Nobility

[Aardvark]

RonCorp had received much flak from various interest groups for years. Save the Earth, Friends of the Animals, the Greenies, name your environmental activist, they wanted them shut down. Ever since the government had gone against the UN chemical weapons treaty, RonCorp had been cashing in. They had a two year contract which they planned to milk dry before some spineless wimp of a politician decided to cash in on the anti-chemical weapons call coming from the public. The heads of RonCorp knew it would happen. But a contract is a contract and their lawyers had ensured that RonCorp received a massive payout in that event. It was unofficially known as the "Spineless Wimp" clause.

 

A mile from the site, the biker did one last check of his equipment. Bike was in working order, all modifications seemed operational. The small LCD panel showed everything in working order. His weapons, two machine pistols, he trusted. He'd spent all last night cleaning and oiling them. He'd made every round himself. He wanted nothing to go wrong. His harness, secured to his body. If something unexpected happened, he didn't want to lose that. His jacket. What kind of biker doesn't have a leather jacket? Still, one thing missing. He absently patted his own head, then it struck him. Of course, how foolish of him. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of mirrored shades. If you're not going all out, what's the point?

 

The facility was the smallest of three chemical processing plants around the country. They were all in remote areas, employees being flown in by chopper each morning. The amount they were making, it was more than worth it. The remoteness also helped cut down on protests. After all, what hippy activist would travel hundreds of miles to demonstrate, when they could sit at home, smoke illicit substances and watch children's programming? That was the line of thought that had lead RonCorp to construct the facilities in such remote locations. And so far, it'd worked quite well. All employees were paid well. They all deserved it, being the best in their fields. Even the lowest positions were manned by skilled staff. The security and cleaning forces in all three areas having been combined, cutting down on labour, but requiring more qualified staff. And with the salaries they were offering, there were no shortage of takers.

 

His path was mapped out in his mind. All he had to do was get to the reactor core. What the hell a chemical plant was doing with a reactor core was beyond him, but it was nice and convenient for him. Of course, this core was in the deepest part of the facility, but there happened to be an elevator that went right down there. It couldn't get more obvious than that, but he reminded himself that he was a veteran at this and he would be up against unskilled security who, according to reports, spent most of their time mopping up anyway. He gunned the engine and took off in the direction of the plant.

 

The gate security heard the biker approach. Hearing any engine this far out from civilisation was enough to alert them. No one came this late. A general alert was sounded. Standard procedure, plus it gave the staff something to break the monotony of keeping the place shiny. Guards took up positions in the towers at the gates and watched the oncoming biker through rifle scopes. Courier? Visitor? Employee getting in extra early for some unknown reason? Not likely. The biker slowed and came to a stop near the gates.

 

There was a guard in the guardhouse, but the gates were still activated by a swipecard. And the biker just happened to have a swipecard. Seconds later, he was in, ignoring the casual queries from the security force. He made his way slowly around the facility to the side entrance.

 

The guards were still puzzled by this. In the control room, a Senior Supervisor Smith had just swiped in. This name was quickly referenced, bringing up an incomplete file. Name, security number, nothing more. No number, no address. One of the guards gave a call to RonCorp HQ.

 

Once around the side, he was out of site of the guards. Too easy so far. He rode up the disabled ramp, swiping to open the doors. He was fully aware of the cameras watching him.

 

As the phone rang, the guard watched puzzled as the biker rode into the building. This was unheard of. He sent the order to secure the biker for routine interrogation.

 

Now was probably a good time. The biker stopped by a computer terminal and used the login information he'd fabricated for John Smith. Root access. He loved it. Why they connected everything to the network, he'd never know, but it was their loss, really. He unlocked the rector floor, shut down the surveillance system and, just because he could, locked all the restrooms, stairwells and turned on all the sprinklers. Then he summoned the elevator.

 

With surveillance off, the guards were in a panic. Who was this biker, what did he want? Frantic calls to HQ confirmed that this smith did not really exist and the biker was probably up to no good. When the reactor level unlocked, they guessed what he wanted. Guards armed themselves and headed for the reactor, hindered momentarily by the locked stairwells. Fortunately, someone had the foresight to make the doors out of wood that would burn away in a fire and could be shot through with ease.

 

The idling of the engine went well with the elevator music, he was shocked to find out. He cocked his weapons, knowing there would be guards galore when he came out. Between the elevator and the reactor, there was a long corridor, wide enough for him to burn through, but with plenty of cover for snipers and the like. Still, he was good at this. He'd done it hundreds of times before. But just in case...

 

The guards took up positions at the elevator, waiting patiently for it to open. Three floors away... they gazed nervously at one another. Few had had experience at this, most had their training and that's it. Two floors... They all knew how to handle firearms and they were all good shots, anyone with less than 90% accuracy failing the course. But this was completely different. One floor... The sound of dozens of rifles cocking in unison would've brought a tear to the eye of a drill sergeant. One floor... the elevator had stopped. They all heard the roar of the motorcycle one floor above them. They cursed as one and ran for the stairs.

 

The reactor itself was three floors high. His bullets were explosive. But there was a thick concrete barrier between him and the reactor he wasn't sure he'd breech. So he did the next best thing. With both weapons, he fired a hail of shots at the floor in front of him, then fell through the resulting hole.

 

Half the guards were on the stairs or spilling out onto the level above them. The other half were at the other end, waiting for the elevator. Those ones saw the biker fall. The few that could've taken a shot were too awed at the site and didn't come to their senses in time.

 

He flew at the reactor, counting silently in his head. These last few seconds.. he had to get it just right. The LCD screen confirmed that the bike had armed itself. Now, even if he goosed it, he should achieve his mission objective. But he was no suicide bomber. He planned to get out. He heard a bullet whizz past. The guards had finally come to their senses. Idiots. They deserved their fate. Three... two... one.... he hit the button on the middle of his harness. All he felt was a slight tingling sensation.

 

Neutron absorbent control rods prevented the reactor going into meltdown, but enough explosives had been packed into the bike to rupture the reactor, spilling radiation everywhere, and the shockwaves caused secondary explosions from the vats of chemicals some fool had left uncovered. The plant didn't go up in a spectacular fireball, but it was ruined. Chemicals had been forced out from various breaches in the structure, blown high into the air. Others seeped into the ground, eventually mixing with the underground water supply of a nearby city. Thousands became sick from their own tapwater. One such person was a small child, who's significance in the grand scheme of things was only known by one person in the hospital she'd been taken to after falling ill. Now she was in a critical condition, being monitored constantly.

 

As she slept, a new doctor read over her vitals, examined her charts and smiled beneath his mask. His tag read John Smith and he'd really annoyed the security by refusing to remove his shades. If she survived, she'd be in no shape to be a problem for his employer. He activated his harness again, phasing out of that particular time period. Sometimes, being an assassin had it's downs, but he had his own life to protect. That was all it took to wash the guilt from his mind.

[Ayshela]

wow..

i always love popping in here to see you've posted a story. Never fails to glue me to my seat..

 

now, if you wouldn't mind, would you pass over that Almost Dragonic Unglue? i think maybe if i use enough...

=)