Aberrant Vectors: A Cyberpunk Espionage Tale of Eldritch Horror (The Dossiers of Asset 108 Book 3) Read online

  From the Book

  I gaped at what had just burst through the doorframe, wreathed in swirling mist; I had never seen anything like it.

  A feminine figure, clothed only in a diaphanous, wrap-around skirt that flowed as if caught in the current of a stream, posed there. Gracefully long and thin, the legs that showed beneath the incredible skirt bent backward at the knee.

  Christ above! For all of its apparent blasphemy, Wyatt’s link filled my mind with horrified awe.

  As the creature stepped closer, I could make out more details through the unnatural mist. Bare-breasted and buxom, her flesh wrapped with razor wire that writhed like a live thing, slicing into her even as we watched. Her skin ran scarlet with blood even as her huge eyes blazed with hatred. Sixteen centimeters long, her wicked fingernails looked more like eagle talons.

  I think this one’s yours, Hoss. She looks like your kind of girl. I felt the legitimate horror in his link as the woman raised an obsidian blade in one hand, her white-blonde hair floating in a non-existent wind.

  Um... okay.

  She screamed, her jaw malforming into a predator’s snarl. It echoed into a sound of desolation, of hopelessness. Around her, arcane shapes burst into existence, flaring with a red and hateful light before fading out of view again.

  Before I could breathe, the creature had launched herself toward me, raising her curved blade high over her face. The sharp wire sliced into her as she moved, and blood poured off her in rivulets.

  If she felt the pain, she didn’t show it.

  The Paean of Sundered Dreams

  Rationality Zero

  The Herald of Autumn

  Collateral Damage

  Handmaiden’s Fury

  On the Matter of the Red Hand

  The Primary Protocol

  Regarding Oaths and the Whispering Flame

  Slave of the Sky Captain

  Wormwood Event

  Aberrant Vectors

  A Myriad of Worlds…

  This story is the third in its series, the Dossiers of Asset 108, regarding the continuing adventures and trials of Michael Bishop, a man who knows what it is to stand against the incomprehensible. It is a story of a shadowed world, a world where creatures of outer darkness are hunted by a faceless organization, the Facility.

  This series is itself a strand in The Paean of Sundered Dreams, a multi-genre, universe-spanning array of tales with Lovecraftian themes.

  Some of the strands of this work are science fiction, some fantasy, and some steampunk, but they share the same horrific universe. They weft and weave together, each leaving breadcrumbs of clues for the next story.

  Each tale echoes a beating heart of darkness, cackling quietly in the shadows of existence.

  These stories may be enjoyed as individual series or as part of the Paean in its proper order. If you are a reader who is only interested in Michael Bishop and his adventures, that series may be found here.

  If, on the other hand, you are the kind of reader who cannot rest until every secret is found, for whom genre is unimportant, and who will travel a wide and vast multiverse to learn things man was not meant to know…

  Welcome, wayward wanderer.

  This was written for you.

  Aberrant Vectors

  Novel Three in the Dossiers of Asset 108 Series

  A tale in the Paean of Sundered Dreams

  JM Guillen

  Irrational Worlds

  November 17, 1999

  San Francisco, California

  An explosion in the distance caused dust and detritus to sift alarmingly from the ceiling, implying that the entire structure might, in fact, decide to collapse.

  “There’s just too many!” The grizzled man narrowed his eyes as he peered into a darkened hallway. “We won’t make it through this way.”

  An eerie, crimson light flickered overhead, outlining his silhouette starkly. The man started to speak again, only to be interrupted by a sourceless, vaguely mechanical voice: WARNING. Infectious biohazard confirmed in this area. Please vacate to your nearest safe zone.

  “You’re wrong,” sneered the younger man. “You’re just afraid.” The young man gestured toward the darkened passage. “We punch through here. It’s the shortest way, and we don’t have time to play it safe.”

  “Yeah!” I nodded, cheering for the guy on my television, and leaned back on my couch as I took another sip of my beer. “Fuck that. Punch through. You tell ’im, Blake.”

  I liked that Blake played things a little loose.

  Outside, the San Francisco sky continued to rain.

  “I don’t know who died and put you in charge,” the older man grumbled, giving Blake a cold look, “but your stupidity is going to get us all killed.”

  “Maybe.” Blake glanced from Captain Stark to the curvy blonde woman at his side. “Or maybe I’m the only thing that’s going to get us out of here alive.”

  “Seriously?” I laughed with a mouth full of beer and almost choked as it went part-way up my nose. “Who says shit like that?” I cackled and fell back on the couch again, gesturing at my television. “Who writes shit like that?”

  “You’re a wild card, Blake Runner.” The older actor growled. “We’re going to have to find another way, or we’re stuck here.”

  “Stuck.” I chuckled. “I know just how that feels.” I reached for the remote, pawing more than once at my side table.

  Hmm. Not there. I looked around the room and still didn’t find it.

  “Dammit.” I sighed. It seemed like I either had to actually take the time to stand up to look for the remote…

  Or keep watching this schlock.

  I took another draw of my beer.

