__________ __ ________________ / _____/ \ / \/ _ \__ ___/___ _____ _____ \_____ \\ \/\/ / /_\ \| |_/ __ \\__ \ / \ / \\ / | \ |\ ___/ / __ \| Y Y \ /_______ / \__/\ /\____|__ /____| \___ >____ /__|_| / \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ [ 1998 - 2010 - Hacking, Phreaking & Anarchy in the UK ] May 1st 2010 . Author davethefan ---------------------------------------------------------- [ Fiction: Delivery ] ---------------------------------------------------------- Moorkoft was a wanted man, both by the Police, The Human Army and the rogue time-traveller who he believed to be a traitor, his own views aside on the situation mattered not one iota. He was being hunted, and he knew it. He cowered in an alleyway off the High Street, while Police saucers hovered above, casting red and blue shadows everywhere around him. The streets were quiet at this time, fear was prevalent around the whole city, only the brave or psychotic would venture out at this time of night. A frightened, failed suicide bomber out alone bordered more on stupid. He'd crouched in one position too long, he needed to limber up; go for a run, but where? He couldn't run blind into the danger, he had to plan his route exactly, no standing about trying to make decisions, especially with one leg. His makeshift crutch would not hold; the severed leg of the first person he saw who was approximately his height, some might say killing him was overkill, but he had a lot of frustration to vent. He used four metal bars as bones, and door hinge nailed into the soft, rotting flesh at the back of the knee. Making him squirm even as the nail pierced the leg, though it was not his own, and completely unconnected, he'd formed an emphatic bond with it, the reverse of Phantom Limb syndrome. For short periods, the leg worked, but the foot needed a splint too, it flopped idly with every step and made a shuffling noise. Pffgh, Pffgh, Pffgh. As he entered the high street, he immediately wished he hadn't, the dual hiss-clank of two Police mechanoids were nearby, getting closer. Armed with thermal imaging analysis software, there'd be no way they hadn't seen him. The bright, halogen beams on the front of the mechs illuminated him under their spotlights, and like a rabbit under headlights, he stopped dead in his tracks. The mech spoke: 'Stay where you are' the voice was mechanical, from the machines internal voice processor. Moorkoft looked around; judging whether or not to run, the street looked empty enough, but would he make it the two hundred yards to the sanctuary of the underside of the railway bridge on his dead mans leg? Probably not, not with two mechanoids that did not tire like he had already begun to, hot on his tail. The thought of giving himself up went against everything he held true, but then so did not dying an honourable death in the blast. He threw his gun that was tucked into the back of his belt; the clank of metal on the concrete echoed around the walls of the buildings either side of him, and he held up his hands to show that he was unarmed, surrendering. The mechs had flanked him, ready to rip apart both sides of his body so that their bullets met in the middle, fired with such precision that they collided inside his body. Laser sighting recalculated their aim every split second meant that Moorkoft couldn't even breathe without them knowing about it, the machines were in perfect harmony with every mech in their group. Police mechs were highly efficient for every single task they were required for, all the officer had to do was steer in roughly the correct direction; the rest, the mechs took the hydraulic legwork out of. At eighteen feet tall, fourteen of that was leg, no human could outrun one, let alone two. They approached Moorkoft; so intimidating that they could walk a suspect into custody uncuffed, though they seldom did. Again, Moorkoft was faced with the decision of dying right there with a dead mans leg strapped to him in the loneliness of the street, or spend the rest of his miserable, un-natural life as an incarcerated, one legged cripple. For some reason, he chose The Cube: Britain's most claustrophobic jail, a five by five foot cell that was as tall as it was wide. At least he'd have more room than most, only having one leg. 'Put your hands up, and place your wrists in the cuffs.' The voice boomed from above his head, adorned across the ankles of the mech were handcuffs, with a slightly retractable chain that was housed inside the leg. Moorkoft followed their instructions and lowered his hands to waist level and allowed them to cuff him. One either side, they walked in perfect unison beside him, marching him to the station. Alarms echoed around Sector 4E, to alert of incoming mechs, the suspect in custody was likely to attempt an escape, he'd succeeded before, and they weren't going to let it happen again. They had him this time, but could they keep him? The bay doors would not open unless there were at least six rifles aimed at him, when they opened, Moorkoft was faced with a semi-circle of police, all in black; their faces covered by a black, metal mask that always reminded Moorkoft of a sow. Whether they were deliberately designed to look like pigs was anybodys guess, an ironic offshoot of the fact that years ago Police were derogatorily called Pigs. The 'snout' was two air filtration chambers, with added airtight microphones embedded into the front of the mask, and the eyes were small and beady, made of heavily tinted, black, polished glass, the radio transmitter in the left ear, and the receiver in the right. 