POSTHUMAN

Chapter Eighteen

"Good evening Deputy Commissioner," Dr Aaron Albion shook Judah's hand and guided him through the revolving doors of the Hopkins Centre. He led him over the frescoed black marble of the foyer towards an alcove where several lifts were situated. They made small talk as the lift rose, floor by floor they slowly ran out of trivialities until Judah had to begin talking about matters at hand, "Three divisions of PSF working together on one project, billions of pounds, and a high burn rate of test subjects...what is it you hope to achieve, Dr Albion?"

        "To find the key to a mystery, Deputy Commissioner. Perhaps one of the greatest mysteries humanity will ever face," the lift doors opened as Albion replied.

        "It's a poor thing we do, Aaron, Angelene's powers are a sign. And not the good sort," Judah surreptitiously patted the places on his body where he kept his weapons, except for the knife strapped to his ankle. He could feel the weight.

         "Don't be so superstitious, Judah! She's so heavily sedated that something catastrophic needs to happen for her to get out. The guard tonight is so heavy that I could tell you where every insect in the building is!" Aaron waved a hand dismissively as they approached Angelene's room. Judah saw something in the corner of his eye; he focused on it a little more. A white moth, no black, grey or brown, pure white.

Raptor-Five is the call sign of a BAF Wight tiltrotor aircraft, given to it by SAATO rebels. Raptor-Five was commandeered from an ExoCorps expedition into the SAATO Zone in the year 2120 from which the entire crew and tiltrotor itself never returned. Until today.

        A sleek, reflective shape darted through thick cloud cover above Greater London. Its engines were virtually silent as the craft snaked its way around the luminous city. Five men watched the sleepless place from within the Wight. They were now a block down from the Hopkins Centre, the alley beneath them let out behind the research facility. The internal lighting was lowered, four men in Providence dress uniforms looked to the simply attired pilot. He flicked a switch and the loading ramp of the Wight came down, his soft American accent warned, "You have twenty minutes. Good luck." His four comrades hopped out of the hovering tiltrotor. He flicked another switch to deploy a flying radar dish the size of small dog. Then the Raptor-Five left to find a place to wait for the return of its crew.

        They wore hooded travelling capes over their dark blue uniforms, capes had come into fashion for Providence officers about nine years ago. Neither of the PGSP officers on the doors batted an eyelid as a hooded figure approached from a fairly quiet street to the east of the Hopkins Centre.

        "I'm sorry sir, but you will need to present evidence of appropriate clearance to enter the building tonight. If you are unable to then we are obliged to ask you to go elsewhere," the one to the left spoke, an Afrikaner by the sounds of it, but both officers were kitted up: bulletproof vests, helmets, carbines, pistols, non-lethal grenades, and batons. All PGSP officers were firearms officers by necessity. The guard to the right of the door became agitated. This new officer had not bothered to look at either of them, he might have glanced up but that damn hood hid his face too well, the army employed too many eccentrics for his liking.

        At last the stranger met the guard's eyes and winked at him.

      The man's hands appeared from within the folds of the cape, a blade in each hand. A curved machete in his left and foot-long falchion in his right. He flicked the blades backwards and cleaved up into the stomachs of the guards. They crumpled, blood gushing from their guts. The stranger whirled, he tossed a suction pad at the frame of the automatic doors and somersaulted away as a sphere whizzed toward the pad via a cord. Sphere met pad and the frame exploded in a fireball, shards of glass blasted into the foyer. Three more caped figures emerged swiftly from the crowd, sub-machine guns drawn, raining hell down on startled police stationed in the foyer. "Nice work Roy, not about to let you get ahead though," said the figure to enter the building before the Roy.