Prologue

Russell Eight Months Real Time Years Old

2965

The Moors had sapped her meagre remaining strength. Rain began to fall, a light, damp, icy drizzle adding to the debilitating conditions. Light failing, sun sinking towards the horizon at an alarming rate. 

Due to the harsh weather, they could not survive another night!

Mother weak, the child strong. The baby punched his tiny clenched fist. Joyful within the tattered remnants of the once blue for a boy blanket, wrapped within. The shawl now grey, washed too many times for the cheap fabric to maintain its original hue. 

He smiled, gurgling at his haggard mother, she staggered at his exuberant display of life. He nine Real Time months old, she eighteen Real Time years old. 

The baby at the start of his life, she at the end. This her last attempt at keeping her beloved son alive, to give him a chance! 

Travelling alone for days, across the harshness of Dartmoor with one purpose. Delivery of him to the gates of hell, where if the Deity saw fit, he would survive! 

She tripped the perimeter alarm by taking three steps forward into the void. 

Overhead the sign of skull and crossbows. White on black, the pirate emblem that had survived beyond its maritime roots. Becoming the uniformed emblem of danger. Its symbolism a warning of the dire consequence, if ignored, of horrendous repercussions. Drew her into the dead man’s trigger of no man’s land.

No going back now, no time for second thoughts. She removed the child from the warmth of the thermal cloak. Heat from her body and the unique qualities of the stolen piece of attire. Had been keeping them both alive despite the extreme conditions of the south of Devon in England. She placed him with the last of her strength careful onto the damp cooling ground.  

He reached up as if to grab her, playful, she smiled down at him for the last time. She adjusted the blanket, pulling it tight around him. 

Turning, stumbling away as fast as her emaciated physique would allow. Triggering the auto cannons to target only her. She moved with renewed vigour into the cross hairs. Putting as much distance as possible between them. 

Her sudden movement; spurred on the muted roar, of the munitions tearing into her body. The quiet crescendo replaced by the subdued whining of the weapon. Cycling down as the target disintegrated into a red mist. Ten thousand explosive tipped rounds. Delivered in the blink of an eye, irrational against the perceived threat of one unarmed individual. 

A primeval, programmed, perimeter safeguarding Artificial Intelligence, ruthless in its efficiency, overstated the contact to target, obliterating her!

The baby, oblivious to the demise of his mother. Continued to gurgle happy, within the ruffles of the diminishing warmth of his shawl. 

Muted sound of the auto cannon. A testament to the expense of the hardware and build quality. Allowing it to obliterate the mother without disturbing the child.    

The killer, auto cannon status light. Positioned on the southern tower of the perimeter. Went from green to red and then powered down.

Three armed, armoured, personnel. Exited a security gate in the south wall under the cannon’s position a minute later.

‘Why are we out here?  I hate it out here, it’s like a shitty wet hell!’

‘That doesn’t make any sense, hell cannot be wet!’ 

‘I do not care if the place of internal damnation is moist or not. The question still stands. Why are we standing outside in this abysmal looking landscape? Not too dissimilar to the dark side of the moon. When we have more tech, than the Deity himself inside that fortress that could take care of this?!’

‘The Moon looks nothing like this, you are so stupid!’

‘If it rained on the Moon it would look like this, I promise you!

‘How do you go from a wet hell. To a damp, dark side of the moon in the same breath?’

‘Would you two shut up?  She put something down out there. We need to check it out!’

‘Why do we need to do anything; it could be dangerous!’

‘You are both qualified security personnel. On the payroll of one of the darkest off the books, corporations which we all work for. So, let’s grow some professional balls, and for once do what we are all paid to do!’ 

‘Sounds like work man, lots of work!’

‘We are checking this out! Now shut up and take point! We will cover your six.  Get over there!’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you talk too much!’

The trio almost indistinguishable from each other. Body armour and helmets that they wore, uniformed their appearance. A cursory glance would see them as exact duplicates of each other. Stripes on the left arm of one, donated rank, individualising them on this level alone.