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Author's Note: It has been some while since I was in a position to post a story here. Much has happened in real life and it is only now that I have finally got the space to offer another story. This is about as far from "The Frozen Balance' as it is possible to get, and the speed of posting will not be as swift as many may like. However I hope you enjoy it. As ever please be tolerant of my failings and forthright in your criticism. ~Persephone
 

Waiting was always the toughest part of a job like this. Former Gunnery Sergeant Harlan T. Jones, USMC (Retd), was used to waiting, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Having been personally selected by the boss to lead this team of four M800 assault constructs, plus the ‘specialists’ for what was little more than a field test he was particularly pissed off with it. Jones watched the four constructs silently slip past him into the dacha, their respirators in place against the residual traces of the toxin.  He waited as his breath plumed out before him in the bitter cold of the night. Why anyone would want to build a retreat in a place like this was beyond him. Florida maybe, somewhere along the Keys. Now that was where he’d set up housekeeping if he had the kind of money Aleks Pyotrovich had to throw about, not some godforsaken forest outside Moscow.

Jones was still dwelling on that thought when an impassive face reappeared at the breached door, now free of the respirator, and beckoned him inside with little more then an abrupt nod.  He followed cautiously, his nose wrinkling at the smell of stale tobacco and fresh blood as he stepped into the fetid warmth of the security control room.  Like all oligarchs, Pyotrovich took his personal security seriously, as evidenced by the wall of state of the art surveillance and countermeasure technology monitored by battle hardened former Spetsnaz, elite soldiers who were now just crumpled corpses strewn across the floor.

Behind Jones his electronic countermeasures operator stepped delicately over the corpses as she headed for the control station, then swiftly began assembling the tools of her trade.  Again Jones found himself with nothing better to do than wait, his eyes roving across the slim figure of the only other human in his team as she worked, then flickering outwards around the room to note the alert stillness of the M800s, each covering their assigned arcs. At last the girl turned and smiled at the former Force Recon operator,  “We’re in.”  As she spoke her hands fluttered towards the various displays to reaffirm her words,  “the countermeasures are down.  In house surveillance and recording is killed.  All external communications links are dead.  There’s a couple of interesting ones I haven’t seen before. Do you mind if I take a moment to get a sample?”

Jones ignored her.  Just because he had allowed her into his bed didn’t give her the right to start changing the plan now, a plan that had to go exactly by the numbers.  As this was his first big test for the corporation, he knew Barrett would accept nothing less then perfection.  And to ensure that all was being carried out according to the parameters the boss and that creepy Frenchman had set they were sure to be monitoring in real time over the electro-optic implant they had insisted he have fitted just before the team deployed.

The mere thought of the chip caused Jones to curse the damn thing under his breath.  During his eight years in Force Recon, including three tours in Southwest Asia, no one had ever felt the need to micromanage what he was doing while in the field. Just how these civvie types thought they could call the shots during an ongoing operation like some frickin armchair general was beyond him, he was the guy on the ground wasn’t he?  He scratched the fresh scar behind his ear in irritation as he stepped forward and scanned the displays for himself, earning a scowl from the Israeli girl as her overly developed territorial instincts kicked in.  Only when he was finally satisfied did he turn to the remaining member of the team that had slipped in quietly behind the rest of them.  

The assassin construct didn’t look like much. It, they were all ‘its’ to Jones and the other former special ops types who had been hired by Barrett as team leaders, was under average height, slim and decidedly nondescript.  But then they were meant to be innocuous, almost to the point of seeming harmless, right up to the point when they ripped their mark’s throat out with their bare hands.  This one was still wearing the slightly condescending smile that had been in place ever since they left Canada.  It was a weird quirk that was really beginning to get on Jones’ nerves, as if the damn techno zombie had the nerve to try and measure itself against a real human and had decided he didn’t deserve it’s respect.  Well stuff it, he was the boss.  “You understand what you need to do?”

