Read The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) Online
Authors: S.M. Nolan
Tags: #Science Fiction, #sci-fi, #Alternate History, #Evolution
“Ash,” Maggie pled desperately with a look over her shoulder.
“Yeah, alright, fine,” Ashley pushed the door open. “But I fucking
hate
cops.”
Maggie was relieved to hurry in and shut the door, “You know it has less to do with their uniforms than what they said.”
She followed Ashley to the counter, set down her coat and pack. Maggie gave a quick glance at the front window; two passersby cast shadows through it at them.
“Yeah. Alright. Maybe I went over-the-top,” Ashley shrugged. “But, c'mon, it
wasn't
funny.”
Maggie's fingers shook subtly as she unzipped her coat, “They're cops, not comedians. You just take it a harder because of your dad.”
“Yeah, maybe, but—” Ashley's phone rang. Maggie's heart jumped. “It's Mandy.”
She answered and stepped away to flip on the shop's lights. Maggie swallowed hard to steady her nerves and switch on the computer behind the counter. The bell on the door rang. Maggie whipped 'round to see Russell enter, a backpack on one shoulder and a briefcase on the other.
“Didn't mean to startle you,”
She steadied herself on the counter, “It's not your fault.”
He managed a weak smile, “It's good to see you, at least.”
“Really not sure I can say the same. No offense.”
Her lips quivered in an attempt to smile. She gave up, sat on a stool. Ashley returned from the back room, eyes on her phone, “Mandy's on her way back. Her class got out early so she's—” She spotted Russell, “Oh great,
you're
here.”
He cast Maggie a curious look, “Yeah, just walked in.”
“Well? Can we go back to our lives now?”
Maggie flailed a hand as it rose to her forehead, “Don't mind her, she just hates your uniform.”
Russell acknowledged with a nod, “Oh, blue's not your color.” He set his briefcase on the counter, sat down, “I understand.”
“Really?” she chided with a raised brow.
“Ashley, just
stop
it,” Maggie pled, fingers white against her head. She bit at her lip-ring with fresh tension.
“No, it's alright. I understand.” He looked to Ashley, “I'm the scum of the universe, right? 'Cause I'm a cop? I know how we look; doughnut powdered, tax-wasting bile flooding the streets. Hell, most days we're too busy getting off on scaring some poor bastard with a dead tail-light to notice the half-dozen murders. Fuck, when I think about it,
I
don't really like us either.”
Ashley's eyes were ablaze above her flaring nostrils.
Russell leaned toward her nearly whispering, “But here's the thing… my gun may
look
like it functions solely as an extension of my penis, but it can also save your friend's life. Yours too. So let's all
pretend
to get along, okay?”
Maggie's jaw clenched. Her eyes darted between the two. They stared one another down. Maggie chewed her lip-ring, glad to see Ashley visibly trying to restrain her outburst.
In a flash that might have ended Russell's life, Ashley doubled over in laughter. Russell smiled, glanced between Ashley's hysteria and Maggie's neurotic perplexity.
Ashley straightened, forced away her laughter, “Fine, you can stay.
For now
.”
“Thanks.” He opened his briefcase, “Back to business.”
Maggie breathed easier, enough to still her hands. Russell set aside a file-folder, produced two, enlarged portraits. He laid them side-by-side on the counter. Maggie recognized the first as the man that had attacked her. The second, Russell said, was the man he'd killed in his home.
“The guy in your apartment.” Russell opened the file folder. “Was Ryan Bould. Born in Yorktown, Virginia, December '85. Raised by his grandparents from age three. Enlisted in the military at eighteen. His commanding officers had him thrown in the brig several times before he was dishonorably discharged for insubordination.”
Russell handed a sheet to Maggie, whom examined it curiously.
“After that Bould disappeared. No reports of anything. No hospital records. No arrests. No parking tickets. N
othing
in his name.”
Ashley leaned over the counter, “Sounds like he went off the grid.”
Maggie stilled her hand to relinquish the paper.
