Retiree 2.0 Read online

  Retiree 2.0

  By John Douglas Powers

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2014 Pangenre, LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover illustration by Ethan A. Richards (http://straytracer.deviantart.com).

  Also by the same author

  Retiree

  Vegas Apocalypse: The Crash (with Frederick Noble)

  Vegas Apocalypse: The Cult (with Frederick Noble)

  Additional books published by Pangenre can be found at www.pangenre.com/books.

  Dedicated to a player to be named later.

  Table of Contents

  Tuesday, 4 July, 23:40

  Friday, 7 July, 10:30

  Saturday, 8 July, 17:10

  Saturday, 8 July, 18:25

  Saturday, 8 July, 22:00

  Sunday, 9 July, 00:35

  Sunday, 9 July, 10:05

  Sunday, 9 July, 12:05

  Sunday, 9 July, 15:05

  Sunday, 9 July, 16:30

  Sunday, 9 July, 19:30

  Sunday, 9 July, 20:00

  Sunday, 9 July, 21:20

  Monday, 10 July, 10:00

  Monday, 10 July, 11:00

  Monday, 10 July, 14:15

  Monday, 10 July, 16:00

  Monday, 10 July, 20:30

  Tuesday, 11 July, 06:00

  Tuesday, 11 July, 10:00

  Tuesday, 11 July, 14:00

  Tuesday, 11 July, 18:00

  Wednesday, 12 July, 08:35

  Wednesday, 12 July, 14:00

  Thursday, 13 July, 10:01

  Thursday, 13 July, 13:55

  Thursday, 13 July, 16:00

  Friday, 14 July, 06:00

  Friday, 14 July, 18:10

  Friday, 14 July, 19:30

  Saturday, 15 July, 10:00

  Saturday, 15 July, 18:09

  Sunday, 16 July, 18:30

  Monday, 17 July, 13:35

  Monday, 17 July, 17:35

  Wednesday, 19 July, 19:45

  About the Author

  Tuesday, 4 July, 23:40

  Across the bay, a fireworks display was in progress. Muffled pops from the pyrotechnics, visible through the gaps between the docked freighters, followed many seconds after the colorful bursts that created them. The waterfront was still; teamster, longshoreman, sailor, and accountant alike were celebrating the holiday elsewhere, safe at home, or asleep inside their floating homes-away-from-home. Anyone with any good sense was anywhere else. Only the rats and the rat catchers remained on duty.

  Detective Chief Inspector Graves glanced at Detective Crabtree, who was pressing his back against the cargo container as if he was trying to become one with it. Loam-green in daylight, the darkness turned the truck-sized, oblong box to just another shade of gray, even under light amplification. Alana could see beads of sweat running down the sides of Brett’s night vision goggles and along his cheeks, but she did not know if it was from the summer heat, the ocean humidity, or anxiety. She whispered, “You’re saved, right?”

  Brett trained his night vision goggles on Alana. She could not tell whether he was staring or glaring. She interpreted his silence as the latter.

  Alana peered around the corner of the box she and her assistant were using for cover. They were halfway between the docked ships and the warehouse. The open ground in front of the building was tranquil, and the only noise she could hear was the faint thumping of Brett’s racing heartbeat. There were no windows, only a doorway and a truck-sized, rolling cargo door. She whispered, “Someone’s hiding something.”

  Detective Inspector MacGruder’s Boston-accented voice whispered into Alana’s ear, relayed by her internal radio, “Graves, I’m just responding to the backup call. Tell me what’s going on. What do you know about this place?”

  “The informant said it’s a chop shop, but it could be anything. We reviewed what satellite and drone coverage we could find, and we’re estimating four suspects inside, but there was no way we could confirm it. The cambots couldn’t find a way in and there was no network to hack. The walls are surveillance-proofed, and with the tip-off, that’s grounds enough to barge in. Whatever’s going on inside, it’s probably illegal.”

