The V.I.C.I. Diaries: A Criminal Mind Part 1

[DukeNukem 2417]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Due to the delays in writing, this story is being split up into four parts that still count as one story: Russia, Las Vegas, Miami and Greece. Today, I post the Russian part of the story, and tomorrow is Las Vegas, etc.

Also, I'd like to call attention to the fact that, despite what some of you may think, The V.I.C.I. Diaries is IN NO WAY connected to anything posted here or anywhere else by Brytestar. I've asked him already not to use characters from my work in his stories...but I think he may have forgotten about that agreement. In any case, enjoy the story---and I apologize for not posting this on Easter Sunday, so it could've actually been posted in March like I initially planned.
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Chirkey Dam — Dagestan, Russia — August 11, 2011

Had anyone bothered to glance all the way up, at the apex of the Chirkey Dam, they would’ve seen a most interesting sight. Perched at the top of the 763-foot tall structure was a figure---a feminine figure, at that; by itself, the visual of a woman (or 20-something college girl) on top of the dam would’ve been enough to warrant an inquiry, probably costing several people their jobs. If, of course, one chose to investigate further…

The climbing ropes, harness and safety clips did little (if anything) to slow the girl down. Her pace was even, steady and patient; she didn’t have all the time in the world, but she wasn’t going to complicate this by rushing through the prep for what had to be the most insane thing anyone in Dagestan had ever done.

After all, how many chances does one get to bungee-jump off a 763-foot tall dam two hours before midnight?

Others in this particular spot of bother may have gone for the “shoot first, ask questions later” method of getting in, doing their best not to trip alarms as they shot every guard in the kneecaps while running in like a fool to reach the jump point. Those with more “professional pride” might’ve chosen to cut the power, wait until the security staff went to investigate, and then sneak over to the area from which they were to jump. Still others would’ve just said “to hell with it” and done a High Altitude, Low Opening parachute fall, which carried the very high risk of a failure to open---and, by proxy, instant and painful death.

For this particular operative, however…there was a far easier option.

Shooting the guards on the dam, even in the kneecaps, would’ve raised alarms and probably started an international incident. Cutting the power would’ve rendered the entire facility useless. As for a HALO fall…

With one last glance down at her destination, the girl clipped the bungee line to the railing, checking over every connection between her rappelling harness and the line. If even one clip failed, she’d be jumping to an even more instant and painful death than a HALO fall would give. Her eyes closed….she inhaled a deep breath…..

…and with the grace of an Olympic diver, the black-clad female figure lept from the apex of the Chirkey Dam.

Time seemed to stretch, almost tangibly slowing down as the girl descended; even so, the bottom of the dam came closer with every passing moment. If the bungee line didn’t slacken out soon, anything (and anyone) on the other end would be smashed against either the dam itself or the ground below, abruptly ending the perfect dive and turning the diver into a smear against the wall (or a stain on the spillway). Only someone with the most flawless reflexes could even hope to pull off such a feat without getting killed.

Obviously, the girl on the line was more than up to the task.

The line slackened out a full 21 feet above the ground…but there was still one more task to be done. Without hestiating, the black-clad girl unhooked what appeared to be a pistol from her safety rigging and fired it at the stone wall---sending a diamond-edged drillbit piton into the rock.

A few seconds later, the grapple gun pulled her in close enough to transition to an easy landing.

The bungee line was left where it had been clipped, and the grapple gun was set down on the ground, where it burst into flames ten seconds later due to an internal phosphorus charge. Anyone who stumbled upon it now would find only a blackened, charred hunk of plastic, cheap metal and maybe some high-tensile cord.

Whether or not anyone found the gear was irrelevant.

All that mattered was climbing into that strategically placed ventillation grid a foot below the piton…
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Demitri Madjelnev was bored out of his skull.

His early hopes about defending the Motherland by joining the army had petered out in the early years of the decade, and were now reduced to a low-paying job working as a guard for a “server farm”---one that, for reasons known only to its investors, was situated near the base of a massive dam. Many claimed that its close proximity to the dam’s hydroelectric power plant made it an ideal location for such a venture.

For Demitri, such information was irrelevant.

All that mattered was finishing his bathroom break on time.

He sighed as he unfolded the newspaper---only two days old, in comparison to the usual week-old papers his coworkers usually brought in. The front page bore a headline in Cyrillic Russian proclaiming the latest charity work of multibillionaire Darien Tavares to be “a shining moment of hope for impoverished African nations”; a much smaller byline heralded the rumors that Russian roboticist Boris Vlatko was either on the run, in captivity somewhere out West, or dead. Not that it mattered to Demitri, of course; the full-page ad for the Starlet Dolls’ first-ever Russian concert was enough to catch his eye and divert all attention from some article about---

Somewhere above him, something shifted.

The 30-year-old soldier arched an eyebrow, wondering if he’d hit the vodka bottle a bit too hard a few hours earlier. He cocked his head, waiting for another sound…and none came.

Satisfied, he returned his attention to the paper…only to get the feeling that someone was staring at him.

He lowered the paper, expecting to get a face-full of Cool Whip or something equally useless…

…and was instead greeted by the upside-down face of a grinning 20-something brunette girl, seeming to float in the air before him.

“Ooh, sorry,” she apologized. “Forgot to knock.”

Seconds later, Demitri’s vision exploded into a white flash…
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Anyone seeing the pair of legs descending into the bathroom stall would’ve probably alerted their superiors and/or taken up their sidearm to perforate the intruder before they left the stall. Seeing as how said intruder had only knocked the stall’s occupant unconscious, however, there was nothing to worry about.

Naturally, this was small comfort to the one who emerged from the stall, scowling with every step.

Next time I go on a mission like this, Vicki Lawson mentally growled, I’m asking for the full blueprints of any and every building I have to infiltrate. Seriously, climbing through a bunch of ventillation shafts to end up in the men’s room?! Ted and I are going to have a talk about this as soon as I get back home… With an annoyed sigh, she dismissed any and all thoughts of lecturing Ted; her job here was far too important to be sidelined by a detour through the men’s room. She quickly checked the loadout of her ES-9950, making sure every round in the clip was nonlethal to make sure anyone she might’ve had to shoot wouldn’t end up dead---such a mistake could very well be the end of her Field Agent career, in addition to landing her in a Russian prison.

