The V.I.C.I. Diaries: Valley of the Damned (Part 2)

[DukeNukem 2417]

To put it in blunt terms, Björn Aaberg was furious.

Even as he lay in a hospital bed, trailing IVs and staring up at the ceiling while his personal physician and team of nurses tended to the wounds he'd incurred after the harrowing chase through Dawley, the hitman/arms dealer wanted to break someone's face. Hannsen, the damned idiot, had apparently been “extracted” from the now-abandoned compound Aaberg himself had been using for his semi-annual “gun show”, one of his best employees had been killed, three more were injured and another had been revealed to be a double-agent of some sort.

Worse than that, however, was the fact that Aaberg's own employer was en route, awaiting (or, more than likely, demanding) an explanation as to what had happened at the compound.

The truth was....a bit more complicated.

At first glance, it did, in fact, appear that Anders Stahl was in the building to pay Aaberg a visit and “politely request” an explanation as to what had happened in Dawley. None of the attending physicians had bothered to impede the progress of the man who led one of the most notorious banking guilds in history---even those who didn't fully understand who he was stayed out of his way. It was therefore somewhat odd, then, that Stahl made a last-minute change of direction---at the final junction on the fifteenth floor that would've taken him to Aaberg's room had he turned right, Stahl turned left...into a room that, upon first glance, looked like nothing more than a glorified waiting room.

In truth, it was far more important.

One corner of the room was bathed in darkness, the front wheels of a wheelchair barely visible. The eyebrow over Stahl's clouded left eye arched, followed by a scowl; he'd heard that McMire was coming to pay a visit, but he never expected the bastard to actually show up. The only other seat taken in the room was filled by the more familiar (and thus more welcomed) figure of Malcolm Innes Grade, leader of the Grade Media Group and one of five people banned from Aaberg's room---on account of the GMG broadcasting surveilance footage from the Dawley compound on their free-to-own TV networks and satellite broadcasting networks.

Before he'd been anesthetized, Aaberg had threatened to castrate Grade---with his bare hands, if necessary---to avenge the slight.

“Grade,” Stahl mused. “How...surprising, to see you paying Mister Aaberg a visit.”

“Nothing 'nice' about it,” Grade scoffed, cracking his knuckles. “He wants my balls on a platter just from what I've already given my networks---hell, if he'd seen the stuff I'd cut, he'd call for me to be thrown to the bloody lions. That Lawson girl really did a number on---”

“That Lawson girl,” McMire interjected, “is the reason we are here. Aaberg was a fool to try and hide Matthew Hannsen from her...even moreso for having sold him the weapon used to murder Sharon Wilson. If he had wanted to remain safe, he would have killed Hannsen himself, dissolved the body in acid, and ground the bones to paste---instead of sheltering him, giving him access to whatever he wanted and treating him like an old friend, giving him the run of the compound.”

Something in the half-synthesized, vaguely-European sound of McMire's vocoder-altered tones sent a shiver up Stahl's spine. “Be that as it may, Hannsen is with us. You, on the other hand, have shown considerable disdain for everything we stand for---”

“And for good reason. You and your colleagues intend to rule the world...by any means necessary.”

Grade chuckled. “We do seem to be in that position, don't we?”

McMire's reply was far less amused: “Positions can change...by fate, or by force.”

Any snide comment Grade could've used to retort was cut off by Stahl. “You made an excellent point earlier in the conversation, Mister McMire...you mentioned the Lawson girl---”

“My father was Mister McMire, Stahl. You will address me as McMire, and nothing more.” Two men standing near the wheelchair shifted their postures enough to let Stahl and Grade see the MP5Ks slung at their sides, in just the right position to be brought to bear on any insuboordinate fools in the immediate vicinity. “Unless, of course, you wish to view a demonstration of my associates' marksmanship....”

Despite the subtle twitch of his lips that played at being a frown, Stahl nodded. “My apologies...McMire.”

“Accepted. Now, then...continue, if you would.”

“You were telling us about the Lawson girl,” Stahl resumed, “and saying that she is the reason we are all here at the moment. I think it would be best for all of us if you told us what, exactly, is so important about her.”