  MacGruder said, “We’re in position at the garage door in the back. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that it’s barred from the inside. I’m keeping the armored car out of sight until I know for certain, or until you give the order to bust in. Are you sure you want to rush in on this one? It might be better to call for more units.”

  Alana replied, “The informant made it sound urgent that we intervene, Maggie, so I’m going with the SWAT commander’s plan. Is Rhys with you? If so, tell him that the answer is, ‘Yes, I’ll go with him to the game.’ He’ll know what I mean.”

  A third, male voice entered Alana’s cybernetic audioscape, “Inspector Graves—”

  Alana corrected him, “Chief Inspector.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. This is the SWAT team leader. My two squads are deployed and ready to move on your order.”

  Alana replied, “Affirmative. Stand by.”

  Alana looked once again at Brett, “Keep in cover. The troopers are the heroes. Maggie, can you hear me?”

  “Roger that, Inspector Graves.”

  “Chief Inspector.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Alana nodded to Brett, and they both drew and checked their stun pistols. “Maggie, make sure the EMTs are standing by, and wait thirty seconds after you hear the flash-bangs before forcing your way in with the big ram.”

  Alana waved to the SWAT team that had infiltrated forward through the stacks of crates, cargo containers, and forklifts that littered the dock. One trooper popped up, aiming a bulky, bazooka-like EMP gun at the security camera above the door, and the nearby streetlights flickered as he silently overloaded the camera’s electrical system.

  Four more men emerged from their concealed positions, their chameleon suits shifting through varying shades of gray as they tried to adjust to the rapid movements of their wearers. The troopers rushed forward. Two of them flanked the door, holding their submachine guns at the ready. Two more set a portable ram down in front of the entrance, aligned it to strike the lock, and then joined their comrades beside the doorway. The EMP gunner ran toward Alana and Brett’s hiding place, throwing himself against the thin steel wall and sending a ringing vibration through it. “Crap—,” he said, cutting himself off mid-curse as both Alana and Brett glared at him. He slung the bulky gun over his shoulder and readied his compact submachine gun.

  Alana called her superiors, “Control, I need you to shut down cellular systems within a kilometer of my location now.”

  A synthetic, female, monotone voice replied, “Affirmative, Inspector Graves. I am doing that now. You will need to switch to radio to maintain contact.”

  Alana broadcast to her team, “Everyone needs to switch from cell to radio now. Remember not to make any unnecessary transmissions in case of remote-triggered IEDs. I’m transferring command authority to the SWAT leader right now. It’s your show, troopers.”

  The pause that followed seemed to drag out for minutes, until the SWAT leader finally yelled, “GO! GO! GO!”

  The battering ram they had set before the door fired, its piston shoving a steel plate into the handle, splintering the frame and flinging the door wide open. Light streamed outside through the open portal, silhouetting the troopers as they took turns rushing inside. Moments later, there were flash-bang grenade detonations. Sporadic gunfire erupted inside the warehouse. Alana could hear the ripping sound of the trooper’s machineguns, and something...louder.

  The radio crackled with t
he voice of the team leader, “Oh, shit! COVER—,” but his voice was drowned by a sudden wave of impenetrable static. Brett grabbed his earpiece and threw it to the ground, shaking his head, “Jamming?”

  Alana nodded in agreement, “You two! Follow me!”

  The inspector darted from her cover and ran to the entrance, throwing herself against the doorjamb. Brett and the EMP gunner followed behind her. Brett took position behind the wall opposite the opening. The gunner ran through the doorway, but he was thrown back immediately when a heavy projectile cut through his body armor as if it were onionskin paper and continued onward to punch a hole in a nearby cargo container. When he landed on the concrete stoop, he didn’t move.

  “Damn!” Alana yelled.

  Brett ducked, dropping into a crouch as he stared at the corpse.

