in Kansas City if need be. Even large-scale emergency generators are tied in, so that they can be switched on with power from another part of the country, preserving information, such as bank transfers in progress.”

His audience looked like a bunch of bobbleheads. They were way ahead of him, this group of people who, for their own purposes, would like to see the United States brought to its knees.

“My friends, I am offering for sale to you today nothing less than the safety and security, the very future, of the United States. Think about having your finger on the control that can black out any city in this country on your schedule, or all cities at the same time. Power will trickle back, but you could take advantage of that lag and the panic it would cause. You would control the dark time.”

W
hen the lights had gone out in the building, Maliha had sprung up to do battle with whatever was coming at her in the dark. Nothing happened and the lights came back on, but her revved-up heartbeat and tensed muscles and the sick feeling in her stomach hadn’t gone away. As she listened to Greg, she was horrified.

No wonder this man is protected by one of the Ageless. This plot would thrill any one of the
demons. Millions of innocents dead for the twisted aims of a few evil men.

Greg echoed her thoughts.

“Millions dead from bombs planted by your agents during the dark time,” Greg continued. “Less than three thousand deaths on September 11, 2001, put a serious dent in the American psyche. Imagine what the deaths of millions would do. Or if you prefer, set up small, surgical strikes meaningful to your cause.”

The room erupted in questions.

“Wait, wait. One at a time, please.”

A man impeccably dressed in a dark suit stood up. When he spoke, it was with a Latin-American accent. “You said DHS purchased this system from you. How is it that you still control it? I would need proof.”

“As would I,” another man said. Others voiced their concerns in a variety of accents. One of the men had a translator who spoke for him.

Greg extended his hands, palm down, and gestured for their silence.

“Of course I understand your skepticism. I’m prepared to explain and to demonstrate.”

Greg pressed a button on one of the consoles, and the huge map of America displayed behind him on the monitors dimmed. Another layer was added on top of it, a spider-weblike network of lines.

“This is a representation of the total power grid in this country. It is simplified because the real thing is too complex to be shown in its entirety on flat screens like this.” He gestured behind him. “The CESR

grid exists in virtual reality, where those who monitor it can walk among the interconnecting lines in three dimensions and touch the nodes to display information. Power can be rerouted with a simple wave of the hand, as I did at the beginning of this presentation. Or rerouting can occur automatically, faster than any human can respond to emergencies. It is, in the truest sense of the word, awesome. As the developer, I had free access to the program code that supports this incredible system.

“A back door exists in the software, a secret entrance into the system that only I know how to use. It is extremely powerful. For example, I can keep the DHS from shutting down the CESR system via normal software methods. To shut it off, they’d have to disconnect the hardware from its own power source, a source that is amply redundant and draws upon all types of energy, from geothermal to fossil fuels. The back door wipes out all trace of its use. The only way to prevent repeated access is to disable the entire system, and that takes time—time that belongs to the highest bidder. The programming and physical setup to do this is unmatched anywhere else in the world, and I might add, was expensive.”

Maliha could see from her vantage point that Greg had a screen in front of him with a miniature version of the same display covering the walls.

“That takes care of how I can do it. Now for the demonstration. Would someone call out a state?”

“California.”

“Excellent. North or south?”

126 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

“South,” a different voice said.

“County? Anyone familiar with a county in southern California?”

“Los Angeles. You have talked about it enough.”

Greg shook his head. “Ah, better not. This is a demonstration. No need to tip our hand just yet. That would be too dramatic.”

“Kern County, next door.”

Greg was enjoying himself immensely, Maliha could see that. He was like a schoolteacher leading his classroom, with the subject being terror and the students already experts.

“Perfect. I remind you that you have collectively chosen the target for the demonstration, meaning that it’s not a setup.” He touched a spot on Southern California, and it blew up to display a giant image of Kern County on the wall behind him. “Let’s see. Here’s a good spot. China Lake, a community on the western edge of the Mojave Desert.”