Russell agreed, “That, or he was somehow connected with this man.” He slid the second photo forward, centered it between them. “Johnathan Rowe, born to a prostitute in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, February 1980. His mother married a long-time client, had two more kids, and ended up dead after Rowe stabbed her and his step-father. He was in and out of institutions from the age of eight until his release in '05. Physical and sexual abuse is conjectured as the primary cause of his behavioral problems, which ceased after he murdered his parents.”
“Fuckin' sick people, man,” Ashley said, crumpling her face up and setting the paper down.
Russell nodded, “Like Bould, after Rowe's release, he disappeared. There's no trace of him in the whole damned country. So either these two men were working together after they disappeared, or they were both living under assumed identities.” Russell shuffled through a stack of papers in the folder, “Evidence points to the former.”
He handed over an enlarged photograph of the Omega tattooed on his attacker's left wrist.
“What's this?” Maggie asked.
“The Greek symbol Omega.”
“We know
that
,” Ashley said with rolling eyes. She handed the photo to Maggie, “It's on his wrist?”
“It's on both of them. Have you seen it before, or worked on one?”
“Not that I can recall,” Maggie admitted. Ashley shrugged.
He looked between them, “Do you know anything other than the usual information?”
Ashley thought for a minute. The others noticed with expectation. She saw their interest, explained, “Aside from being the last letter of the Greek alphabet, used in everything from physics to bio-chemistry, it also holds biblical symbolism. God is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end of all times. A quick search of the internet'll probably point you to a thousand different conspiracy sites all with that as the tag-line. The only other thing I know's that it's a
cult
symbol.”
“How do you mean?” Russell asked with intrigue.
“Cults tend toward certain symbols to show their devotion to any one of its millions of meanings. I mean, how many cults are there dedicated to events like Halloween, Easter, etcetera—that carry out pagan or satanic rituals? I mean, there's no doubt it's a cult symbol, people worshiping the Alpha-Omega view of God. It's probably something to do with that.”
“I'm sorry, I'm not seeing the connection,” Russell admitted.
Ashley shifted her weight, “Tattoos have been known through-out history as tribal markings. Only in the last century have they become mainstream. Russians still consider them a sign of criminal history, because the only place you can get them's in prison.” She shifted back, “These guys have done some time, disappeared only to resurface later with identical symbols and intentions? Sounds like some kind cult or gang. My guess is cult, it fits the mythology. Christ, what kind'a cop are you anyway?”
Maggie's lips pursed with despair. Russell considered Ashley's words with a curious expression. There was a twisted sense to it. “So you think Omega is some kind of cult?”
She shrugged, “Something like that, but I'm just an artist, remember?”
Maggie involuntarily groaned, “It has logic, yeah, but how's it involve us? I mean, what'd
we
do wrong?”
She blew an irritated breath, “Mags, you know these kinds of people. They're insane. Think if you step on a crack you're breaking their God's mother's pelvis or something. And fuck-all knows we can't have that! They're wack-jobs, Maggie, plain and simple.”
Russell titled his head in agreement. Maggie caught it, “You think it's possible?”
He shrugged, “Maybe. We're sure this has something to do with Ryusaki, right?”
She eyed him, “Ryusaki? But how does he—”
“The tattoos,” Ashley intoned. “Ryusaki's and the other guy. The interrogation linked you.”
Russell agreed. “I went up to the university this morning. As early as I could. They pointed me to a professor of symbology. After he seemed convinced it was an ancient language,
he
pointed me to a doctor of linguistics named Jackson. When I showed him the picture he seemed confused. He told me he recognized the language as pre-Sumerian Cuneiform, but he couldn't decipher it. He said it's probably a lost dialect, either incorrect or so old the translations are lost.”
“He didn't try to translate it?” Maggie asked skeptically.
“He had one book on Cuneiform, but one of the symbols wasn't there. He said translating it piece by piece wouldn't matter because the missing word would shift the passage's entire meaning.”
“So it's a dead end?” Maggie asked, dejected.
“For now, anyhow.”
“Well you've got a new lead at least,” Ashley said with a hopeful gleam. The pair were perplexed. “Ryusaki's tattoo. If it had something to do with the attack, Chen-Lee may know something.”
Maggie suddenly remembered Chen-Lee, “Yeah, but he's in L.A. and we have no way to contact him.”