  Outside, the sky rumbled. I frowned, and then shrugged it off. Storms seldom came to the Bay area, but it did happen.

  I glanced at the clock. Already seven?

  I frowned harder.

  “Where are you, Guthrie?” Wyatt was late.

  Wait.

  My brow furrowed as I thought. I couldn’t remember exactly what time he’d said. Of course, now that I thought of it, the oaf had been pretty vague about our plans in general.

  “I’ll go on without you if I have to.” Blake’s eyes flicked to the older soldier and back to his curvy companion. “But this ends tonight, one way or the other.”

  “Yeah, one way or the other, Wyatt,” I muttered and took another sip. Standing, I glanced at the end table where the remote should have been. “Going on alone would be better than staying in all night, and I’m sure I can find some company.”

  “If you go alone, you’ll be dead before dawn.” Captain Stark’s grim voice rang with certainty. “You’re a fool, Blake.”

  Thunder sounded outside again and I started. The rare weather unnerved me.

  I stepped to my window and peered into the night. I could see most of the city from my apartment, typically a calming view.

  Not tonight, however.

  Tonight I felt twitchy, like a razor drawn across a thin wire.

  I leaned against the windowsill and noticed that my hand trembled just a bit. I touched two fingers to the side of my neck and counted quietly.

  My brow furrowed deeper as I noted my racing pulse.

  Something felt wrong, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Wyatt should have come by already…

  I stopped in place and scowled. What time had he said he’d be by again?

  I tried thinking of when I’d last spoken to Wyatt but drew a blan
k.

  “This is ridiculous.” I finished my beer and tossed the can. I stepped toward the kitchen with the thought that I’d get another.

  Instead I froze in place, one foot in the air. I set it down as my eyes widened and slivers of frozen steel sliced through my mind.

  Asset 108, initiation code 020798361. Override class two. Designate authorization 110809. Cold boot in progress.

  Without another thought, I acted.

  Filled with unknown purpose, I walked quickly from my living room, through the kitchen, and into my bedroom. I didn’t particularly wonder at my destination or my reason. My thoughts came heavy, as if covered in syrup.

  “Access code iota-six-three.” The words fell from my lips without conscious thought. I felt distant from my body, like I watched it from afar.

  Access granted, 108.

  Part of the wall behind my bed slid away, revealing a room beyond. Light flickered within, shining over white tile and stainless steel.

  This didn’t seem nearly as strange as it should. In some back corner of my mind, I hoped Wyatt would pick this moment to drop by.

  The look on his face would be priceless.

  I walked briskly into the sterile room, blinking from the brilliance of the white light and my continuing disorientation.

  The room loomed large—almost as large as my entire apartment. How bizarre that I hadn’t ever noticed that it existed.

  Then I saw the guns.

  “Oh. Oh my.” The left-hand wall held dozens of them: long-barreled, scoped weapons; bulky, mechanized shotguns; and pistols of every shape and size.

  Curious.

  But no time. My feet carried me past them to a large cabinet on the far side of the room. Like everything else in here, it shone with stainless steel.

  I reached for the upper left corner of the cabinet, without realizing what I meant to do, and placed my hand against the smooth metal.

  My hand tingled.

  Asset 108, confirmed.

  The cabinet hissed as hidden hydraulics responded to my touch. I stepped into the cabinet, a little taken aback at its size.

  A wardrobe?

  On the left side hung several of my suits, expensive things that looked as if they had just been pressed. A mirror hung in the back of the wardrobe, and a light above it flicked on as I stepped inside.

  I turned to the right side of the wardrobe. It held several different versions of tactical wear: thick black vests with micro-lattice cells covering the chest, and several variants of armored trousers, most with innumerable pockets. Four different styles of boot, each looking brand new, had been placed on the floor.

  Without a second thought, I began to get dressed.

  As I pulled my t-shirt off, it seemed as if things made a little more sense. Wyatt hadn’t been coming over; I remembered now, we agreed to meet… somewhere. As I pulled on the improbably light plated trousers, I chuckled in a self-depreciating manner. All my nervous energy earlier had been foolish.

  I felt right in the groove.

  Moments later, I stood outside the wardrobe, fully dressed in tactical wear.

  A small refrigerator sat nestled against the wall that I hadn’t noted before.

  “What’s this?” I knelt down and opened it.

  While perusing a small collection of hypodermic devices, a woman’s voice spoke inside my mind:

  Michael, it’s time to proceed.

  “Okay.” I looked up at the ceiling as if I would see a speaker there.

  We need to initialize packet calibration.

  “Copy that.”

  I knew right where to go: the device on the far side of the room. I grabbed a large handful of the mysterious hypos at random, stood, shoved them into a pocket on my thigh, and walked across the room, a bounce in my step. The grin on my face felt a touch childish, but I couldn’t help it.

  I just felt so happy.

  At the far end of the room, a large device dominated the corner. Upon initial inspection, it looked to be a simple, stainless-steel table standing up on one end.

  “No.” I reached out to grip the handholds. The table swiveled at my touch. Not a table. It was…

  The Cradle. I had no idea how I knew that. I just did. My smile faded just a bit.