Seeing as how I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in the gulag…

Vicki nodded in approval as the SCEMP ammo indicator lit up with a nice green glow. Had the clip been loaded with any other rounds, the gun would’ve locked itself (the safety and trigger would be magnetically jammed), and her weapon would’ve been good only for pistol-whipping.

With the gun check out of the way, the brunette gynoid left the bathroom…thankful that it had been empty.

Two minutes of quiet sneaking later, Vicki found herself staring into the entrance of the facility’s kitchen. A slab of meat hung from a chain on the ceiling, as a white-suited cook retrieved the necessary utensils to cut the thing and prep it for the next day’s lunch.

Right…time to go…well, right….

Vicki made her way past the kitchen, entering an open “pantry” sort of area….that, predictably had almost zero visibility. The lights had been turned off, and the entire room was populated by cheap metal shelves holding a multitude of foodstuffs. With one hand on her ES-9950 and the other balled into a fist, ready to clock anyone waiting to jump her, Vicki crept through the rows of shelves, her built-in night vision suite allowing her to see as clearly in the darkness as she could’ve seen in the day.

Thus, the arrival of a gun-toting sillhouette a few feet in front of her wasn’t as surprising as it might’ve been.

“Lopeta!” the figure ordered. “Tunnista itsesi!” Someone speaking Finnish in a Russian installation…good thing I know the language. Vicki remained silent, a smirk playing at her features. “Mikä on teidän tarkoitus täällä?” the figure demanded; again, Vicki didn’t flinch as the weapon in front of her was aimed at her forehead.

After a few more seconds of silence, the brunette gynoid spoke: “Olen yksin.”

The gun-toting figure relaxed its stance. “Well, in that case,” a familiar voice replied, “we can get on with the mission and stop speaking the wrong language…” A lithe, blonde figure stepped forward. “Hello again, Agent Lawson.”

“Capri?!”

“Technically speaking, I’m Agent Bishop now,” the blonde replied. “As in Ayla Bishop. Oberon did tell you---“

“He did,” Vicki stammered. “It’s just…they said I was getting a contact for this mission, but I thought---“

“Anton rebuilt me after the incident at the Starlet Dolls concert,” Ayla replied quietly. “Restored my original personality profile, too…thus, Agent Bishop, reporting for duty.” She grinned; “I kept my original hair color, by the way,” she added. “This blonde job is just a wig.”

Vicki nodded, still more than a bit surprised that her contact was a formerly-fallen friend.

“Well,” Ayla mused, “let’s get a move-on.” She loaded her ES9950; “For the Valley, Agent Lawson?”

“For the Valley, Agent Bishop,” Vicki replied, clicking off the safety of her own weapon.

The two gynoids emerged from the pantry into a clean, metal-walled hallway. “I still don’t get why anyone would put a server farm at the base of a dam,” Vicki murmured. “It’s just asking for trouble, isn’t it? What if the spillway floods over, and---“

“Trust me,” Ayla replied, “they’ve got it covered. Speaking of which…hang a left here.” She nodded towards a four-way intersection up ahead. “I caught your transmission before you jumped,” she whispered, grinning slyly as she spoke. “Very inspiring stuff, if I do say so myself…though I think you could’ve done without mentioning Hannsen by name. If the wrong people get a hold of that signal, and we botch this mission, we might end up knee-deep in the---“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vicki warned. “Let’s just get to the server room, okay?”

Ayla chuckled. “Fair enough. Lead on, Agent Lawson…”

With an annoyed sigh, Vicki stepped out in front and edged her way dowh the hall, with Ayla not far behind.

It took the pair less than three minutes to find the server room, and even less time to crack the simple keypad lock on the door. “You’ve been practicing,” Ayla noted, arching an eyebrow as the door slid open.

“Not really,” Vicki admitted. “This door just has really crappy security protocols---“

The sound of footsteps from further down the hall ended the conversation, prompting both Field Agents to duck into the server room and close the door immediately to avoid being spotted. “Any more patrols like that on the way?” Vicki whispered, silently hoping that the answer would be “no”.

Ayla’s answer pretty much dashed those hopes. “Three more over the next twenty minutes.”

“Scrap.” Vicki stared at the ammo readout on her ES9950; “And here, I thought bringing only non-lethal ammo would be a good thing,” she muttered, quickly adding “Not that I wanted to go the Rambo route, or anything like that…”

Her frustration only garnered an amused wink from Ayla. “Patience, my young Padawan.”

“Call me that again,” Vicki growled (albiet playfully), “and I’ll put your wig through a shredder.”

Ayla managed to avoid giggling at Vicki’s lame threat---which proved fortunate, seeing as how two guards had stopped outside of the server room to converse about a colleague who’d apparently passed out in a stall inside the men’s room. The blonde (for the moment) gynoid arched an eyebrow; “Since when does someone get a black eye from falling backwards when they passed out?” she whispered.

“When they get punched,” V.I.C.I. quietly monotoned, her smirk at odds with her robotic voice.

“So I’m not the only one who got a major upgrade,” Ayla mused. “Got any other surprises?”

“Carbon titanium endoframe, higher-security internal WiFi, improved audiovisual suite…pretty much anything and everything that could make me a more efficient Field Agent.”

“Then how come you didn’t accept any missions last month?”

V.I.C.I. hesitated…for all of ten seconds. “I was otherwise engaged. Personal business…family stuff, to be honest---“

“I got the brief, Vicki. You don’t have to lie about what happened between you and Faceless---“

“You mean how I used his own weapons to nearly paralyze him?” Vicki cooly shot back.

Ayla didn’t flinch. “How you kept yourself from killing him.”

The brunette gynoid nodded. “Seeing as how we both know all the sordid details,” she advised, “let’s just not talk about it any further…if the briefing was correct---“

“Which it is.”

