Deus Ex - Icarus Effect

CHAPTER ONE

Maison deBeers—Geneva—Switzerland

From the window of the great house it was possible to see the summit of Mont Blanc on a good day, a clear day when the sky was a perfect

shade of teal and unhindered by clouds. There still were days like that, once in a while. Those moments that were rare and becoming rarer still,

when clouds gray as oil-soaked wool graced Geneva's ornate streets with a moment of weak sunshine; but for the most part, the city remained

wintry and wet, as summers became something that were spoken of by parents and grandparents to children with no experience of such things.

The house was fifteenth century, and it stood witness to the turning of the gray clouds above the city, just as it had to the republic of John

Calvin, the rise of the Catholics, the fascist riots, and the gathering of nations. Like the blue sky, the house was a relic from an age so far

removed from the now, it seemed as if it were something drawn from mythology. It stood undimmed by the acid rain that pitted and wormed

into the bones of its fellows. The bricks and mortar of the building resisted the march of time and the polluted atmosphere, protected by a layer

of polymerized industrial diamond a few molecules in thickness.

It pleased the man who lived here to toy with the idea that a thousand years from now, this place might still be standing while the rest of the

city had come to dust. In his more fanciful moments, he even imagined it might become some sort of monument. The owner of the house did

not consider this to be arrogance on his part. He simply thought it right, as he did about so many of the choices he made.

A trim man of solid stock, he resembled a captain of industry, a scion of blue bloods from the old country, a man of mature wealth—and he was

all those things. He had a patrician face, fatherly after a fashion, but tainted by something that those who knew him well would call a sense of

superiority. He walked the halls of the great house in the same manner he did the halls of the world—as if he owned them.

An assistant—one of a dozen at his beck and call, faceless and interchangeable—fell into step as he crossed the reception hall. Her shoes were

beetle black, matching the discreetly flattering cut of her business suit and the cascade of her sharply fashioned hair. He registered her without

a word, her footsteps clacking across the mosaic flooring.

"Sir," she began, "all connections have been secured. The gallery is ready for you."

He graced her with a nod. He expected no less.

The woman frowned slightly. "In addition ... Doctor Roman has confirmed he will be arriving on schedule for your—"

"I know why he's coming." The flash of irritation was small, but any such sign from him was so forbidding that it sent his staff into silence.

He resented the small, unctuous physician and the minor indignities the man forced him to suffer each time he visited the house; but age was

not a kind companion and the advance of years was taking its toll. If he were to remain at the top of his game—and more important, maintain

his leadership of the group—it would be necessary for him to ensure his own fitness, and so these little moments of ignominy were his trade-off.

He was no fool; all the others, his protege in Paris first among them, watched like hawks for signs of weakness. Today would be no different.

As they reached the paneled doors of the gallery, he looked properly at the young woman for the first time and smiled, forgiving her. "Thank

you, my dear," he said, the softened vowels of his native Southern drawl pushing through. "You're dismissed."

She nodded as the doors closed on her, and he heard the gentle metallic click of hidden machinery inside the frame as it sealed closed. The

gallery was decorated with walls of smoky, dark wood that shone in the half-light through the arched windows. Works in watercolor, oils, some

portraits, others still life or landscape, hung in lines that ranged around the room. Deep chairs of rich red leather were positioned about the

floor, and he noted that a silver tray with cups and a cafetière of his favorite Saint Helena were waiting for him. He sat and poured a generous

measure, savoring the aroma of the coffee as the lamps above seven of the paintings flickered in unison.

Panes of shimmering color formed in front of each of the works, shifting and changing from interference patterns to something approximating

human faces. Presently, ghostly busts of five men and two women gained form and false solidity, projected from concealed holographic emitters

hidden in the brass lamps. He saluted them with his cup and they nodded back to him, although he knew that none of them were seeing his real,

unvarnished image. The sensor that picked up his face used software to parse the virtual avatar the others saw, advanced suites of pattern

matching programs that did away with tells and flattened vocal stress inflections; in this way he showed them only the aspects of him that they

needed to see.

Data tags showed their locations in the corner of each image; Hengsha, Paris, Dubai, Washington, Singapore, Hong Kong, New York. Among

them he saw the protege, the politician, the thinker, and the businessman, the ones he distrusted and the ones he trusted to lie. He enjoyed

another purse-lipped sip of the rich Saint Helena and put down the cup. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. Let's begin, shall we?"

As he expected, his protege spoke first. "The current project is proceeding as expected. I'm pleased to report that the issue we had with the

Hyron materials has now been dealt with"

"Good," he murmured. "What about the deployments of our agent provocateurs for the active phase?"