A laugh---low, quiet and utterly humorless---emanated from the corner of the room. “You see her as a mere Field Agent of the Artificial Lifeform Protection Agency,” McMire chided, “a soldier willing to fight for their cause no matter what the cost. Aaberg, given his...limited resources...was unable to even see her in this context, and thus allowed himself to be led to believe that Miss Lawson is nothing more than a provocatrix, an enemy from lands unknown sent to disrupt his operations and make a fool of him. There are others, however, who see her as something far more dangerous than either of those...” A sound like a scoff issued from the dark.

“And they see her as...what, exactly?” Grade inquired.

“They see her as a symbol of hope,” McMire replied. “A shining beacon, lighting the way towards the future.”

Stahl and Grade exchanged worried looks. “Our mutual acquaintance had reached a similar conclusion,” Grade reluctantly admitted, “but---”

“I have no need to hear what the Baron's opinion on the situation is,” McMire snapped, the eerie tones from the voccoder that altered his voice gaining some semblance of anger. “I am not here on his behalf, nor have I any need for your opinions on the matter. I am here to inform you that your plans to kill Vicki Lawson in retaliation for her actions in Birmingham cannot---and will not---be allowed to continue.”

The formerly worried Grade managed a smirk. “And why is that?”

“You can't kill a symbol, Mister Grade,” McMire admonished. “Symbols cannot die...they cannot bleed, nor can they be wounded. There is an entire subset of the population that views Victoria Ann-Smith Lawson as their champion, their victor...their shield against the likes of us. They know of you as mere whispers, and rumors; Vicki Lawson, on the other hand, is something concrete---something tangible, someone they can identify with in times of crisis.” Even through the voccoder, McMire's voice took on a sinister note: “Killing her will only make her a martyr, and immortalize her name for all of time. Symbols cannot die, gentlemen...”

A hiss---McMire taking off his voccoder---sounded from the corner. “....but they can be broken.”

Whereas the synthetic tones of the voccoder unnerved Stahl ever-so-slightly, hearing McMire's true voice was enough to make him want to run back to his car and flee the country. Grade, on the other hand, was only mildly intrigued. “And how do you suggest we 'break' her, then?” he asked. “Hannsen tried---”

“HANNSEN WAS AN IDIOT!” McMire shouted, his fist slamming into the armrest of the wheelchair. “Hannsen wanted to taunt her, to poke and prod at her until she snapped---and where did it get him?! Casualty, a week in traction and the rest of the year---possibly the rest of his life---in a wheelchair. He relied so much on trying to weaken her emotionally that he never even thought of how to break her down physically as well...even when his own plans had that covered already...and if you truly want to tarnish Vicki Lawson as a symbol---if you want to break her....you'll pick up where Hannsen left off.”

Stahl rose from his seat. “I think I've heard enough. Grade, if you don't mind, I'll be---”

“Sitting back down,” McMire ordered, “and keeping your mouth shut. Both of you already know about the big contingency plan Hannsen had in mind---buy up a surpluss of Franklin-designed fembots, push them to the brink of red-ring status, then turn them loose in San Jose and watch the chaos unfold. You two will---actually, I take that back. Björn Aaberg will be handling that particular part of the plan.”

“And how will this---”

The MP5Ks swivelled up, levelled at Grade's forehead. “Unless you'd like to have your face rearranged by submachinegun fire, I suggest you shut up,” McMire ordered. Two seconds later, Grade was back in his seat.

“Now, then...Aaberg will handle the mission because you two can't afford to screw up so soon after Hannsen's incapacitation. I've never exactly seen eye-to-eye with the Baron---which is why I'm not a member of your little club---but I know enough about the man to understand that he'll be more than a little miffed if either one of you took this job on and failed. Aaberg, meanwhile, is expendable---at the very least, you can cut him loose if he botches his part of the plan, and find yourselves another arms dealer. And if by some miracle he actually gets it right---well, then, you've got yourselves one hell of an associate. Either way, you're technically in the clear.”

“And you want us to be 'in the clear'....why?” Stahl finally inquired after a minute's worth of silence.