  Alana gripped her pistol and pointed it around the corner, “Vira! Toggle pistol cam!” Her view changed to the interior of the warehouse as seen from the barrel of her sidearm. Hiding behind the wall, she panned the pistol around. To her left, ten-high stacks of cargo crates filled that side of the warehouse, with just enough room in between the rows for a robotic forklift to maneuver or for a friendly couple to stroll side-by-side. Two of the expected forklifts were parked against the outer wall. The right side of the warehouse seemed to be some kind of mechanical shop, with various types of power tools arranged in rows. It looked like a cybernetic chop shop, complete with a disassembly line.

  The SWAT team was hiding amid the cargo boxes, and they were exchanging fire with a group of three men who were likewise taking cover in the shop area. One policeman was down in the middle of the floor, a pool of his blood expanding around him. The team leader caught sight of Alana’s pistol and tapped the side of his helmet, then shook his head, telling Alana what she already knew. The suspects were actively jamming their radio signals.

  Standing in the middle of the warehouse floor was a powered, military battle suit. It brandished a very large gun that was almost as long as the battle suit was tall. It was taking pot shots at the SWAT team, casually blowing holes in their cover with railgun darts.

  “Damn, they’ve got a mech.” Alana grumbled, pointing her pistol at the fallen EMP gunner, “Brett! Drag that trooper’s body into cover!”

  Brett complied, getting down on all fours, reaching out into harm’s way, grabbing the fallen man by his web gear and slowly hauling him away. One of the enemies spotted him and a burst of flechettes perforated the wall three feet above where Brett was kneeling. A well-aimed counter-burst from one of their allies turned the criminal’s head to pulp, but it also allowed the mech operator to zero-in on the policeman, and he crumpled as a metal spike blew through his chest. A return barrage of machinegun fire ricocheted off the armor.

  Alana continued to scout the building, looking up, down, anywhere for any ideas on how to disable the powered suit. She was certain that it was shielded against the EMP gun, and they had no heavier weapons with them than their submachine guns.

  Suddenly, a huge section of the back garage door was torn free with a loud bang. Alana said, “Vira, toggle normal vision,” and she poked her head around the corner to get a better look with her eyes. There was a screech of rubber on concrete, and the separated door section flew several feet ahead, slapping against the floor halfway between the door and the powered armor, revealing a black-and-yellow-trimmed, six-wheeled police ram vehicle that had just breached the opposite wall. The second SWAT team ran through the breach, tossing stun grenades in front of them.

  Alana averted her eyes instinctively, and the grenades flared in succession in a show of blinding light and concussive force. When she looked again, one of the suspects was on the floor, dazed, and the other had ducked out of sight.

  The battle suit trained its cannon on the ram and fired three quick shots into the hull. The vehicle was designed to withstand small arms fire, not anti-material guns, and the large projectiles punched holes in the front of the angled armor.

  Alana yelled, “Brett, stay here!” as she ran inside and headed toward the shop area. She dove to the floor just short of the equipment and her momentum carried her the rest of the distance.

  The mech stopped shooting, dropping its heavy weapon to the floor. It turned around, as if its pilot were looking about, evaluating a next move.

  Alana crouched and started searching for the missing criminal, trying her best to be less noisy than the echoing machineguns of the SWAT team members who were still vainly trying to dent the mech. She moved from row to row, and finally spotted the man several meters ahead, leaning against the side of a table saw and slapping a new magazine into his submachine gun. Alana did not have a clear shot. She looked around for anything she could toss to make noise and draw the enemy out when she saw Detective Rhys run through the bashed-open cargo doorway and leap atop the now immobile ram vehicle.

  The man Alana was stalking stood to shoot at Rhys, but before he could train his weapon, Alana locked her targeting reticule on him and planted a stun shell square in his torso. He spun around as a powerful electrical discharge arced between his body and the nearby equipment. Alana shot him again, and he slumped down onto the floor, motionless.

  The mech started running toward the front garage door, with SWAT team flechettes continuing to bounce off the armored shell.

  Alana looked at Rhys. Ben opened the ram’s hatch, reached inside, and struggled to pull the wounded driver out of the seat. His cybernetic arms were strong, but not strong enough to lift that much weight without proper leverage.