“If the briefing is correct,” Vicki continued, “we need to work fast---otherwise, the Chirkey Dam may be the latest casualty of one Matthew Hannsen….otherwise hated as the Maestro.” She scanned the room, her gaze taking in every terminal she could see from her current position. “How fast can you get to that console on the far left side?” she asked.

“25 seconds.”

“Make it 22.”

Both gynoids moved silently, their half-crouch sprints getting them farther than a “commando crawl” or full-on crouch-walk would’ve allowed. True to her word, Ayla was able to reach the terminal Vicki had gestured to in a mere 21.8 seconds, with Vicki arriving at “her” terminal just as quickly. The two set to work cracking through the firewalls and security measures meant to keep them out…but also to keep all secure files in.

Even if one of those secure files had been planted by one of the co-creators of the Stylo virus.

“Half the intranet is infected,” Ayla muttered. “It’s a miracle this place didn’t overload already…”

“Not really,” Vicki corrected. “The intranet’s been worked on six times in the last six months---and take a wild guess who lodged with one of the guards before all the complaints started being filed?”

Ayla shook her head in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

Vicki’s gaze never left the keyboard in front of her. “Current ALPA theory is that Hannsen was able to con his way into staying at a guard’s house,” she informed her fellow Field Agent. “If he did, he probably ‘accidentally’ left a flash drive loaded with goodies for the guard to bring to work and share with his buddies…I’m guessing songs, games, movies…the works.”

“You were able to figure all that out from guessing?”

“That, and the fact that all the files are on here.” Vicki sighed as she scrolled through the list of pirated Starlet Dolls songs, bootleg movies and beta-version games. “And they’re all infected, too…”

“Not from Hannsen, I hope.”

“No, just the usual littany of viruses one might get from massive downloads in a public place….I’m still looking for the file Hannsen put in here, to be honest.” The brunette gynoid sped through the list of files that had been uploaded to the servers over the last few months. “No, no, no….where the hell---“

“Found it!”

Instantly, the screen of the terminal Vicki was using changed. “Nice trick. Think I could learn it soon?”

“Ask me when we’re done,” Ayla replied. “If I’m feeling froggy, maybe I’ll jump---wait, what the hell?!” Her smile vanished; “The counter just went from five files infected by Hannsen to fifty,” she gasped. “This…this is just---“

“Exactly the kind of situation we were warned about,” V.I.C.I. reminded her. “The mission is still on---“

Form outside, someone pounded on the door.

“Closing time, Vicki!” Ayla shouted, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Last call!”

“Buy me a shake,” the brunette gynoid calmly replied. Gotta love that ALPA-issue code talk… She grinned as the list of infected files shrank to zero---just in time for her to roll out of the way and avoid getting cut down in a hail of machine-gun fire from the door. Time to exit…stage right!

By virtue of its construction, the server room was set up with an exit on either side of the far end---both meant for emergency use only. Considering the fact that several angry guards were now advancing on Vicki and yelling at her in heavily-accented English, the term “emergency” now had a rather important---and, by proxy, immediate---definition than “fire”, “flood”, “act of God” or “uninterrupted broadcast of a 700 Club marathon” could ever hope to have.

To put it simply, it was time to haul butt to the next server room and hope for a clean getaway afterwards.

“I guess this means they didn’t get the memo!” Ayla stated (throwing a convincing “out of breath” posture, with the appropriate vocal tones, in for the hell of it) as she met up with Vicki in the hallway. “They do know we’re trying to help, right?”

“Apparently not,” Vicki muttered, scowling as another group of guards approached. “Where to now?”

Ayla thought for a moment. “There’s another server room ahead.”

Vicki groaned; “We already took care of---“

“We deleted one third of the infected files,” Ayla interjected. “There’s still---“ A volley of shots hit the wall three feet away from her head.

“Less talking,” V.I.C.I. suggested, “more running.” Silently, Ayla followed the brunette gynoid’s lead, ducking into an alcove and waiting for her to cross the hallway to get closer to the next server room. The wait only took a few few short seconds…which, not surprisingly, felt like minutes from where the two were waiting. “Any chance you might’ve accidentally packed a standard round in that clip?” the temporarily-blonde gynoid called out. “Even a flare?”

The glance she received from V.I.C.I. was a far better answer than any words could’ve been.

“Me and my wishful thinking,” Ayla muttered.

Despite the increased security presence (and the fact that every guard in the building would be converging on their location in a few short minutes), Ayla and Vicki had no major problems getting to the next server room to finish the job they’d started. “Tell me again,” the ersatz blonde called out, “why someone like Matthew Hannsen would go through all the trouble of crashing at some random guard’s house just to leave behind a flash drive that the guy may or may not have brought with him to use at work…” She ducked behind the doorway as a few more shots peppered the frame.

“Simple,” Vicki replied. “He slipped the leash, and the ALPA lost him for three months.”

“WHAT?!”

“Long story. I’ll tell you when we’re done here---“ Vicki ducked behind a console as another volley of shots slammed into the wall behind her. Without bothering to finish her sentence, she set to work finding and deleting the scores of infected files Hannsen had left on the server farm’s infranet. Almost there---

Something exploded two centimeters away from her left knee.

With a smirk, Vicki highlighted and deleted another column of infected files. “Shut the door, Agent Bishop---there’s a draft!” She managed a chuckle, expecting Ayla to respond with an equally-pithy remark…

…and received only silence as a reply.

Her finger hovered over the “DELETE” key on the console’s built-in keyboard; slowly, the creeping sensation that something had gone wrong crawled up her titanium spine. She leaned out, hoping not to get shot…

…and was met with a scene that would’ve broken the will of a lesser Field Agent.

Ayla stood in the doorway, her expression one of sullen defiance as two guards flanked her while a third held a pistol to her head. Another guard---the leader, probably---strode forward, glancing at his suboordinates with something like disdain; in lightly-accented English, he called out: “Surrender now, and we will spare her!”

With a sigh, Vicki laid down her ES9950 and stood, hands raised. “This isn’t what it looks like….”