'Allo Allo Allo, what's going on here then?' Moorkoft bent his knee in the fashion of an old bobby, his lifeless leg not quite co-operating, making him give more of a curtsey. The mechs iron grip handcuffs released him, and he started to walk forward. 'Don't move. We'll tell you when to move, ok?' 'Fine by me.' 'Walk forward. Slowly.' He walked towards them, slowly, and they split into a passageway that he was about to walk down. For some reason, taunting them even with their rifles didn't bother him, the public wanted him dead, and he knew that all too well, for them to execute him because he was a little cocky to them was denying him a death that the public could witness for themselves, and their heads will roll for that; but walking within such close proximity to them on either side did, they may not be able to kill him, but there's nothing stopping them giving him a hell of a beating. His worries weren't unfounded, in the middle of the passage, he was headbutted in the back of his skull and cracked around the ribs with the butt of a rifle from either side. He fell to the ground; they mercilessly kicked him while he was down, his face, back, arms, leg and the sore throb of the back of his neck. 'That's enough!' the sergeant yelled from across the bay: 'Take him to the cells.' He said nothing about continuing what they were doing whilst they were there. The news reports swarmed the television channels just hours later, and the public outcry was that of jubilation, they wanted him dead just as much as Phil did, they wanted an example to be made of him, to warn others that suicide bombings are not accepted in this society, they wanted more than a death roll in a saucer, they wanted something new; the TV stations were rubbing their hands, the ratings for this would be through the roof! Of course, there was the small matter of the trial – which was to be televised, something that hadn’t happened in over forty years, of course MB Networks had the exclusive rights, no other company could match their bid, not by a long shot. Every move Moorkoft made in his cell was monitored twenty four hours a day, seven days a week,the public would be up in arms if he were to kill himself in his cell, avoiding his fate at a time of his own choosing, though given his past record of attempts on his own life, he wasn't expected to succeed in the act. Ideally, Phil would have liked to have travelled to the day of the bombing, but time travel for him wasn't an exact science, often he'd travel to a time where at first he thought he'd come to the wrong time, this wasn't going to be a case of executing him just minutes before the bomb exploded, there was to be a complex, cryptic way around this - an issue that was to be resolved first. When he first started travelling, he would not remember anything from the future or the past, all he knew was his life in this timeframe, but with training from Greenflame he had learnt to control his journeys, and to remember them; now it all seemed like second nature to him. A quick mental calculation from the date on his glasses told him that he was five years before the bombing, June 21st 2206; he knew that he'd visited this place before, back when he thought that the unethical war being fought was the right thing to do, and worked tirelessly to accelerate it. Why did this office seem familiar to him? To Phil, it felt remincient of the days when he wouldn't remember, but have overwhelming senses of deja vu. A mental image flashed before him, a memory; an old man, Arnold Wilson. Phil was trying to choke him, but spared his life. Thankful now that he had, undoubtedly his influence would have aggravated the war. Phil felt angry, cheated. Even one-hundred and ninety five years later, he still felt the same rage, though now he would probably have been on the same side as the man, a comrade. Arnold was the head of the company that developed the organic weapons that had run out of control and were no longer happy to be subservient pawns for the military. They had become a grassroots military of their own, formed out of anger at their oppression and struck out against the humans with merciless killings. His company, Steemfelt used the samples the Biolog analysts had examined to genetically engineer the perfect soldiers, out of animals, creating a hybrid of human and animal, they had become wild, untameable creatures: his own, privatised army for hire or sale. The