  Alana ran to the man she had just shot, kicked his weapon away, and slapped him in handcuffs. She could see one of the SWAT members restrain the man who had been caught in the barrage of stun grenades.

  The mech grabbed the garage door lock and ripped it out of the wall with only minimal effort. It then grabbed the edge of the cargo door and pushed it open far enough for it to run through. Before it could, Brett leaned inside the doorway they had breached earlier, aiming the EMP gun at the metal monstrosity. The battle suit convulsed for a moment when Brett pulled the trigger, but it did not stop moving. Its robotic arm extended toward Brett and turned its middle finger upwards in a gesture of defiance before ducking through the doorway.

  Alana dashed to the ram vehicle. By the time she reached it, Rhys and one of the surviving SWAT team members had pulled the driver out and were passing him down to the others for medical attention. Alana leapt onto the back of the ram, yelling, “Ben! Follow that mech!”

  As Rhys disappeared through the open hatch, Inspector MacGruder ducked inside the hole in the back door, screaming, “What the fuck is going on?”

  As the ram lurched forward, its electric motor whining, Alana yelled, “Maggie! Find the radio jammer, shut it down, and call for more help!”

  Before MacGruder could finish, “Where do you think—,” the ram picked up speed and broke through the front door with Alana hanging onto the rear-mounted spare tire.

  The ram turned left after exiting the warehouse and picked up speed on the straightaway. Alana pulled herself onto the roof and carefully made her way to the front. She could see the mech running ahead of them, caught in the headlights. She yelled to Rhys through the open driver’s hatch, “Ben, run that bastard over, and if you can’t, get close enough to make him dodge!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he yelled back, his voice barely audible over the roar of the all-terrain tires on the concrete shipping dock. Just before Rhys could make contact with the fleeing suit of armor, it turned and ran in between two cargo containers.

  Alana leapt from the speeding armored car and landed atop the nearest of the steel shipping boxes. She continued onward, over the far edge, and she jumped onto the back of the bucking mech as it ran past. It noticed. It stopped, flailing its arms in an attempt to grab onto Alana, but it could not reach behind to grab her. She held on tightly, trying to keep the suit’s pilot distracted, hoping that the rest of her team could catch up in time to help stop it. She noticed writing
at several places on the armor’s back. All of the text was in an Asian script, either Chinese or Japanese. “Vira, translate this shit!”

  “Serial Number, Eight-Seven—”

  Alana looked at another label, “Next!”

  “Network Connection Port.”

  As the armor pilot flailed at her and tried to buck her off its back, Alana had a flash of inspiration. She held on as tightly as she could; her legs were wrapped around the armor’s waist and her arm draped over its shoulder as she fumbled with the network port’s cover. On her third try, she succeeded in pulling it open, exposing a data port. She reached behind her head and grabbed her interface cable. Hoping perhaps to access its control system and either override it or at least extract some information from it, she jabbed the plug at the port, but it didn’t fit in the socket.

  “Crap,” Alana said with relative calm, just as the armor operator grabbed her ankle with its mechanical hand. Her perspective turned upside down, and she suddenly felt herself propelled with great force into the side of a cargo container. The pilot took the time to swing Alana around by the foot a second time. After her body had been whipped against the wall a third time, the pilot let go. As she slid down to the dock, she could tell that she landed on her head, but she had lost all motor control. As her vision short-circuited, the last thing she saw were the ram vehicle’s headlights shining on the road, and all she could think was, ‘Chief Bennett is going to be pissed-off.’

  Friday, 7 July, 10:30

  Chief Bennett was pissed-off, “Take some time off, Inspector!”

  Alana protested, “Chief—”

  “You’re off duty until next Monday, the 17th. You have a funeral service and refresher courses in basic and advanced SWAT protocols to attend. You’ll need the time.”

  “Who’s going to follow-up on the warehouse case?”