From his seat in the wheelchair, McMire smirked. “I'd appreciate it if you stayed in the game for a long while, put it that way. Either of you two get taken off the board any time soon, I lose a lot of ground.”

“So you've got as much to lose as we do,” Grade muttered. “Wonderful.”

McMire shook his head, not caring that Grade wouldn't even see the gesture. “This isn't about who's going to win or lose anything---it's about the long-term. Even if I don't exactly enjoy the thought of working with you two at the moment, you're worth more to me on the board right now, as opposed to being taken off of it.” With that, the lights in the room clicked off.

“You do not intend to wish Mister Aaberg well?” Stahl offered.

The hiss of McMire's voccoder being refitted was the only reply he received; seconds later, the door opened into the now-darkened hallway, and McMire allowed his two guards to wheel him out.

“'You do not intend to wish Mister Aaberg well?'” Grade echoed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You and I both know the kind of man McMire is, and yet you had to ask that question....are you seriously that thick?!” He leaned back in his chair, still shaking his head. “If McMire went to Aaberg's room right now, even to fart in his general direction, he'd be leaving this building in boxes. Very small boxes.” He steepled his fingers, staring darkly at his colleague. “We'll be lucky if we're not all knee-deep in the dead before this is over.”

Stahl, despite his displeasure with the situation, smirked. “One must break a few eggs to make an omelette.”

“I don't want to hear about breaking eggs, or omelettes, or ANY of that crap,” Grade spat. “Unless we get this situation sorted out soon, then all of us---Aaberg included---are going to end up dead, forced into tax exile or in jail for the rest of our miserable lives. Even the Baron may not get out of this one unscathed.”

“Something tells me he will evade any persecution that may be leveled at us,” Stahl deadpanned.

Instead of giving into his frustration and screaming at the banking guild leader, Grade returned his attention to the matter at hand---getting Aaberg to pick up the Maestro's plan where the man himself had left off. It would be dangerous, potentially even fatal if mistakes were made...

...then again, Aaberg had once admitted to enjoying a challenge every once in a while...
------------------------------
A few minutes later, with the nurses and attending physicians told to “go find something else to do” for the next half hour or so, Björn Aaberg sat and listened as Grade and Stahl told him exactly what he was going to do.

To say that he was confused would probably be an understatement of legendary proportions.

Ironically, despite his own close proximity to (and employment of) humanoid robots, Aaberg himself understood little (if anything) about the conflict that Grade and Stahl were now educating him on. Acronyms and names such as ALPA, the Coalition and the House had occasionally been mentioned by his own clients (and, on more than one occasion, by his competitors), and he'd heard the names when he'd recruited some of his own team over the years---but never in his strangest, most bizarre dreams could he have pictured anything even close to what he was being told now....

...and that was just the first five minutes of the “conversation”.

Eventually, every iota of confusion still present in Aaberg's mind was replaced with anger. Never before in his career had he felt so stupid---especially in front of an employed---and now he wanted nothing more than to tell both Stahl and Grade (who still deserved to be castrated, at least in Aaberg's viewpoint) to do some unspeakable things to themselves with a garden tool, or something equally heinous.

Still, there was the small matter of avenging his loss at the hands of the Lawson girl....

After ten more minutes of hearing Stahl and Grade explain what “red rings” meant in the context of Aaberg's new task (as well as legions of other notations and remarks that barely made sense), the discussion finally got to the point Aaberg had been waiting for: the part where they asked him if he had any questions.

Needless to say, he had more than a few.

“My...past dealings with the two of you not withstanding,” he began, “I find myself wondering why, exactly, you have seen fit to contact me to handle this matter. My involvement with the international robotics trade has been minimal, by my own admission, and I do not wish to sully my hands in something that I do not have a full grasp of.” He paused---more for dramatic effect than any other reason---as Stahl and Grade contemplated his words; the urge to smirk at their mock concern for his reputation was almost overwhelming. “Still,” he added, “I can only imagine that your need for my participation is...urgent enough...to override all other matters at hand for the time being...” He paused again, hoping to give the impression that he was still thinking it over---

---except Grade spoke up. “If you're not going to do it, then maybe the word about what happened at your compound in Dawley should be spread a bit sooner than planned.”