“Find a way.”
Russell plotted his next move, “I can contact a couple people, but we should try to confirm if it
is
cult science first.”
“I doubt the OCA would know anything more,” Maggie admitted.
The bell over the door rang and Mandy stepped in, “Freezing out there.” She looked up, “How's it going?”
Russell and Maggie looked to one another before settling on Ashley. She checked her phone's clock, noted it was almost noon.
“I'll bring her up to speed,” Ashley said.
Mandy asked hungrily, “Will you head out and grab lunch?”
“Chinese?” Maggie asked with obvious reticence.
“Sure.”
Ashley scoffed, “Maybe
he
can give you a ride so you don't have to take the El,” She turned to follow Mandy to the back room.
“
He
is named
Russell
,” he taunted. Ashley ignored him. He looked to Maggie, “Where're you headed?”
“Chinese place across town, you know it?”
Russell chuckled, “Half of Chinatown's across town.”
Maggie smiled at his steel nerves, “I'll show you.”
Russell slid the photographs and papers back into his briefcase and shut it. She grabbed her bag and coat, followed him into the cold afternoon.
“Wait here a minute,” he said past the door.
He walked a few cars down to the cruisers. Maggie bundled her jacket against the cold, threw the pack over her shoulder. Her eyes darted nervously along the street. She shifted her weight, blew a plume of air, and watched a couple hunker down against the wind.
Traffic whizzed and whipped by, blew smog-filled gusts at them. Russell returned and motioned her to his Impala.
“What was that all about?”
He fiddled with his briefcase in the backseat, shifting files to his backpack. “Professional courtesy.”
“What?”
He slid behind the wheel, “They'll stay back to watch the shop while we head out. I didn't want them calling in our movement. If someone's watching us, they might be tipped off by a scanner.”
He ignited the engine and pulled into traffic. They sat in silence most of the ride, each locked in their own thoughts. A few times hails came over the police radio until Russell shut it off altogether. They drove on, unsure of what to say until a grid-locked intersection stopped them.
Russell tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, surveying the area. Fear coursed through Maggie's veins, “I don't like sitting like this.”
“I know what you mean,” he said calmly. “Feels a little exposed.”
Her eyes darted around the buildings lining the block. They broke sporadically for alley entrances. Her leg fidgeted against the pack as someone stepped past outside. They paid her no mind but the closeness made her heart race.
“We could take one of the side streets.”
Russell judged the distance between vehicles, “Yeah, alright.”
He flicked on his lights. They flashed with a squawk, forced a car in front of him further up and to the side. He diverted right, between two buildings, made a left at their rear-edge onto a half-mile stretch of alley.
It was yet another usual back-alley scene; dumpsters against the the left-side's buildings, here and there high-retaining walls that barred access to fenced in duplexes on the right.
The Impala picked up speed, cruised forward with Maggie more at ease. Breaks between the retaining walls shifted the scenery from residences to commercial offices. Russell flicked off his lights, slowed to a crawl to divert around a dumpster partially obstructing the alleyway.
In one breath, Russell glanced sideways. A black van charged from the side-entrance. His eyes widened, foot slammed the accelerator. The car lurched. Rubber screamed on asphalt. Tires caught traction just as the van slammed the rear-fender.
The Impala careened sideways, hit a brick building's edge. It ricocheted, threw the passenger's fender into a dumpster.
The force smacked Russell's head against the steering wheel. Maggie's temple splintered the passenger window. Warmth trickled through her hair and her vision narrowed.
8.
Catharsis
September 30
th
12:25 PM
Back alley of 42
nd
street.
Russell's lapse of consciousness ended with the Impala's droning horn. He lifted his head and it stopped. His vision flickered, body ached.
He knew what had happened. The van had purposely hit them. The impact wasn't enough to detonate the airbag and his face hit the wheel instead. He opened his eyes to smoke rising from the crushed front-end, felt something jerk at his seat belt. Maggie's foggy shape came into focus.
Her hands fumbled at his side, “Damn it, wake up!” She glanced around anxiously, fought his belt's latch. “C'mon, before they get closer!”