“Then what, pray tell, is it?” the head of security inquired, sounding surprisingly calm for someone who had just caught two intruders in the facility he’d been appointed to protect. “We find a guard knocked out cold in a bathroom stall, gigabytes of data missing from our facility’s infranet---“

“Those files were infected,” Vicki countered. “My friend and I---“

“Infected?” The somewhat-smug look on the security head’s face faded slightly. “How did you---“

In an instant, every guard trained their guns on Vicki as she reached for something in her pocket. “It’s just a photo,” she assured them, slowly withdrawing a piece of paper and holding it out for the head of security to take from her. “Namely, a photo of the guy who put all those infected files on your infranet…” Her expression was neutral as the man strode forward, gingerly plucking the photo from her grip and unfolding it. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Matthew Hannsen. A cybercriminal, and someone who never---“

The sceurity head turned and showed the photo to his suboordinates. “How did this man have access to our networks?” he demanded. “How did he have access to the secure infranet of this facility?!”

To Vicki’s amusement (tinged with annoyance), the once-resolute guards---most of whom would’ve shot her without hesitation had she not explained that she was only getting a photograph from her pocket---were now shifting their weight uncomfortably, staring at the floor or the ceiling and muttering under their breaths.

“HOW DID THIS MAN ACCESS OUR NETWORK?!” the security chief echoed, glaring at the men.

Vicki cleared her throat. “That guy you found in the bathroom stall…brought a flash drive here that someone left at his house,” she quietly explained. “We…my employers have reason to suspect that the flash drive was intentionally left in his care by the man in that picture…for purposes that, as of now, remain unknown. We’re still investigating the whole thing---“

A crackle of static---accompanied by strains of Bach played faster than humanly possible---emanated from every speaker in the room. “LIVE, FROM DAGESTAN,” a voice called out, “IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT!” The unfiltered, maniacal laugh of Matthew Hannsen---the Maestro---filled the room; “Hello, Chirkey Dam!” he taunted. “If you’re receiving this message, it’s been…about two years since the last time I was in your neck of the woods…and seeing as how I would never have been able to gain entry into your fine establishment all by my lonesome, I had a little help from a friend---or, should I say, an extremely impressionable would-be soldier who gladly accepted the notion that I was a long-lost college friend who needed a place to stay…”

The Maestro’s voice turned sinister. “…and volunteered to do a bit of…electronic smuggling for me.”

Every guard in the room listened, stunned into silence, as the rant continued. “Back in the 1990s, a certain someone was offered a position at one of Russia’s most prestigious universities…a position that dealt with the complexities of coding security programs to protect places like banks, stock exchanges…that sort of thing. In a sad twist of fate, however, that individual was never able to attain this postion at the aforementioned Russian university…because I ran him over with his own bloody Mazoratti and left him in a coma!”

To Vicki’s absolute lack of surprise, the guards weren’t amused by the annecdote.

“See, that kind of dedication would usually be grounds for a reward,” Hannsen’s rant continued, “but to a guy like me…it’s bloody worthless. What good is having someone go through all that trouble making security systems to keep people like me out…when that same person can’t even remember how the bloody hell to get back in?” A drawling, sadistic chuckle sounded through the room; “You lot probably didn’t even know his mind was failing,” the voice mused.

Seconds later, it turned sinister: “…but I did…and I wasn’t about to let that stand in my way.”

“Agent Bishop,” Vicki whispered, “get all of these people out of here now---“

“Of course,” the Maestro’s voice continued, “the easy solution was to just wipe him out and nuke his research, which I did---although I’ll admit that I saved some of the…choicest cuts…for myself.” That sinister, intenionally-melodramatic chuckle sounded again. “Case in point: the security codes that would give someone complete and total control over…a certain dam in Russia…”

Immediately, another voice---this one female (and noticably synthesized)---interrupted: “Attention: Spillway lock override active. Commence test flooding in ten minutes.”

Vicki abandoned all subtlety. “Commander,” she declared, grabbing the head of security by the sleeve, “you have to get your men out of here now---“

“I do not have to do anything,” the officer replied, more flustered than frustrated. “And how did you know---“

“My partner and I were sent here to purge a virus from this system,” Vicki admitted. “The same virus that’s just overridden the spillway controlls of the Chirkey Dam---and unless you let me do my job, that virus is going to be the end of everyone in this facility!” She ignored the fact that everyone would technically have been “ended” by drowning, since Hannsen’s virus was going to cause their deaths anyways by having opened the spillway gates to begin with, and chose instead to focus on the immediate threat. “I can neutralize the virus in…seven minutes,” she stated. “How long will it take your men to get to the exits?”

The security chief stared, more stunned than he felt like admitting. “I, ah…I---“

“How long?!”

“Four minutes,” the uniformed security chief blurted out. “Four minutes to get from here to the emergency---“

“Do it.” Vicki’s eyes never left the workstation as she spoke. “I have stuff to take care of.”

After a few miliseconds’ worth of hesitation, the security chief nodded, turning towards the officers under his command and shouting orders in Russian. “I really hope you know what you’re doing, Vicki,” Ayla muttered, “otherwise---“

The death glare she received in reply said more than any words could’ve conveyed.

“Never mind.” With one last glance at the brunette gynoid, Ayla shook her head; I knew she changed after the whole incident with Faceless, she mused, but I never expected this…she’s nuking the Maestro’s infected files without even breaking a sweat!

What Ayla didn’t realize was that Vicki was, in all manner of fact, doing her damndest not to break a sweat as she worked---the Maestro’s infection of the facility’s infranet had been far more pervasive than she’d originally thought, and a single mistaken stroke on the keyboard would doom the entire staff to a drowning death…and I really don’t need that on my conscience, she reminded herself. The idea of covertly entering the facility had already gone down the tubes (or at least the part about covertly exiting it had)…any more mistakes, and there was a strong probability (more likely a certainty) that her career as a Field Agent would be over as soon as she set foot on San Jose soil once again.

Except I won’t make another mistake.

Even with Hannsen’s mocking laughter still ringing in the background, Vicki never looked away from the screen as she worked. Line after line of code filled the screen in the span of a few seconds, many of which were erased just as quickly. Anyone who could’ve been watching would’ve marveled at---

“So we meet again…Agent Lawson.”