Human Army were his best customers of course, followed by private security firms that dealt in everything from shop security to bodyguards for world leaders. Phil's arrival was witnessed by three employees, an appearance from nowhere, the surplus electricity from the transition skulked and faded into the corners of the room, interfering with any electrical appliance in its path - the computers in the walls, the traditional desk mounted computers, mobile phones and security cameras temporarily malfunctioned while the electricity was passing through it. There was a stunned silence for a few seconds, as both parties wondered who was going to speak first, as if he'd been caught doing something embarrassing, he cleared his throat, well aware that some of the witnesses looked as if they'd seen a ghost. Phil wasn't quite sure why he'd arrived here, or whether the silent alarm had been raised, no doubt the building was teeming with animal human guards. Why am I here? What does this place have to do with Moorkoft? His first thought was that there is more to who the bomber was working for, clearly he was a hired pawn - but hired by who? It made perfect sense that Steemfelt would hire him, they were the most fundamentalist promoters of the war, they were the agent provocateurs of the whole event, how unsurprising that their involvement covered both ends of the spectrum - everything from the loose cannon extremists who would blow themselves up for a caused they were manipulated over many years to believe in, to procuring to the Human Army the very soldiers that they would in turn battle with for generations to come. The door behind him was kicked open, the beast that covered the doorway was large, dressed in a majestic uniform that screamed authority and loyalty. Only those who had proved themselves in battle were to have the privelige of guarding the hive, the headquarter of their species. Their birthplace. Without enough time to reach for his weapon, he backed against the wall to prevent having his back shredded by the claws of the creature - they had no need to be armed, their weapon was an amplified version of their traits in the wild. This monster, bred with the genes of a lion, had a full lion head and mane, and the humanoid, biped figure - walking on its hind paws, its fur interspersed with its human flesh, claws for his giant paw retracted, razor sharp blades that would cut through soft, human flesh like scissors through paper. He fumbled for his gun in his satchel, the lion head ever nearer, attacking with more ferocity than anything he'd ever encountered before. He'd fought soldiers of this type, but always feared the lion - now he found himself face to face with one, and unarmed. He aimed for the human organs, beneath its uniform - the softer, more vunerable parts of its anatomy, striking out with a swift kick, and colliding with the stomach, the lions bulky paws too slow to counteract the attack; mildly winding him, He let out a roar and his eyes glazed over, angrier than before. Phil took four steps back into the corner - and sidestepped to the left, avoiding being trapped there, he'd swiftly manage to withdraw his weapon from the back of his belt, and levelled it at the lions face. The lion snapped at him, he'd have easily taken off his hand, had he been any closer. Phil backed away, step by step, putting distance between him and the beast, keeping the gun trained between the lions eyes. His legs hit the back of the desk, and he jumped backwards on to the top of the desk, cluttering paperwork all over the floor, he kicked a still warm coffee cup into the face of the lion, covering him in hot liquid, the lion reached for its face in pain, giving Phil the opportunity to swipe another kick at him, this time from his elevated position, he managed to strike the side of its head, and another. The lion was enraged, the pain of the scalding liquid no longer phasing him - his only care now was to kill this intruder that had humiliated him, putting shame to his skills as a trusted soldier. How dare this enemy, he is unworthy of inflicting damage upon him, how could it be possible that he do so? Phil ran across the desk, hopping on to the next, the computer screen on the desk following the movement of his feet and processing them as legitimate commands as if they were asked by those of the hands of its owner, the lion was too quick though, and intercepted him as he jumped between desks, swiping at him in mid-air, slamming him into a window pane, directly next to an open pane - had the lion been more accurate in his timing, Phil would surely have fell out the building, but the lion hit out out of rage, rather than a calculated attack. Phil hit the window and fell into a crouch on the floor, rolled instincitvey to his left, just in time to avoid being landed on by the humanoid lion, who had managed to leap over the desk in the time it took Phil to hit the window and fall to the floor. They fought next to the open window, and Phil tried to