Freedom Incorporated - Peter Tylee (best biographies to read TXT) 📗

have somewhere between 30 and 60 seconds to terminate the connection.

He gingerly sensed his way along Echelon’s central nervous system, mesmerised by the flood of data from which it fed. Echelon intercepted and scanned every data transaction in the world and Cookie could only think of one word to describe the sheer scale of the endeavour - Astonishing. Every wire, every segment of nano-net, every videophone conversation, every telephone call… Echelon listened to everything. It scanned every skerrick of data for illegal activity, known criminals, and potential ‘terrorist’ threats. Cookie had a momentary pang of doubt. If we burn it all, what might erupt from the ashes? He wondered whether the seedier side of humanity would morph the world into a smouldering cesspool. But then he remembered Echelon was firmly stomping on freedom of speech and his determination flared again.

He probed deeper, digitally fingering Echelon’s nervous tissue and wondering how to disable it. The UniForce administrators weren’t dumb; they’d protected Echelon from conventional attack. What about a virus? He frowned and shook his head. He’d have to think of something for the virus to do and that would require in-depth knowledge of Echelon’s construction. There was precious little information about Echelon on the ‘net, Cookie had already checked. The governments that had started the project hadn’t published how-to manuals for anarchists.

Samantha startled him by gently brushing the nape of his neck.

“Oh, hi. Couldn’t you sleep?”

“A little.” She yawned. “More of a snooze. What’re you doin’?”

“Aside from avoiding the myriad of traps they’ve set, I’m trying to slay a digital monster.”

Samantha nodded approvingly. “Great,” she said, yawning again. “Where’s Jen?”

Cookie shrugged and lovingly squeezed her hand. “With Sutherland I think. Haven’t seen them for a while.” His pulse fluttered when he narrowly avoided another snare. They must have planted them thick around their prize. At least it gave him somewhere to start his analysis - the densest patch of snares would lead him to Echelon’s greatest vulnerability. And that’s where he would begin his attack.

*

Friday, September 17, 2066

07:45 Leningrad, Russia

Natasha Glinski padded barefoot to the ground floor of her Leningrad mansion. She hesitated at the junction between the kitchen and the study, an inner conflict raging between hunger and curiosity. Breakfast was tempting, especially for someone with no fat to shed. If she skipped a meal she’d weaken her muscles and she’d worked hard to get them the way they were. She wasn’t tall, only five foot six inches - or one 168 centimetres as she preferred to think about it. Her thick, unruly brown hair cascaded around her shoulders and she was clad only in a white bathrobe. She preferred to sleep nude. Her brown eyes darted between computer and kitchen, a girlish grin mischievously playing on her lips.

Breakfast. The hunger won.

She collected her slippers from where she’d abandoned them at midnight. Without them, the kitchen tiles would numb her toes, especially in mid-September. She half expected to see frost on the ground but when she peered from the kitchen window she saw only a swirl of colourful leaves.

Natasha fixed a nourishing breakfast, reheating the soup she’d enjoyed so much the night before. It was thick, hearty, and dark red thanks to the beetroot she’d added - perfect for a cold autumn morning. She’d been experimenting with food recently. It soothed her, reminding her of when she was a girl and she’d helped her mother in the kitchen. Now 31, she didn’t look a day older than 22 and people still occasionally mistook her for 18. She used to curse her girlish looks but had come to realise that they were an asset. She owed her magnificent dwelling to those looks, at least in part, so she guarded them with a ferocity that most women her age had given up on. She put the steaming bowl of soup on a tray, carried it into her study, and bumped her mouse to jolt the computer to life.

She’d invested in a small counter that always displayed how many messages she had waiting. There were two colours: green and red. Green designated normal mail, which arrived at her local message box. Usually it was her friends and family inviting her to a function or party. Sometimes she got spam but it’d been a while since a ‘$$$$ YOUR INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY AWAITS’ e-mail had slipped through her filters.

Red designated business and today the counter rested on one. She ignored her local mailbox and hurried to the Shadow’s pigeonhole on the UniForce network. She used her disposable key and opened the box to find an assassination contract. Finally. Natasha Glinski switched to business mode, erasing every trace of girlishness from her face. She carefully read the contract while slurping her stew-like soup. Nothing appeared amiss. Five million N.A. Credits, her mind whispered as if just thinking it would bring the tax-squad tapping on her windows and probing her financial affairs. She had cover businesses to explain her financial success but the neighbours were still suspicious. She often lavished her family and friends with a shower of gifts to remove the excess from her accounts but it still left an electronic trail that led to her. Thank God UniForce payments are untraceable, she thought. But five million Credits would push her beyond the brink of safety and firmly into the realm of taxation peril.

Maybe it’s time? She wondered about that at the beginning of every assignment but this time it rang with a truth she couldn’t deny. If she accepted the contract, she’d have to leave Russia for a country that wasn’t so nosy when it came to one’s fiscal success. The world had changed since her grandmother’s day when everyone had been corrupt and she could’ve purchased some leeway and made the tax beavers look aside.