The mention of her name, especially by the leering voice of Matthew Hannsen, would’ve prompted a shriek of terror from the brunette gynoid…had this been any day before July 10, 2011. Now, she simply stared at the screen, her resolve only growing as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“As you can probably tell,” the Maestro’s taunt continued, “this is just a recording…but I’ll bet you’re dying to know how I knew you’d be the one who came here? How I slipped the leash during that work release program…and more importantly, how a recording from two years ago could possibly contain a mention of you, when I didn’t even know you existed?”

Hannsen’s mocking chuckle filled the room. “Simple, really…this isn’t a recording.”

Vicki’s brow knitted in frustration; he’s just messing with you, Lawson. Don’t let him know he’s getting to you, don’t even give him the satisfaction…

”Case in point,” Hannsen continued, “I can see that your ES-9950 holster is slung a bit low on your right hip at the moment, possibly due to you not pulling the belt tight enough---“ Vicki instantly shifted her weight and maneuvered her right side out of camera range, prompting a laugh from the Maestro. “Oh, the look on your face…I’ve got eyes and ears all over this building, ‘Agent Lawson’…a simple change in posture isn’t going to do anything to stop me from seeing every move you make! Not that I want to stop you…in fact, as hard as it may seem to believe, I want you to win this one. I want to see you lock out my virus and save the Chirkey Dam Data Farm from a watery grave…because even if you beat me this time, there’s no way in HELL---“

A terminal on the far side of the room erupted in sparks, a victim of Vicki’s “over-exertion” while trying to purge the viruses from it.

“Was that supposed to scare me?” the Maestro taunted.

“No,” V.I.C.I. shot back. “It was supposed to lock you out of the slipgate controls and keep them from opening.”

“Bra-vo, Agent Lawson!” Hannsen drawled, a sarcastic clap accompanying his words. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d figure out that this was a two-way connection…and congrats on blowing up a terminal to make your point, by the way. Still, you’re going into a meeting of the minds against me---and even though I have no clue what the hell you’ve got up there in that brainpan of yours, I can tell you this….it won’t be anywhere near a match for a criminal mind like mine!”

The taunt did little---if anything---to perturb the gynoid. “We’ll see about that.”

“So you’re not afraid to play with the big boys, then….I can see---“

“The only thing you can see right now is a self-delusional image of you ‘winning’,” V.I.C.I. coldly replied as she typed, “even though this isn’t a contest. You’re putting people’s lives at risk for this…and it’s high time your criminal mind got kicked right in the medula oblongata.” With one final key press, she deleted the last trace of code Hannsen’s unwitting lackey had left on the building’s infranet. “Game, set and match,” the brunette gynoid declared, smirking.

“Again, bra-vo,” the Maestro drawled. “Now, tell me…what happens next?”

V.I.C.I. stared up at the nearest camera. “What do you---“

A low-flying, almost-deafaning roar cut off the end of her sentence. “What I was going to say,” the Maestro continued, “is ‘What happens when I send a…borrowed drone---a prototype from Aeronautics and Robotics Technologies---flying at the building you’re in, with every intent to smash you flat?!”

Oh, scrap---

In the hallway outside, something sheared through the ceiling like a celestial Ginsu knife, cutting a jagged gash through the formerly-spotless tiles. V.I.C.I. barely had enough time to duck and cover behind the farthest-right terminal in the room as the ART drone---looking for all the world like a rejected starship design from a sci-fi movie---sliced through the doorframe and pulled up just enough to not hit any of the terminals. “It’s a bit like an Xbox game,” the Maestro declared, “except you only get one life…and I can just borrow more drones if I feel like it!”

“Maybe,” V.I.C.I. countered, the makings of a completely insane plan already beginning to form in her bubble memory processors, “but I have a few tricks up my sleeves, too.” Without hesitating, she ran towards the drone---and jumped on top of it.

Any snarky comments the Maestro intended to make faded out in a fog of shock. “No.”

“Remember when I said your criminal mind deserves a kick in the medula oblongata?” V.I.C.I. taunted, her robotic voice surprisingly doing little to undercut the question. “Looks like it’s time for a little boot-to-brain action!” Without giving her unseen (and distant, she reminded herself) adversary time to come up with another retort, the gynoid pulled away a panel atop the aerodynamic drone and found a USB port (ART had taken up the drone-design project to make the things easy for the winning bidder to use, but impossible for any “outside influences” to mess with---a task they had obviously failed at). “Word to the wise, ‘Maestro’,” she suggested. “The next time you try to hack a prototype drone, don’t hack one designed by an ALPA company.”

As the drone turned in midair, (gotta hand it to ART---they managed to master the VTOL idea without breaking the bank…), V.I.C.I. deftly unspooled a cable from her left hip pocket and plugged the end of it into the port inside the drone (the other end, naturally, was plugged into her---via the back panel Ted had upgraded after her last encounter with the Butcher of Lake Gilmour in July). “Time to plot a new course…” She ignored the increasingly-profane rants of the Maestro as the drone moved forward, first slowly---then with a speed that could only be classified as “break-neck”.

Even as the drone ascended, the gynoid couldn’t help but appreciate its design; good thing ART designed this thing to be aerodynamic, she mused. Indeed, the drone had been based off of the body of a horse---with stabilizer fins, wings and a front-mounted camera rig in place of a tail, legs and a head. As such, the drone was also surprisingly compact, with a new wing design that allowed the wings to bend---instead of buckling, bowing or simply breaking off---in confined spaces, then return to their original shape in the open air. No wonder Hannsen jacked it---it was the only one he could get through the front door!

A sharp jerk to the right snapped V.I.C.I. out of her reverie. Right…job now, random thoughts later.

Her focus shifted to overriding the control signal Hannsen had installed into the drone; if she could break the connection, the aerial attack ‘bot would---for all intents and purposes---be as compliant to her commands as the animal that inspired its design. Even as she worked, however, the thought of drone warfare using only non-sentient drones briefly flitted through her mind…and she was actually glad that the machine hadn’t been designed to think for itself, or to have emotions. Sentient androids and gynoids were just as capable of feeling guilt, trepidation, remorse and even fear as any human being, and giving an unmanned drone the same sort of emotional capacity as an android would only compromise its effectiveness---

The drone banked sharply, nearly slamming V.I.C.I. into a wall as it shot through the corridors.

