A-Men

John Trevillian

Description

Jack is a man with no memory, awakening in a dark and dangerous metropolis on the eve of its destruction. The only clue to his former life: a handwritten note in the pages of a book of faerie tales entitled Forevermore. Marked for death in a peacekeeping force sent to quell the riots, he finds sanctuary and survival with other renegades on the streets of Dead City. Battling to survive, they form the infamous A-Men, misfits who have a unifying dream: to be special. Yet that is until their paths cross with Dr Nathaniel Glass and his mysterious experiment locked deep beneath the Phoenix Tower.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781848769090
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

John Trevillian is an author, songwriter and artist, living in the United Kingdom. Creator of the Talliston interior design project, his novels include the A-Men trilogy, plus Shadowmagick, a collection of poetry, songs, travel journals, short stories and other miscellaneous writing. The A-Men is his first novel.
www.trevillian.com
ALSO BY JOHN TREVILLIAN
The A-Men Return
Forever A-Men
THE A-MEN
JOHN TREVILLIAN
Copyright 2010 John Trevillian
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador 5 Weir Road Kibworth Beauchamp Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK Tel: ( 44) 116 279 2299 Fax: ( 44) 116 279 2277 Email: [e-mail] Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 9781848763432
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 11pt Bembo by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
MGJC For without you, there would be no me
Contents
1 D LESSANDRO
2 PURE
3 23RDXENTURYBOY
4 SISTER MIDNIGHT
5 THE NOWHEREMAN
6 D LESSANDRO
7 PURE
8 23RDXENTURYBOY
9 SISTER MIDNIGHT
10 THE NOWHEREMAN
11 D LESSANDRO
12 PURE
13 23RDXENTURYBOY
14 SISTER MIDNIGHT
15 THE NOWHEREMAN
16 D LESSANDRO
17 PURE
18 23RDXENTURYBOY
19 SISTER MIDNIGHT
20 THE NOWHEREMAN
21 D LESSANDRO
22 PURE
23 23RDXENTURYBOY
24 SISTER MIDNIGHT
25 THE NOWHEREMAN
26 D LESSANDRO
27 PURE
58 23RDXENTURYBOY
29 SISTER MIDNIGHT
30 THE NOWHEREMAN
31 D LESSANDRO
32 PURE
33 23RDXENTURYBOY
34 SISTER MIDNIGHT
35 THE NOWHEREMAN
36 D LESSANDRO
37 PURE
38 23RDXENTURYBOY
39 SISTER MIDNIGHT
40 THE NOWHEREMAN
41 D LESSANDRO
42 PURE
43 23RDXENTURYBOY
44 SISTER MIDNIGHT
45 THE NOWHEREMAN
46 D LESSANDRO
47 PURE
48 23RDXENTURYBOY
49 SISTER MIDNIGHT
50 THE NOWHEREMAN
1 D LESSANDRO
Here under a ring of water in this sealed chamber deep beneath the concrete foundations of the Phoenix Tower lies the rig. The rig that is the hostgod. The hostgod that is the Amen. Viewed from observation control, its one hundred and one Amtech generators form a giant metallic henge, while the thirteen saucer-shaped discs of the mind-pan remind of submariner craft. Everything is strung with a chaotic rigging of cables and conduits. Its vast, concentric lake of cerebrospinal fluid and desalinated water appears bottomless, uncharted. Its metal steps disappearing into the dark liquid; the entrances to infinity. Wires strangle every centimetre of the encrusted girders, each rivet a precise hexagonal limpet fastened upon the edge of the wide unmoving sea. Above the central platform hang three many-faceted tanks, girthed by gangways that link and border its immense circumference. And every centimetre of the part-submerged cathedral is dappled with reflected movement.
And at the heart of this one hundred and fifty metre ocean lies the whale brain. Encased in the remains of its skull and bulbous head section, cocooned in more cables, its eyes are tiny mirrors of the entire machine. Circles within circles.
When the balaenoptera musculus was taken from the S rabian Ocean it was but a calf, yet it was required that we grow it to maturity before operating. The blue whale s cerebrum is the only living anima capable of acting as the central conduit for true sentience. Working with the K/OS system, it forms the living nucleus that stores and processes the data required to run the simulation and is the only medulla oblongata large enough to cope with the immense strain of transference. Though it has been many years since light and cell structures replaced electricity and silicon, the final leap to implicit autonomy took computer science in a completely new direction. To run the X-Isle, this rig is the smallest possible construction. To run an entire ectosystem would require a machine twenty times the size and the brain of a mammal that does not, and has not, existed on this planet. Not even the largest recorded dinosaurs ever approached the size of a blue whale.
There s a ripple of activity on the main console, snapping me back from my meditations. Someone s at the freight lift on one.
Dr Glass?
A female voice spikes from the com; my pretty head psychist from the rec unit. Signing in for day of project four-thousand seven-hundred and twenty.
Yes, I saw it, Jana. Ready for authorisation?
Jana Elizabeth Morgan.
