Credit: Royce DeGrie/iStockphoto
Here the sandy, red Arabian ground has been excavated and replaced with imported sod, which supports a carpet of climate-engineered grass and rows of transplanted shade trees. Water brought in from the Red Sea is pumped wastefully through fountains and landscaped waterfalls, irrigating the estate. It is an artificial oasis completely out of context in the rocky, windswept desert through which Berg has travelled to arrive here.
Similarly incongruous are the buildings: huge, elaborate Polynesian bungalows imbued with signs of American excess. Many of them are linked by enclosed, air-conditioned walkways to prevent the owner—an oil tycoon and black market biotech distributor—from experiencing the true heat of the region.
Berg can only guess at the exorbitant cost of maintaining such a place in this extreme Arabian climate. It sickens him to see such wealth and privilege in an area so bereft of basic human necessities. Knowing that the man behind all this profits from the slave trade only serves to intensify his resolve.
He moves silently across the compound, invisible to the naked eye, undetectable to most surveillance. The camosuit is a living extension of his skin, hypersensitive. It strengthens and protects and cools him against the stifling heat. The tools in his belt-pouch are small, not heavy but a constant presence.
He settles into a crouch behind a tree, remembering the words of his control, a man he knows only as Mullen. The security is geared toward repelling locals, not professionals. A lone man with the right tech, once past the perimeter, should be able to roam freely on the compound. So far the intelligence has proven accurate. Interior security has been minimal.
Night-vision implants enable him to see the target building, a bungalow set some distance from the main palace, and he sets off for it. No connecting walkway for this building, merely a hardfoam path. The owner does not wish his guests to chance upon the slave quarters.
Soon he reaches the front door to the building. A quick examination of the lock confirms further intelligence: this is the least secure building on the compound. A message, perhaps, that slaves are cheap here and protecting their welfare is of little concern. Hacking past the door is a simple process, an interface with his wristpad, an uploaded thumbprint, an authorization code revealed and keyed. He peels back the thumb of his camosuit and presses it against the reader; the door shimmers to admit him.
A barracks, uncooled, minus the expensive gloss of the rest of the compound. Short corridor with four closed doors, two on each side and one at the far end. Berg opens the first door, listening for signs of movement. The utter silence concerns him until he remembers Mullen's words: They're perfect. No snoring, no tossing and turning, no insomnia. They're designed that way. He peers inside. Indeed, sleeping men occupy the room in near-total silence.
Physically perfect, they lie naked atop self-cleaning gelatin pads. On the sides of their necks, clearly visible, unnatural knobs of flesh jut like Frankenstein bolts. Permanent catheters, syringe targets for instant programming. No personality to the room, no blankets, nothing but the men, their pads, their pristine uniforms hanging on pegs above them. They require nothing else, Berg thinks. They're programmed to need nothing. They're ciphers.
He triggers the filtration feature of his facemask and moves in, setting a small cannister of potent sedative gas in the centre of the room. The invisible fumes will prevent the slaves from waking up while he carries out their liberation. He exits, shuts the door, and proceeds to the next room: half a dozen more important, more expensive male slaves. Then across the hall to the women's quarters, one of the rooms filled with plain servants, the other with concubines. All of them attractive, perfect and healthy, ornaments picked from a black market catalogue. He sets a cannister in each room and returns to the main corridor.
Give the gas time to take effect. Mullen's voice again, vivid in his memory. In the meantime, take out Aliyyah. Aliyyah is his prize creation, his favourite. She's the only one whose personality is modelled on true human behaviour. If there are problems, they will come from her.
Berg goes back into the corridor, makes for the fifth door, and eases it open.