Right…I really need to quit having these extended thought breaks in the middle of the freaking mission!

Several feet ahead, the exit door sat waiting---either for the drone to break through it and soar, unburdened, into the night sky, or for it (and, by proxy, the brunette gynoid sitting atop the thing) to slam into the doors and be reduced to a sparking, gibbering wreck in a matter of seconds.

Personally, V.I.C.I. was really hoping for the former option.

“Vicki, what the hell just happened in there?!” Ayla’s voice rang in the ear of her fellow Field Agent with a distinctly worried/pissed-off undertone. “I’m getting a reading that something crashed through the roof---“

“Hannsen stole an ART drone and tried to fly it into me,” V.I.C.I. replied calmly. “It didn’t work---“

“Wait, what?! He stole an ART drone---“

“That’s not the issue here, Agent Bishop. You need to get the workers as far away from this facility as possible, and fast…otherwise they might get rained on with debris when the drone self-destructs.”

An exasperated sigh issued in V.I.C.I.’s ears. “Fair enough---wait, what’s that rushing noise---“

“I’m…sort of on the drone right now---“

“YOU’RE ON THE DRONE?!”

I knew she wouldn’t take it well… “I just need to get it to a nice cruising altitude and jump off before it self-destructs. It shouldn’t take me that long.” In all manner of fact, the drone was flying at a nice cruising altitude…but it was still too close to the dam for V.I.C.I.’s liking. “Just give me a few more minutes, and I’ll meet up with you on the ground.” The gynoid blinked, ending the call and trying to keep her thoughts from flashing back to Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (for some reason, her bubble memory processors always called up the full title of the movie, instead of the short version; she suspected IMDB was involved).

The drone soared further and further away from the dam, and V.I.C.I. managed to angle it up just enough for her next insane idea to work. As the runaway drone flew higher, the gynoid unzipped thin pockets on the arms and legs of her special-issue uniform for the mission, hoping that what she was about to do wouldn’t end with a sudden impact into a tree…or anything else. The wings of her prototype ALPA Night Ops Wingsuit (formerly the “Covert Ops Wingsuit”, until someone pointed out the unfortunate acronym) snapped into place quickly and securely, thanks to neodymium magnets in the wings and titanium “struts” in the corresponding hookup points on the uniform itself. Right…Three…two….one….NOW!

What happened next wasn’t so much a jump off of the drone as it was a gracefull fall…but the results were still effective: the wings did, indeed, hold. I have to remember to thank Anton for designing these for me, seeing as how they’re actually doing what they’re supposed to---

Without warning, the drone above her exploded.

Any human being in her position would’ve either panicked, tried to angle themselves downward for a faster descent, or been killed by the falling shrapnel before they could react…but V.I.C.I. wasn’t about to let the mission end in a complete failure just because the Maestro had to go and nuke his new toy in an effort to kill her. Instead of positioning herself for a faster descent (which would’ve made it all too easy for the shrapnel to slice through her back, and the wings), the brunette gynoid tilted to the right just a bit---seconds before the camera mounted in the drone’s nose would’ve nailed her in the head. A barrel roll to the left carried her out of reach of the razor-sharp stabilization fins that could’ve easily cleaved her in half; a carefully-controlled descent allowed her to swoop past a massive section of the drone’s chassis that would’ve otherwise smashed into her midsection and sent her falling to the ground like a stone.

Normally, this would’ve been the part where anyone else relaxed and let gravity take over until they landed with both feet safely and firmly planted on the ground…but V.I.C.I. knew that the Maestro wasn’t done with her yet.

Of course, it helped that her sensors detected a bird-shaped object coming at her like a bat out of hell…

…and this is the part where I either stick the landing or die trying.

She’d heard rumors that ART was experimenting with “drones inside drones”---basically, storing smaller, more maneuverable unmanned units inside of the larger ones to deploy in the event of the larger drone getting shot down. It no longer mattered that Hannsen had stolen the thing, or even how he’d stolen it; what mattered now was outrunning the damned drone and getting to the ground in one piece. Of course, if that failed….

It’s locking onto my RTG’s energy signature, the gynoid mused, noticing the telltale heat of a targeting laser as it “painted” her back. Great…

Had she been standing on her own feet, V.I.C.I. might’ve sighed at the development; in this instance, though, the proper course of action was a bit more…creative: as she fell/glided towards the ground at ever-increasing speeds, the Field Agent pulled a half-barrel roll and went to unholster her ES-9950---only to remember that it was still on the floor inside the facility she’d just flown out of.

Oh, scrap…..

With her original plan now completely dead, V.I.C.I. decided to go for one even more insane---and angled into a loop that took her just above the smaller drone. If I can’t shoot it down… The camera mounted in the drone’s “head” was just able to lock onto her when she tore the wings off. A veritable flood of bird-related puns ran through her bubble memory processors, and all of them went unused---she’d have enough time to joke about it on the ground, rather than trying to laugh it off in midair.

The only problem now, of course, was getting back to the ground.

A cursory scan of the terrain revealed that the drone’s flight path had taken V.I.C.I. farther than expected---the dam itself was too far to fly back to, and the only residential areas nearby were a suburb of Dagestan and what looked to be a fishing camp on the bank of the Sulak River. Knowing that the residents of the suburb had most likely already gone to bed, V.I.C.I. decided to make a split-second call…and angled towards the camp.

Hope they don’t mind a visitor…
---------------------------
The three late-night fishermen stared at their unmoving lines, bored out of their skulls. They’d already drank most of the beer they’d brought with them, and had long since run out of stories to tell that would help pass the time. If someone didn’t catch something soon…

Somewhere in the sky above them, a shape descended.