lure the lion closer, in order to throw him out onto the bustling street below. He tried to aim his weapon, but the lion struck a punch into his elbow, sending it crashing into the window frame - the pain throbbed and numbed his forearm, he couldnt feel his fingers to pull the trigger. He slammed the butt of the gun into its already painful gut. He swapped the gun into his left hand, leapt up on to the window ledge, and fired a shot into the lions brain. The lion fell back into the desk he'd jumped over, sending the swivel chair and the entire contents of the desk all over, his arms and legs flailing to try to keep control of its paralysed body, it fell to the floor. tangled with its head on the desk, and his body sprawled across the fallen chair. 'Get out of here!' he yelled at the humans in the room that still remained, to stunned to move, they instinctively darted for the door - if he could take out a lion guard in seconds like that, mere humans would pose no problem, After they'd left, he approached the lion cautiously - though he doubted the lion was faking its incapacitaion, he'd rather not take the risk, frisked the uniform for anything of value, leaving with nothing but a bone knife, its handle had beautiful carvings depicting the majesticness of the lion creature. The blade wasn't long enough to be considered a sword, but too large to be considered a dagger. He placed it into his satchel and focussed on finding out about Moorkoft, starting by using the abandoned terminals that doubled as interactive desks. 'Search' Nothing happened, the machine would not respond to his hand movements. There had to be another way around the system. A backdoor, and to find it, he'd need an XR15 Transfer cable, which fortunately he always carried, he located it in his bag, and connected a portable data storage unit, capable of storing more entire backups of computer systems that any average human would need, though Phil was no average human and was running out of space. He'd need to find another, and fast. Luckily for him, he was now in a time period where the devices were available. He copied the entire system to his memory block. 14 minutes remain, 8 minutes, 12 minutes. However long it was, it was too long, and he surmised that the machine was actually guessing ETA. While he waited, he crouched behind the desk, with his back to the wall - out of view of the adjacent buildings and to any flying craft that may hover past and snoop in the window, with his gun aimed at the door, watching the lion in the peripheral of his vision. The lion gave him the fear, it could easily rise from its stunned tranquilisation and attack, he crawled over to the body, and dragged it towards the open window and lifted the lion, dangling it by its arms out of the window, straining and heaving with the weight of the head. Its eyes opened. He was awake - and knew what was happening, something wasnt right - he couldnt feel the ground, and he could see the outside of the window - the wrong side! Phil dropped the creature before it could attack and bring him down with it, staying by the window until he saw the lions body spatter against the pavement, the echo reaching upwards with a thwack and the sound of human screams. There was no way that he'd executed the only guard - and no way that they'd let him out of the building with the ability to move his limbs independently. He paced up and down the room, watching the progress bar crawl towards the end of the line, could it move any slower if it tried? Probably not. He used the time to plan his escape, and where he would access the data. Greenflame. He must find Greenflame, his time-travelling companion at their safehouse of information before he got himself killed trying to escape with the information - only problem is the safehouse is 80 years in the past. He stored the time and place of his current location in his glasses' memory bank and continued pacing, and considered how he'd crack the security. Copying complete. He whipped the XR15 cable out of the computer with the data box still attached, in a hurry - not even bothering to 'safely remove' it, risking irreparable corruption, ran across the room and peered out the door, his snooping going un-noticed. He aimed his gun and one of the staff at the terminal. Alex Moore. Still un-noticed, he fired once at the man, landing a bright blue, glowing light in his back, illuminating his shirt for a split second, followed by Phil - preparing to take the worker back to his grandfathers era. Maybe if he co-operates, he'll bring him back to his own time. Or maybe not. He sprinted from the door to his office cubicle; there wasn't enough room for them to travel, so they both hit the wall of the cubicle, the man was startled and panicked and tried to fight his way out, unsuccessfully though. He disappeared from his chair, along with the intruder - leaving yet more astonished onlookers with a memory they'll never forget - the time Alex Moore spontaniously teleported, never to return.