clawing and biting your way to the top.
And Horace had a trump card.
He knew from whence the intel was
leaked...
Horace walked, through rain and
mud. Occasionally a truck would pass him on the road, a great lumbering beast,
gears crunching, engine labouring, tyres grinding through mud and sludge on its
way to or from a rendezvous with waste. Horace tended to step back from the
road when such a vehicle passed, lowering his head. No need in advertising his
whereabouts unnecessarily, he reasoned. And he knew he was invisible to these
people; these drivers and workers and wastemongers. He was a ghost.
The lights on the hill twinkled
like a beacon, and Horace stopped in the mud by a road sign warning “NO
TIPPING.” Ahh, that would be Greenstar’s amazingly surreal sense of humour,
would it? No tipping? On the Toxic World? Boom-tisch. Comedy at its most
sophisticated. Horace stood for a while, watching those distant lights, then
his eyes traced the winding road back down the steep hillside, twisting like a
snake to his present position.
He continued to walk, trudging
along, his pace never faltering. Behind him, even through the darkness, a green
smog hung over Bacillus Port like a bad toupee. Horace pushed on, legs working
hard, his bald head slick with dark rain. But no matter. Soon he would have his
answers, and head back to the Hilton, and dry off, and freshen up...
The gradient increased, and
Horace had to work hard, but still showed no signs of fatigue. After all, he’d
climbed a thousand mountains in his life; both physical and metaphorical. None
of them caused him problems. Not one. Horace didn’t get tired. And he
never got angry. Never get angry...
Because.
Well, because bad things happened
when he was angry.
It took him a half hour, and
closing on the house - which wasn’t so much a house, as a vast mansion of the über-wealthy
- Horace slowed and observed. There were high iron gates and a high chain-link
fence. Horace’s experienced eyes picked out surveillance cameras. There was
also a sign. For attack dogs. Horace moved off the road, swift now, sure-footed
on the drenched, hardy heather of the hillside. He crept around the edges of
the perimeter fence until he found a suitable spot, distant enough from the
imposing white house, and situated on a rear corner of the property. He moved
to the chain links, scanned them, witnessed the anti-intrusion wires. He placed
his briefcase on the heather, finding a nice flat spot, and listened to the
rain drumming on its cheap leather for a moment before opening it and taking out
several pieces of filament silver. These, he wove into the fence, and watched
them ripple and then merge. He removed cutters, and starting at
hip-height, cut downwards to create his entry point. He could hear the tiny snicks as the filament wire intercepted digital signals, blended them, and soothed
the system so that there was no alarm.
Through the fence, dragging his
case after him, Horace settled into the darkness and surveyed the surveyors.
There were twelve cameras he could detect from this position; and until he
could get to a master hub, he would have to do it the hard way. The Seeker P5K
fired a narrow-range atomic pellet. Horace took out the cameras one by one. He
knew if there was somebody physically monitoring the cameras, it would
be a dead giveaway to intrusion; but then, that mattered little at this point.
This was mostly to prevent leaving any evidence. Horace was in. And the police,
guards, army - they were at least five minutes away. That was enough. That was
always enough.
Horace moved forward in a
commando crawl, which must have looked ridiculous to any onlooker; a bald man
in a suit with a briefcase, commando crawling across lawns and gravel drives.
But it worked for him. Horace had little use for comedy.
He reached the wall, a mixture of
stone and rendering. The windows were old and made from steel. Glancing left
and
And Horace had a trump card.
He knew from whence the intel was
leaked...
Horace walked, through rain and
mud. Occasionally a truck would pass him on the road, a great lumbering beast,
gears crunching, engine labouring, tyres grinding through mud and sludge on its
way to or from a rendezvous with waste. Horace tended to step back from the
road when such a vehicle passed, lowering his head. No need in advertising his
whereabouts unnecessarily, he reasoned. And he knew he was invisible to these
people; these drivers and workers and wastemongers. He was a ghost.
The lights on the hill twinkled
like a beacon, and Horace stopped in the mud by a road sign warning “NO
TIPPING.” Ahh, that would be Greenstar’s amazingly surreal sense of humour,
would it? No tipping? On the Toxic World? Boom-tisch. Comedy at its most
sophisticated. Horace stood for a while, watching those distant lights, then
his eyes traced the winding road back down the steep hillside, twisting like a
snake to his present position.
He continued to walk, trudging
along, his pace never faltering. Behind him, even through the darkness, a green
smog hung over Bacillus Port like a bad toupee. Horace pushed on, legs working
hard, his bald head slick with dark rain. But no matter. Soon he would have his
answers, and head back to the Hilton, and dry off, and freshen up...
The gradient increased, and
Horace had to work hard, but still showed no signs of fatigue. After all, he’d
climbed a thousand mountains in his life; both physical and metaphorical. None
of them caused him problems. Not one. Horace didn’t get tired. And he
never got angry. Never get angry...
Because.
Well, because bad things happened
when he was angry.
It took him a half hour, and
closing on the house - which wasn’t so much a house, as a vast mansion of the über-wealthy
- Horace slowed and observed. There were high iron gates and a high chain-link
fence. Horace’s experienced eyes picked out surveillance cameras. There was
also a sign. For attack dogs. Horace moved off the road, swift now, sure-footed
on the drenched, hardy heather of the hillside. He crept around the edges of
the perimeter fence until he found a suitable spot, distant enough from the
imposing white house, and situated on a rear corner of the property. He moved
to the chain links, scanned them, witnessed the anti-intrusion wires. He placed
his briefcase on the heather, finding a nice flat spot, and listened to the
rain drumming on its cheap leather for a moment before opening it and taking out
several pieces of filament silver. These, he wove into the fence, and watched
them ripple and then merge. He removed cutters, and starting at
hip-height, cut downwards to create his entry point. He could hear the tiny snicks as the filament wire intercepted digital signals, blended them, and soothed
the system so that there was no alarm.
Through the fence, dragging his
case after him, Horace settled into the darkness and surveyed the surveyors.
There were twelve cameras he could detect from this position; and until he
could get to a master hub, he would have to do it the hard way. The Seeker P5K
fired a narrow-range atomic pellet. Horace took out the cameras one by one. He
knew if there was somebody physically monitoring the cameras, it would
be a dead giveaway to intrusion; but then, that mattered little at this point.
This was mostly to prevent leaving any evidence. Horace was in. And the police,
guards, army - they were at least five minutes away. That was enough. That was
always enough.
Horace moved forward in a
commando crawl, which must have looked ridiculous to any onlooker; a bald man
in a suit with a briefcase, commando crawling across lawns and gravel drives.
But it worked for him. Horace had little use for comedy.
He reached the wall, a mixture of
stone and rendering. The windows were old and made from steel. Glancing left
and
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