She eagerly followed the link to the target’s file. The Raven, huh? Known only by call sign. She read the thicket of information. A bounty hunter? That intrigued her; she’d never had a contract for eliminating a professional. She specialised in irritating government officials and business feuds. She skimmed the remainder of the Raven’s file. If she accepted the contract she’d make herself intimately familiar with every word, but for now, a quick sweep was enough to paint a mental picture. Hmm, sounds charming. She wondered whether her set of skills was in tune with the requirements for assassinating a cyborg. Sometimes she lamented that she’d chosen ‘Shadow’ as her persona because upon careful consideration she thought ‘Spider’ seemed more appropriate. Or perhaps Venus. She felt like a cross between a venomous spider, lacing her web for the victim to blunder into, and a Dionaea muscipula, a Venus flytrap. She presented beautiful petals that lured the victim close. He or she, but usually he, would be searching for nectar while unwittingly touching the trigger hairs. That’s when the gaping jaws of her trap would spring shut, entombing him forever. But Natasha didn’t savour the image of slowly digesting the men she’d assassinated - that was where the analogy fell apart.

Men were intrinsically flawed. There was something wrong with their assembly. Married or not, they all heeded the trumpet of their animalistic urges when she flirted. Natasha was endowed - or cursed as she sometimes though - with the type of body men dreamed of. It made them slow-witted and careless in her presence, which was why she’d proven such a success in her field. Nobody suspected such a stunningly gorgeous woman could harbour evil intent. She didn’t think UniForce knew she was a woman, which was just as well. How many female assassins do they employ? She often asked herself that question, usually at inconvenient moments such as when she was visiting her parents or when she went club hopping with her dwindling pool of unhitched friends.

And that brought her thoughts full circle. Do I want to live an assassin’s life? Or keep the one I still have? Her life was rapidly approaching an impasse - she couldn’t have both. The issue nagged at her while she showered and changed. It wasn’t until she looked in the mirror and saw that she’d subconsciously dressed in work clothes that she knew the answer. Assassins didn’t wear black leather suits as the movie makers portrayed. She wore a seductive, low-cut dress that showed ample breast and left just enough to the imagination to make her alluring.

She twirled, giggling girlishly.

Always the adrenaline junkie, she chose the excitement of a rocketing assassination career over the prefabricated life her parents had aspired for her - and that her friends were now miserable living.

*

Friday, September 17, 2066

20:42 Andamooka, South Australia

The aches were setting in.

Dan knew that meant he’d under-budgeted for sleep, but he ignored the warning. He felt content for the first time in… How long? He didn’t know. His mind was pessimistically trying to warn him it was the lull in the storm but he shoved the thought aside and permitted himself to enjoy the feeling. It felt strange, contentment. He wasn’t happy. He could never be happy again. That slice of reality grated on a raw nerve; he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of a joyless life. But you have to play with the cards the dealer gives you. It was his father’s voice, repeating one of his favourite sayings. Yet despite everything, the usual ache was absent. It felt like someone had scythed a great weight from his chest. He smiled - not the cold smile of recent times, a real smile, one that warmed the room and radiated… contentment.

It’s an improvement. Half of Dan’s mind was thankful for the reprieve. But it won’t last, the other half warned. He didn’t want to grow accustomed to contentment. He was wise enough to understand the consequences of withdrawal and subsequent magnification of his former misery.

Earlier he’d cooked a glorious meal of baked vegetables and succulent roast lamb, which everyone except Samantha had thoroughly enjoyed. How was I supposed to know she’s a vegetarian? He mentally kicked himself. A good host would have asked! She’d accepted the baked potato and sacrificed pumpkin but politely avoided the lamb and gravy. He’d apologised, profusely. He had nothing else to offer save for a new species of fungus growing on a tomato in his fridge and he didn’t think that would tempt her. So he’d gone to his customary supermarket in Adelaide for supplies, alone. The others couldn’t risk using a portal for the time being. He’d purchased a choice selection of fruits and upon his return whipped up a delectable fruit salad. Samantha, utterly embarrassed, had flushed bright red.

After dinner he’d flaked on the couch next to Jen where they’d chatted for nearly an hour before she fell asleep on his shoulder. He watched her sleep, hypnotised by the rhythm of her breath. The fact that his shoulder had cramped seemed a small price to pay. Even though he knew he had to rouse her, he delayed and procrastinated as the minutes fleeted past. She was so fragile. She reminded him of a delicate flower and he wanted to protect her from the scorching sun lest she shrivel and succumb to the thriving weeds like the ones on his property. An apparition wafted briefly to the edge of his mind, bringing the suggestion that she wasn’t as fragile as he imagined. And the ghostly thought made him draw another parallel between Jen and his deceased wife. Katherine was strong. Healing, it seemed, was a myth. Time had only augmented the hurt.

He tensed his shoulder and the rocking action woke Jen with a start.

“What?” She sounded groggy.

“You fell asleep.” Dan’s fatigue splintered his voice into a fractal of bass and baritone.

“Oh.” She struggled to sit straight and shielded her eyes from the light. “What time is it?”

Dan smiled again, as