  For some reason, I did not care for this device.

  Around the Cradle, a halo of white metal hovered impossibly in the air. Engraved on its surface I saw several fine grooves, which would be used by the metallic swing arm to move almost freely. In the white metal gleamed a polished chrome plate inset with dark markings on the surface.

  Your packets are preselected, Michael. Please engage the Cradle.

  I walked over to it, easily shoving the swing arm out of my way. At the end of the arm, I saw a silver and blue rod, sleek, about the size of a ballpoint pen.

  SNICK.

  I jumped at the sensation, as if something behind my left ear had clicked unexpectedly into place.

  Warily, I leaned against the table and held onto the side grips.

  “Oh!” I caught my breath as the table shifted beneath me, leaning backward. The arm moved of its own accord, darting around me with a slight whir.

  I hate cold boots. The thought felt alien, yet somehow comforting. Still I considered it for a moment, thinking how there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with my boots.

  The swing arm darted like an insect, positioning the rod around my head, pausing, and then darting to another location.

  Bishop, Michael. Asset 108. With each word, the end of the rod pulsed a brilliant cobalt blue. Designate packet selection is confirmed: SPECTRE, ADEPT.

  “Spectre?” That seemed odd. Irritatingly so. Wyatt wouldn’t have to deal with unfamiliar equipment.

  Out of nowhere, I had the vague desire for a cigarette.

  Michael, we need to bring you up to speed but do not have time for your Crown to fully initiate and process a dossier of this size. The voice echoed slightly in my mind.

  “Understood.”

  The table leaned forward again, and I released the handles.

  I took a couple of steps forward and then opened a small wall cabinet to my right.

  Inside rested several small, round devices, each with a glaring scarlet button on the top. They looked molded to fit my hand. I hefted one, examining it with an askance eye.

  Familiar. The name for these things hid right at the edge of my mind.

  It didn’t matter. I needed them. That felt obvious, but I couldn’t quite recall the reason.

  I placed several of them inside the many pouches on my vest. As I grabbed the last, I paused for a moment and stared at the device.

  Looking at it I remembered an old dream, perhaps one I’d had in another life.

  “Dampening grenade!” I smiled as the memory peeked around the dark corners of my mind.

  You are to be dispatched to a Facility location that has been classified as a Status II hot zone. Unknown Irrational targets have successfully completed several incursions at multiple coordinates. Several Assets are presumed lost.

  “Understood.” The giddy happiness faded, and my brow drew low and tight as I processed that information.

  As Asset Guthrie initiated prior to you, his system is active. He has the full dossier within his Crown. You will be dropped into the hot zone via conduit and will clear the area to await his arrival.

  “And he’ll advise me from there.” I nodded, understanding dawning in my mind. ‘Clear the area’ being the operative words. I only had to worry about that one thing.

  Correct. Initiating conduit now. The doorway back to my bedroom closed silently on unseen hinges. Then it clicked loudly, and the seam of the door pulsed a brilliant orange.

  That glaring orange light assaulted my mind, impossible to look at directly. I glanced away, but the light died almost as quickly as it had begun.

  As the doorway began to hum, I stepped to the wall of weaponry. I took two bulky, long-barreled pistols and popped the injectors off the hilts. Moments later, I
had injected myself and strapped on the holsters.

  Bishop, Michael, Asset 108. Do you wish to initiate weapon synchronization?

  “I do,” I said distractedly, oddly certain that I needed something else: weaponry for close quarters. “Please synchronize both for item possession and neural link.” The words sounded alien, yet as familiar as my own reflection.

  Synchronization initiated.

  My Crown whirred in my head. Still, I scanned the room for more weapons, as calmly as if I had been shopping for groceries.

  CRACK! The doorway reverberated with a deafening sound.

  Location achieved, Asset.

  When the crawling, droning hum slowed and quieted, I stepped toward the doorway, casually picking up two katanas from where they hung on the wall.

  “Yeah.” I felt their heft in my hands. “These will do.”

  As always, Michael… The words seemed tinny in my mind.

  I stepped toward the door. As it opened, the corners of my mouth quirked up, and I mouthed the words along with the woman:

  We wish you well in the days ahead.

  2

  My mind felt much less bleary by the time the door from my white room opened. My Crown hadn’t yet come entirely online, but I had enough system resources available that I could at least pretend to be operable.

  Odd system glitches… partial access to data… low Crown resources… an itchy scalp…

  These, along with a roving and fierce headache, all exemplified the cold boot.

  I hated them.

  Just the fact that I had been initiated in this manner made me nervous. It meant that some situation had spiraled out of Facility control—something so significant that they couldn’t follow typical protocols.

  A situation that required immediate attention.

  “If you go alone, you’ll be dead before dawn.” I whispered the quote as I peered through the doorway. “You’re a fool, Blake.”

  Beyond the confines of my white room, the passageway looked like a charnel house. Overhead, red emergency lights flickered, casting a lurid light down a shadowed hallway. In that scarlet glow, I could just make out what looked like a splattering of gore and viscera plastered across the far wall.