“Of course,” the construct’s smile grew a little, “unless it has changed in the last hour?” 

At that the former Marine’s anger boiled over, it was his command dammit, and no frickin’ machine, even one designed to look human, had the right to answer back like that!  “Just kill everyone in the compound understand? Kill everyone!”
“I understand.”  And with that the assassin silently slipped away into the living quarters of the luxurious dacha.

For several painfully long minutes there was nothing other than the strange stillness that permeates a house asleep.  

The first scream was shrill, like a child’s, only to be cut off with vicious suddenness.  Moments later came a staccato burst of automatic fire, equally suddenly stilled.  Silence returned, leaving Jones once more reduced to waiting.
A few minutes later, when the assassin ambled quietly back into the control room, Jones and the ECM operator allowed themselves a moment of relief. Jones could see a minor flesh wound to the construct’s shoulder but it was still moving with the same easy grace and smiling that same sardonic smile.

“Well? Is everyone dead?”

“Not quite.”

The ECM operator’s head jerked up from her displays at the unmistakable crack of bone breaking, her hand urgently scrabbling at her belt for the assassin’s failsafe control as she did.  She never saw the fist that crushed her throat. In the last frantic seconds of her life all she could do was squeeze convulsively on the failsafe trigger.
 

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Professor Rowley sat uncomfortably in his chair as the three men watched the video playback in silence. He hadn’t enjoyed watching it the first time, and the repetition made it no better. He never liked being reminded of what his creations actually did once they left the safety of the production and conditioning facility at Sparta. In his mind he likened himself to an old fashioned gunsmith, a craftsman. He frequently tried to tell himself that it was not his responsibility what his creations were used for, and now Barrett and the Frenchman were rubbing his nose in it.

He tore his eyes from the projection wall at the first scream, eager to look anywhere than at the carnage he kew was coming. The office was large, even for a corporate executive, and decorated in an English country house motif. Fat leather armchairs the colour of gravy complemented the dark mahogany panelling covering two walls. The remaining sides were sheets of transparent crystalarmor through which the angular skyline of New Manhattan stood starkly against the setting sun. The professor stole a nervous glance at the remaining two occupants, each still apparently watching the replay with rapt attention. Sean Barrett, the founder and Chief Executive of BioMil, sat with quiet focus, his hands clasped precisely on the almost bare desk before him. Precise, that was a good word for Sean Barrett. His blond hair always precisely arranged, his suits always precisely fitted, his face always precisely controlled… unlike the other one. Professor Rowley glanced once more towards Anton Lescot, Barrett’s Head of Operations. The Frenchman had sprawled his wiry frame across one of the overstuffed armchairs, yet his attention on the video was no less intense than that of his boss, his hooded green eyes unblinking and dark sun worn features still with concentration.

The video finished abruptly catching the professor by surprise. He quickly tried to marshal his thoughts for the coming interrogation as the screen went dark then blinking out of existence to reveal yet more mahogany panelling. For a long time none of the men stirred.

“We confirmed that all the intended targets were eliminated.” Nervously Rowley tried to fill the silence, hoping this small sop would lessen the anger of a man whose intolerance for failure was as legendary as his rise.

“It was supposed to be perfect.” Each quiet word was enunciated precisely and without emotion, yet the professor could feel the venom in Sean Barrett’s words.

“It obeyed the orders it was given to the letter sir.”

“You know what I mean.” Barrett paused and allowed himself a deep breath. “If I had wanted mindless obedience I could have used M800’s. This was supposed to be perfect.”

Silence returned to the sombre room and Professor Rowley stared down unseeing at the folders of data he had brought with him, unwilling to meet the icy blue eyes that stared at him with unblinking ferocity.

When next he spoke Sean Barrett’s voice was almost gentle. “What went wrong?”