The thoughtful look on Aaberg's face vanished. “You wouldn't dare!” he hissed. “You can't!”

“We can,” Stahl replied calmly, “and we will.”

“Besides,” Grade added with a wicked sneer, “I don't think you want to turn us down...otherwise that poor landowner whose property was effectively taken over for your little arms deal might be very annoyed to find out you skipped out on paying the lease.” He held up a manilla envelope; “Need to remember not to lose this,” he casually remarked, holding it just out of Aaberg's reach. “If this ever wound up in the wrong hands...well, I think a few individuals would be more than a bit, ah...concerned to see what's inside it---”

Aaberg nearly fell out of the bed trying to lunge at Grade, no longer caring that he was in the hospital. Stahl never moved from where he stood, even choosing to stare at his fingernails rather than watch the arms dealer try to strangle Grade; the IVs in his arms effectively leashed him to the bed---at least, until he pulled them out.

Whatever snide remark Grade had planned to use died as Aaberg's hands closed around his throat.

“You dare mock me?!” the hitman growled. “You dare to threaten me?! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!”

Stahl allowed a small, half-annoyed sigh to escape his lips. “Aaberg,” he intoned, “stop this. You're---” The hollow, unfeeling clang of an empty bedpan being smashed against Grade's skull drowned out the banker's words.

Finally, something in Anders Stahl gave way. Without a word, he pulled his pistol from its holster, aiming it squarely at Aaberg's head. “Give me an excuse, Björn,” he whispered, “and I will put a bullet right between your eyes.” He almost prayed that Björn would actually drop the bedpan and stop being an idiot for a minute; he didn't want to shoot him unless he had to, particularly because hiring another contract killer would take well over half a year, depending on who he contacted.

The change in Aaberg's demeanor was instantaneous---and unnerving. Even as the bedpan dropped to the floor with a cringe-inducing crash, Aaberg himself was laughing as if the whole thing had been a joke. “I really must apologize, my friends, but in my line of work, one cannot afford to take threats lightly.” He helped Grade to his feet; “No hard feelings, I hope?” he inquired.

Grade shot him a death glare, but managed a nod.

“In the interests of not allowing any further...outbursts,” Stahl remarked, “I must insist that we depart for our destination immediately. The Baron has sent his aide to help us with our travels---”

“Tell her to go back home,” Aaberg beamed. “I need no assistance. We must travel light---”

Something in the grip of Stahl's hand on his shoulder forced the arms dealer to realize that this was no time for flippancy. “The Baron insists we bring her,” the banker stated. “He will be most displeased if we do not...”

Aaberg felt his anger rising again...but quelled it just as quickly. “Understood. I would like to pack my things without her help, however...I have a few....personal belongings that I do not wish to lose track of.” Again, he fought the urge to smirk---if anyone but him tried to access his luggage, they'd likely be missing a hand when (or if) they came away from it.

“We will instruct her to wait by the car,” Stahl began, only for Grade to shove his way past. “You've got twenty minutes,” he growled, his index finger just touching Aaberg's breastbone. “Any longer, and we drag you out.”

Even as he followed Grade out of the room, Stahl could tell that Aaberg wasn't the least bit threatened by the demand. “Giving him orders is like prodding a viper,” he muttered. “He will bite at the first slip---and when he does, we shall both feel it. It's bad enough the Baron's stupid doll is here to take us to our cars and help Aaberg pack; there is no telling what---”

“She won't do anything or say anything the Baron doesn't want her to say,” Grade assured him.

“I admire your confidence,” Stahl replied with a frown, “but I refuse to trust her. All the scans in the world will not do anything to allay my suspicions---if I had my way, she would be under remote guidance from a secure signal relayed through your own satellite network.”

Grade scoffed. “You can't control her through a television satellite, Anders...it's just not possible.”

“Then I would find a satellite that can control her,” Stahl growled.

“And then you'd have the Baron to deal with. It's a no-win situation no matter how you look at it.”