"I've staged the operatives in all the standby locations," said the politician, hissing as sibilance caught his words through the link from the

American capital. "We're ahead of schedule." The other man cleared his throat. "In addition, the distribution channels are now all in place."

He looked toward the businessman. "The media?"

The man in Hong Kong nodded once. "Our control there remains firm. We're already embedding liminal triggers in multiple information

streams. I won't bore you with the details."

He nodded. The demonstrations and confrontations they had gently encouraged were a regular feature on the global news cycle. He turned

slightly in the chair and glanced at the feed from Hengsha. "What about production?"

The Asian woman's face tensed. "Testing has proven ... problematic. I've gone as far as I can, but until I have updated schematics for the—"

Before she could finish, the dry English accent of the scientist issued from the Singaporean link. "We've been through this. Is it necessary for

me to explain once again? This is not an exact science. I told you from the start there would be delays. The work is an iterative process. In

any event, I am about to acquire some new ... resources that will speed things along"
He held up a hand to silence the woman before she could frame a retort. "We all understand the circumstances. But we also all understand the

importance of this project. I'm sure no one wants to be the participant who slows down the hard work of everyone else." His eyes narrowed and

he gave the scientist and the woman a level look. "Solve whatever problems the two of you have and move forward. We've invested too much

time and resources in this to lose ground at this late stage."

"Of course" said the woman. The scientist said nothing, only nodded.

He felt that something needed to be said, and so he stood. "My friends. My fellow perfectibilists." He smiled again, amusing himself with the use

of the archaic term. "None of us harbor any illusions about the delicacy of our work. The burden of governance, the stewardship upon us is

great, perhaps at this moment in history greater than any of our group have ever had to shoulder. Humanity is becoming malleable, and we see

battle lines being drawn across our society... We alone see this where others do not, and the great responsibility, as ever, falls to us. And so we

must have a unity of purpose, yes?"

A series of nods followed his words. They all knew what was at stake. The group was on the cusp of the next great iteration, the placement of

the next flagstone in the path that stretched from the day of first foundation in old Ingolstadt, to that glittering human tomorrow a thousand

years hence. He felt a tingle of rare excitement in his fingertips; so much of what they did was slow, so gentle and subtle that it was like a breath

of wind upon the sails of society. It shifted the path of humanity by degrees, an infinitely long game that measured its turns in years, decades,

generations.

But once in a while, a point of criticality would approach. A moment of importance that would act as a fulcrum for the future.

The fall of Constantinople. A sunny June morning in Sarajevo. The detonation of the first atomic bomb. The two burning towers. These and all

the others. For those with foresight and the will to act for the greater good, the elite who could lead mankind through the darkness, these

moments represented the rise of opportunity. The group's very existence was predicated on times such as these—and if these critical incidents

did not occur in the weave of world events by a process of natural evolution, then it was only right that they create them.

He nodded to himself. They were the breath of wind on the sails, indeed. But they were also the hand upon the tiller.

He looked across at the face that ghosted before Turner's Scarlet Sunset, the other woman watching carefully from the towers of Dubai. "The ...

impediments" he began, with a sniff. "I'm sure we don't need to discuss names and all. Specifics we can leave to you, yes?"

The olive-skinned woman nodded. "I have it in hand, Lucius" she said, showing her rank to the others with her casual use of his first name.

"The last pieces are being placed upon the board as we speak." She smiled, and there was no warmth in it. "The knights are in place to take

the bishops and the rooks."

None of them spoke for a moment, and he found his gaze drawn away once more to the windows. Shafts of sunshine were making a valiant

effort to pierce the dreary veils of gray over Geneva, and perhaps if he had been a pious man, he might have thought it to be some sort of good

omen. He was long past the point of musing on what might happen to him, should he one day be called to account by human agencies or spiritual

ones for what he had done. In his time he had ordered the death of men, the warring of nations, the ruination and the aggrandizement of

individual lives, each in its way a tool toward a greater end. This was simply the method at hand; it was how it had to be done, and today was no

different.

They would make history happen according to their design, as they had for more than two and a half centuries.

Logan Circle—Washington, D.C.—United States of America

It was cool inside the parking levels of the Dornier Apartments, the heat of Washington's midday held back by thick concrete and air-con units

that labored day and night. The walls were a uniform stone-white, punctuated every few feet by Doric columns that were more ornamental

than practical. The sublevel smelled of machines; rubber, hydrocarbons, and the metal tang of batteries.

Anna Kelso glanced back over her shoulder toward the rectangle of light that was the exit, eyeing the pizeopolymer barrier bollards that had

yet to retract back into the floor. The agent standing on the lip of the ramp that led up to Logan Circle gave her a nod, which she returned. He

had his arms folded across his waist so his jacket stayed closed, hiding the butt of the Hurricane tactical machine pistol nestled in a fast-draw