In relief the professor scrabbled at the pile of documents before him, pulling from their midst a pink folder like some sort of trophy. “Our initial estimate is that some form of Alpha Male syndrome occurred. On reviewing the conditioning logs prior to the operation it seems that some sort of passive aggressive competition developed between the team leader and the experimental unit. Then, when the ill considered order was given, it provided the Construct a legitimate opportunity to act within the parameters of it’s conditioning.” Rowley paused uncertainly at his criticism of the now dead human team leader, aware how protective Lescot was of his people. When no response was forthcoming from the dour Frenchman he pressed on. “The failsafe worked exactly as designed though.”

“Only because the ECM operator wasn’t seen as a threat until last. Wasn't she?”

“Sir.”

Sean stared thoughtfully at the now sweating professor, knowing his silence and stillness for the weapons they were. For a moment he considered whether it was worth disposing of Rowley to make a point before reminding himself regretfully that the man was a genius. Flawed, like so many people he was forced to work with, Sean thought distastefully, but a genius nonetheless. Anyway he couldn’t afford to squander intellectual assets like the professor, not with the threat of another Intellectual Property war looming amongst the sprawling city states of mid continental America. He had lost quite enough research assets in the last one before relocating his R&D facility to the relative safety of the Canadian prairies. Of course he might be suitable as bait. At that thought a small smile played across Sean’s lips and he allowed the silence to drag on for a few more seconds.

“You are no longer on the project. You will be reassigned, along with all your team, to the upgrade program for the M800 constructs.”

For a moment Professor Rowley drew himself to object. Then he saw Sean Barrett’s eyes. Whilst the lips still held their little smile nothing of it had reached the man’s intense and merciless gaze. Without another word he pulled his notes to his chest and turned to leave. Behind him Anton Lescot caught Sean’s eye with a raised eyebrow. Sean smiled and shook his head minutely and was rewarded by a gallic shrug. The Frenchman settled back into his chair. When the Boss needed him to deal with the prof he would be told in good time. Sean always allowed sufficient time for proper planning. Finally the door hissed closed behind the departing professor and the security seal light turned back to green.

“Anton, your evaluation?”

“Of the incident or the Professor?”

“Just the incident, for now.”

Lescot closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to frame his reply in the succinct manner he knew Barrett preferred. “The raw material is good but the conditioning programme was too dependent on the team assault package put together for the M800’s. We created a loner and force fed it a diet of teamwork. The two aspects created a conflict that was not anticipated.” He watched as Barrett quietly mulled over his evaluation then gave a little nod.

“Thank you Anton, you may go.”

Again Sean waited until the security seal flicked once more to green. Finally alone he activated his desk display and selected the icon for his home. At once the schematic appeared showing the whereabouts of all the occupants. He reached out to touch the golden symbol for his wife and was rewarded by a view of her sitting elegantly in her study issuing instructions to the household staff for one of her forthcoming charity events. She noticed the red light on the ceiling monitor and smiled briefly at him before returning to her planning. Sean’s fingers danced to another icon and the image of his nine year old daughter Caroline sitting at the piano sprang into focus. Sean touched the audio control and the sound of Debussy’s Nocturnes swirled around the silent office until Caroline’s fingers tripped over the complex piece and a sour note jarred Sean’s enjoyment. With a frown he swiftly reached out and killed the connection, missing as he did the girl’s sudden fearful glance towards the remote pickup before she turned back to the keyboard.

Again silence filled Sean’s office. He glanced up to assure himself that the security seal was still green, then touched the small black cube that was the sole ornament on his bare desk. Though old, the hologram was still fresh and vivid as a laughing young woman smiled cheekily back at Sean from behind a tumble of blond hair. For a moment she pouted playfully, then stared back wide-eyed sucking Seam once more into their vivid magical green like they had so many years before in London. Sean closed his eyes against all the memories, both sweet and bitter, that the hologram brought back. He reached out blindly to close the projection down and as he did his fingers caressed the name inscribed upon it’s face. Helen.

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