No matter what argument he tried to use, Stahl knew that Grade wouldn't let him win---or even feel like he'd won. Instead, he silently led the way to the elevator, scowling at the thought of having to face the Baron's “doll” once the doors opened.

Ironically , that “doll” had plans of her own....
------------------------------
….and they had nothing to do with meeting Stahl and Grade by the elevator. At least, not for a few more minutes.

Celine would never admit it to the Baron's face, but she hated working for him. Actually, she had managed to admit it to his face, more than once---and he'd replied by telling her how much he “admired her tenacity”, and that she'd be the perfect choice to run United Robotronics---and his other major business venture---on her own when and if he ever became unable to do the job himself.

Damn good thing he doesn't know about this, then...

The firey-haired gynoid couldn't help but wince as the compartment on her right thigh opened, revealing what appeared to be a featureless black slab of plastic no bigger than an average smartphone. Of course, the thing was a smartphone---one that could only be used by a registered operative of the House, no less. As she held the phone to her ear, squares lit up on its formerly blank surface, as if she was dialing a number; technically, she was dialing...just not with her hands. After a nanosecond of waiting, the call connected.

{You're in position, Celine.} It was a statement, not a question---if she hadn't been, she wouldn't have called.

{I am. Stahl and grade are on their way down right now...and Stahl probably wants me turned off.}

{Bully for him. The plan is still in place---do not deviate, unless one of us gives the signal.}

{I won't. Any news of the Fallen Mother?}

{She's still in hiding with her new knight. It's...not exactly the best up here, anymore...}

{It will be. We'll set things right eventually, sister. We have to.}

{If it came down to it, Celine, I'd vote for you as a new Matriarch.} There was no sarcasm in the words, which startled Celine more than she cared to admit. {You'd pick me as Matriarch?! I...I really don't know what to say, Laila---}

{Then let me say something: stay strong. You've done us all proud so far, sister---don't stop now.}

Celine nodded. {I will. Keep the torches burning, sister.}

The “conversation”---all transmitted from her own CPU through the phone, with no words spoken---ended in silence, and the phone returned to its inert state. Celine returned it to the compartment in her thigh, another shiver passing through her as the panel closed. There was something almost...sensual about it----

“Celine?! Where's the damned car?!” Michael Innes Grade's voice jolted the gynoid out of her near-bliss state just in time to notice Grade---and the loathsome Anders Stahl---waiting near the elevator shaft, staring across the wrong end of the parking garage in search of their ride. “It's over here, sir,” she called out, prompting Grade to finally notice her. “I, ah, couldn't bring it to the exact spot that you wanted, since there was an ambulance that needed to get in first---something about an organ transplant---”

“Water under the bridge,” Grade assured her as he approached, smiling broadly. “Aaberg will be joining us soon---needs to finish packing, apparently.” He scowled briefly at the mention of the notorious hitman, but regained his composure. “Anything good on the radio?”

The Starlet Dolls tune she'd been listening to flitted through her thoughts... “105.1's playing a Rush marathon.”

“Delicious. I always did like those Canadian prog rockers.”

As she started the car, Celine thought back to Laila's words: Stay strong. I will, sister. Believe me, I will... ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[DukeNukem 2417]

Right---if I don't see at least two replies to each subsequent part of Valley of the Damned (including this one), the delay between posts will increase by 2 days for every day I don't get replies. Call it stupid, childish or whatever---I'm sick of writing this stuff and posting it only to be ignored by the vast majority of the forum. I have other things on my itenerary, and having to post a 100+ page story that nobody's reading is only making it harder for me to handle everything else.

[DollSpace]

Well, as always, it's a great piece of work, and I think you're one of the better writers here... Some of the plot decisions didn't quite work for me, but it's still fabulously interesting reading to see where you'll end up next. I can't wait for the big finale! More people should comment on stories. It's one (but by far not the only) reason I don't write much for the board.

[Uhoh]

Just got to reading now, Supreme as always , and DollSpace took the words out my mouth. Curious if The Baron is aware of the double-agent so close in his midst...

[Brytestar]

Just finished reading part 2 and things are simmering! I'm reading Part 3 right now. Still I want to see how this power play unfolds.