Ironically, the first to notice had been the last to arrive at the sight; thus, it gave him more than a bit of a thrill to see the black-clad figure with what appeared to be some sort of fabric connected to the sleeves and legs of its outfit gracefully descending on the campsite. Excitedly, the man---Sergei Prochnëv---shouted for his friends to come and see the “angel” as it landed…only to duck for cover as the ersatz angel bowled straight into his own tent, coming to rest only after skidding to a stop in the dust.

Sergei and his friends gathered around the figure, more than a bit confused…only to stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as the “angel” pulled her way free of the tent, shaking leaves out of her shoulder-length brown hair and looking a little less perturbed than someone who’d lost their luggage.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, the girl spoke: “Any chance I could get a ride to the edge of town?”
---------------------------
Ayla stared in disbelief as a beat-up van drove into view, shaking her head. “I tell her to meet up with me,” she muttered, “and this is how she shows up…” Despite her annoyance, Ayla couldn’t help but grin as Vicki emerged from the back of the van, thanking the occupants in Russian. “I take it you had a safe flight?”

“A little turbulance,” Vicki replied, “but I’ll live.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the looming shadow of the dam.

You win this round, Hannsen…but the game’s still on…
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ALPA Field Agent Briefing Center - San Jose, California - August 19, 2011, 7:05 AM

“You know, a lot of good people might’ve easily been killed if we hadn’t acted on your…’hunch’, Wakefield.”

Ashley Tobias Wakefield---more commonly known as “Ash”---chuckled; “No offense, sir,” he admitted, “but it wasn’t just a ‘hunch’. Hannsen planned for this, and the Coalition’s hands were tied---any of them would’ve made a move to stop him, and the DVS---“

“The DVS,” Oberon declared, lowering the folder he’d been reading from, “is not the matter we came here to discuss…though it’s still on our list of investigations to conduct over the coming years.” He sighed, steepling his fingers; “If Faceless hadn’t reared his head in July and gone on a spree like he did,” he admitted, “this DVS thing would’ve been given a thorough looking-through…but we had one of the most hated serial murderers in recent history running loose in Silicon Valley, and that sort of thing tends to take top priority.” He sighed again, shaking his head. “As for this top priority matter…I think it best if we---“

Oberon never got to say what he thought it would be best for them to do---and Ash wouldn’t have been paying attention even if he had---thanks to the door on the far side of the room opening at that moment. “So, I save a Russian data farm and everyone working in it from a drowning death,” Vicki Lawson called out, “and these are the best cover stories you came up with?!” She dropped a pile of newspapers on Ash (more precisely, in his lap) and stared at both Ash and Oberon in turn, waiting for one of them to read the things. “I literally just got these today,” she added. “Ayla and I both read them, and we both think the cover stories just plain suck…seriously, I could’ve come up with something better than this during my recharge cycle.”

To her annoyance, Oberon didn’t even bother trying to hide his smile as he read the headlines out loud: “’Toy company recalls prototype RC helicopter after Russian test flight’, ‘Steven Segal escapes injury during filming at Chirkey Dam’, ‘Russian fishermen say fallen angel wrecked visited them’…” He chuckled. “I take it you didn’t like the Steven Segal one?” he mused.

“I don’t like any of them,” Vicki shot back. “They all suck!”

“That’s the point, actually,” Oberon admitted. “I’d rather see a bunch of hokey lies than the truth, especially in your case. I thought you would’ve liked a bit of anonymity….and I can tell you want me to, as someone once said, ‘cut the Obi-Wan Kenobi crap’ and get straight to the point.”

Vicki stared at the floor. “I was kinda sorta thinking that, yeah…”

“So was I,” Ash quickly added, smiling when Vicki turned to glance at him. “What? It was boring---“

An overly-exaggerated throat-clearing noise from Oberon ended the conversation before it could start. “As I was saying,” he declared, “I do believe it’s time we scythe through the fog of big words and vagueness to get right at the heart of the matter…”

He leveled his gaze at Vicki. “How much do you know about Professor Matthew Emmerich Hannsen?”

“Only what I’ve heard from higher-ups at the ALPA,” the brunette gynoid replied, “including his rap sheet.”

“Good…because that’s all you needed to know at the time.” Oberon handed her a sealed folder; “Don’t break the seal until you leave,” he advised, “otherwise I’ll have at least fifteen subcommittees on my arse for reasons too stupid to go into here….oh, and you conveniently forgot to mention that you learned something new about Hannsen before your mission yesterday---or were you hesitant to ask about that little incident from two years prior, in which he---in his own words---‘slipped the leash’?”

Am I that obvious? “I…didn’t want to---“

“I’ve long since gotten over any bad blood regarding the incident, Agent Lawson…I won’t bite your head off.”

Ignoring the chuckle that accompanied the assurance, Vicki decided that now would be as good a time as any to mention the incident---or, more specifically, its repercussions. “What exactly did Hannsen do while he was off the grid? And why the hell did he target a random server farm---“

“It wasn’t ‘random’,” Oberon countered, “nor is it relevant to this discussion. What is relevant is the list of the other buildings Hannsen had visited or attempted to infiltrate during his brief moment of freedom…and I might as well take back what I said about not opening the folder until you leave,” he added, “because the information inside of it is rather important considering what I’m about to say. I’ll pay the fine if I have to, if it’ll keep the beaurocrats from ripping my spleen out with their bare hands…”

Vicki split the paper seal on the folder (with the aid of a pencil handed over by Ash) and glanced at its contents, most of which were photos, blueprints, eyewitness statements and transcripts of interviews with Hannsen himself. “Las Vegas, Athens, Havana, Singapore, Miami….he did a lot of travelling for a guy who prefers life in prison,” she remarked. “How the hell did he get around like that in the span of one month? “

Oberon sighed. “At the time, we blamed his ease of escape on a lack of interagency communication, dwindling resources and a laundry list of other stupid excuses,” he admitted, “but the simple truth is that he got away because he’d planned it. It was disturbingly similar to Cyrus Grissom’s escape plan from Con Air---right down to the charts and graphs hidden in his cell walls…the only difference, of course, being that the Maestro actually succeeded, and Cyrus the Virus failed. That, and Michael Bay had nothing to do with the planning and/or execution of Hannsen’s escape.”