The console blips green.
That s an A-OK. Close-circuit all power, then charge hydraulics.
On it. Rycharde s here, and Baseeq s just finishing up.
Showering again? How wash-compulsive. Still, no immediate rush. Today s mostly going to be orientation.
Have you heard from Lloyd?
I faked Thomas exitstamp at New Jeda International toll around oh-six-hundred. As far as Exxo central is concerned, our rookie is already on the shuttle westside.
Clever, but still risky. There are always erase traces.
And in this case the trace is the opening and closing of an elevator door in an abandoned corporate building. It s a blip. A malfunction. An aberration of a complex system.
And, in my opinion, that s one aberration too many.
Ah, Jana, even after five months you still do not fail to amuse me.
Rycharde Everley Tasker.
The new voice is male, the second member of my sub rosa team lured by treble salary, over-generous stock options and the wondrous notion that our accomplishments are revolutionary; world-changing.
A second blip.
That s A-OK, Rycharde. Good morning.
Silence, then Jana again.
Rycharde says hi. We ll be at controls in ten.
Perfect. I lean forward and start the day s protocols, immediately sparking the console into life. Lazily I scan for anomalies, yet only one subroutine is of especial interest. Ah, speak of the devil
Dr Glass, Lloyd has just entered the freight cage.
Yes, Jana. I saw that too. I m on my way. You and Rycharde finish up in rec and we ll rendezvous in the lab.
Standing, I exit observation control and step out into the rig. The ten-million-litres of liquid muffles my footsteps as I stride across the highest gantry. The freight elevator stands between the rec hatch and the laboratory, a short stroll around the metal walkway. After the dimness of my unit the sparkles of light that play across the water dazzle me, yet that is as if nothing compared to the brilliance of the Amen.
The project upon which we are working is a personal one, a secret one, its itinerary locked here with us in the subterranean vaults of this corporate skyblock. The Phoenix Tower stands at the source of 13th Street, in the financial cornerpost that is everything north of the Circle, its one hundred and thirty floors the third tallest freestanding inhabitable structure in the whole seaboard. Once world headquarters of the Glass-Suko corporation here is the testament in concrete and steel mesh of my father s achievement. And perhaps in time, of mine. For while he once sat in the luxurious faux-marble floored offices on the 129th floor, I and my select team are now entombed and unseen in the dungeons beneath. Here we busy ourselves with my own stab at greatness, even if my dear beloved father remains blind to my work s full potential.
Ahead and just to the right, there is a faint chug-clunk and the elevator door grinds opens. Behind the sliding concertina stands a dark-suited man, his jet black hair at odds with the symmetrical openness of his young features. He looks Celto-European, possibly Xian-mixed bloodline. He also looks scared out of his skin.
Unfortunately, this is not in any way improved by the sudden klaxon fanfare that greets his arrival.
I roll my eyes at the newcomer, attempting some kind of signal that all is well.
Terminate malware, I say, inaudible amidst the alarms. Then over the dying horns, I shout, Don t fret. It s just intrusion detection. Please, state your tri-name.
Thomas Bryce Lloyd.
System verify, I say to the air around me. All-replace Thomas Bryce Lloyd for Ryan Reece Jarrett. Immediate effect.
There s a moment s recalibration and then the malware falls silent. Just as Thomas fear looks set to overcome him.
Poor, poor bastard.
I extend my hand.
I am Nathaniel Raymond Glass, team lead and replicator. Welcome, I indicate the immensity of the rig before us, to project X-Isle.
2 PURE
And I said so what if I can t cook. Haven t you heard of the Angus SteakOut?
Yeah, or Old-Fashioned Fanny s
Drive-in Dick s
Wherever. What s she think this is? The dark ages?
Exactly. So what if I can t cook. Bet she can t weave cloth or harvest her own root vegetables.
Y know, in these days of Jojoba Detangling Hot Oil treatment, people like that just shouldn t happen.
The bitch.
The bitch
I stand, texturising mousse flexible styling tool in one hand, teasing comb in the other, nodding to Lucille with my that s so people look. Styling, styling, styling. My one-fifteen wriggles as the mousse drips sporadically onto the nape of her neck. I can t remember her name. Why can t I ever remember their names? I think it s Hispanic and begins with an S , but I wouldn t put money on it. I ve worked here at Salon Pizzazz, corner of Sabine and Marr in the shadow of the Expressway, for over a year now and I still haven t got the faintest idea who my clients are. Their faces are just so forgettable. Actually almost all of them is. Their talk, their clothes, their pampered pooches. And once one is gone, me and Lucille ta