“If he had,” Vicki deadpanned, “there would’ve been more explosions…” One look at Ash’s left hand over most of his face---and the corresponding Glare of Mild Annoyance® from Oberon---told the gynoid that her joke was better left unfinished. “Never mind,” she squeaked. “Ah, please continue…sir.”

The ALPA Chairman nodded, the ghost of a smile flickering through the Glare. “The actions of yourself and Agent Bishop were enough to keep Hannsen’s plan from succeeding down at the server farm,” he informed the brunette gynoid, “and you can expect commendations for it…but that was only one part of a larger---and, by my own estimations, considerably more insidious---scheme. For example, the site in Las Vegas was vacant at the time…but three months later, ground was broken for the start of construction of a new casino.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an already-opened magazine, handing it to Vicki as he spoke; “You might’ve heard of the place,” he mused. “It’s quite popular---“

“Wasn’t this casino in that one video game, though?” Vicki inquired, frowning. “And, ah, aren’t the statues---“

“The LadyKiller has undergone extensive renovations since the initial concept of the place was chosen,” Ash cut in. “They even hired some…aesthetic supervisors to make sure the décor was as far from its…in-game equivalent as possible. And to answer your question, the statues wear tasteful, form-fitting robes and gowns.”

At this, Vicki nodded her approval. “Good call,” she replied. “Naked statues probably would’ve ticked off more people anyways….but how did Hannsen even know the place was going to be built? I mean, the game that it was based on---“ She paused. “Hang on….why did they design a full level based on the LadyKiller for a game that took a decade and a half to make?” she asked. “And how did Hannsen know the casino was going to be in the game, or did he even---“

Another throat-clearing noise from Oberon ended the rambling. “At this point,” he murmured, “it’s unclear as to how he was able to obtain the information. The main concern we have is another document in the folder you have: the list.”

Vicki’s predictable “What list?” question died on her tongue as she pulled five stapled pages out of the folder.

“The first two pages are just what he was going to say to the press,” Oberon quietly informed her. “The third page is a list of targeted locations---before Chirkey, we were able to neutralize all of them rather quickly---and the fourth is still being decoded. As for the fifth…”

Just as Oberon had said, pages one and two were Hannsen’s “manifesto” (a rather tongue-in-cheek name for the document, which actually made fun of the idea of a manifesto), while page three listed the locations that had already been targeted (those that had been neutralized were blacked out. Page four, meanwhile, held a list of bizarre names---possibly codenames, nicknames or online usernames, Vicki realized---that included “Steel Pariah”, “Pearl Lion”, “Diamond Viper” and “Spinnel Owl”.

On page five, however…

“Why is Jesse Ventura’s nephew on here?” Vicki had last heard from Stephen Crandall---aka Sterling Golden, a wrestler in Florida Championship Wrestling (FCW) with dreams of making it big in the WWE---two years ago during a chance encounter while on vacation. “I mean, Jesse might’ve told him about me before we met---“

“Hannsen targeted Stephen Crandall because of a debt his uncle never paid,” Oberon replied. “You may have noticed Raquel Sanderson’s name on the list---she used to be one of Hannsen’s prison guards. Boris and Elena Vlatko were targeted after the incident with Kirsten…basically, they’ve all been marked for death by the Maestro for having pissed him off in one way or another.”

“Except he’s still in prison,” Vicki groaned. “How the hell---“

“Remember how I mentioned that Hannsen had help? Well, even within the facility where he’s spent most of the last decade, the man’s still got enough pull to call in favors and have things ‘taken care of’ without so much as lifting a finger. If he wants them dead…chances are they’ll need every bit of protection we can offer---and before you mention it,” he added, raising a hand to keep Vicki from bolting out of her chair, “some of the lower priority cases---Stephen Crandall, for instance---are being looked after as we speak.” He handed the gynoid another folder. “Your assignment is to visit the final five sites listed on page three---the LadyKiller in Las Vegas, one of three hotels in Miami frequented by a Mr. Stahl, a ‘beautification clinic’ in Havana, an excavation site near the Parthenon in Athens, and the headquarters of Hannsen Electronics/Robotics in Singapore.”

Vicki stared at the folder. “You do know the next semester at SJSU starts soon, right?” she quietly asked.

“Considering the fact that you’re going on an acedemic study trip for the remainder of the month, I don’t think the dean will mind.” Oberon grinned. “Ayla will give you the details for the Vegas portion of this assignment during the flight…I suggest you follow her advice, otherwise this entire thing could become a massive cock-up.”

A brief flash of the drone exploding over Dagestan entered Vicki’s thoughts---and left just as quickly. “I won’t let you down, sir,” Vicki promised. “I’m guessing Ayla will be getting her own room for the Vegas mission…or is she even coming with me at all?” Her question was met with silence from Oberon. “You’re not sending me out there alone, are you?! I mean, this is Las Vegas, for scrap’s sake! Hunter S. Thompson barely survived the two times he went---“

“Then we should all be lucky that you have considerably more internal fortitude than the late Dr. Thompson,” Oberon replied calmly. “Crystal will help you pack for the mission, if you want; your flight leaves in ninety minutes.” With that, he turned his attention to the laptop sitting on his desk. So…that’s it? Just a few folders and an offer to help me get my stuff together? What the hell---

“Something wrong, Vicki?”

In that one sentence---with her actual name instead of “Agent Lawson”---Vicki felt her fears evaporate. “No.”

Once again, the reassuring smile. “I’ll tell Crystal to bring the car around, then…oh, and good luck.”

“Thank you…Oberon.” Vicki smiled and nodded, feeling just a bit better about her prospects. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all…

Once again, she’d forgotten the all-too-common outcome that awaited anyone with that line of thought…
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PART 2: LAS VEGAS - COMING TOMORROW

[DollSpace]

Great first chapter; got me hooked already. Oh, and I loved the Finnish part!

[Brytestar]

I agree I look forward to the next installment.

[Section_Eight]

Such lovely memories of Goldeneye. But you forgot the bit where you accidentally shoot Dr. Doak 27 times while trying to get the Invincibilty cheat.