The Iron Fist

  TO DAD, ALWAYS A NEW ADVENTURE…

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Dedication

  The Power of Fear

  Do Not Touch

  Double Trouble

  Preparation

  The Farm

  The Approach

  Snooping Around

  An Unwelcome Visitor

  They’re Here...

  Breaking In

  Lockdown

  The Only Way is Down

  First Steps

  We’re Watching You

  Game On

  Yellow Zone

  Now I See You

  A Terrible Plan

  Smart Doors

  Onwards and Upwards

  Engine Failure

  The Cavalry

  Down the Tube

  A Step Ahead

  The Tunnel

  Revenge

  Air Time

  Battle For The Farm

  The Blue Zone

  Call in the Elf

  Deep Trouble

  Scrap

  All Ears

  First Contact

  The Final Door

  Give Him A Hand

  Choose A Door

  Red Zone

  Good Breeding

  Showdown

  Well-Planned Improvisation

  The Escape

  Outside

  Fifty Shades of Dumb

  Iron Fist

  Out of Stock

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Pavel Branonov fought for breath as he rushed around the stale-smelling apartment. His trembling hands pulled yellow-paged books off aging shelves; he paused only to scan the first few pages before he moved on to the next.

  Time was against him, yet it had to be here…

  He suddenly froze, cocking his head to the side as the wail of police sirens grew. They were on to him. He took a deep breath to control the fear welling inside him, then continued searching through the tomes on the shelf.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered in Russian. Then he found it: a small handwritten journal. The yellowing pages were written in spidery cursive. The first page read: IRON FIST IVX – 1987112 – MAJESTIC LEVEL SECURITY PROTOCOLS.

  He gasped in surprise – so it was true! For the briefest of moments his mind swirled as endless possibilities stretched before him.

  The rhythmic chirping of his mobile phone’s timer snapped him back to the moment. He was painfully aware that every beep was a nail in his own coffin.

  The sirens were now in the street outside. He had used up all his time. He shoved the book safely into his jacket and stepped over the body blocking the door. He regretted knocking the old man out – he was a colleague Pavel had been fond of – but at least the amnesia stun baton had been painless and he would remember nothing when he awoke.

  “Forgive me, comrade,” he muttered, and headed out of the squalid apartment and on to the landing.

  The wooden floorboards creaked with every step as he dashed for the staircase. Before he could take a step down, a policeman appeared, his pistol waving dangerously in Pavel’s direction.

  “Halt!”

  Pavel did the opposite. He ran back along the corridor to the landing window. The cop’s footsteps rattled up the stairs behind him as he strained to prise open the warped wooden frame. With a screech that set his teeth on edge, it juddered open. He clambered through, grazing his knee on the rusting fire escape. He just caught sight of the out-of-breath policeman appearing at the top of the stairs, before rapidly descending the ladder.

  Like the rest of the Moscow suburb, the ladder had not been maintained for decades. One too many harsh winters had worn through several rungs, causing the rust to crumble under Pavel’s shoe, and he fell to the ground.

  He landed hard on his back. At least the recent snow helped cushion his fall, although he felt something crack – maybe a rib. He didn’t have time to worry about that. He only had three more minutes to live.

  The alleyway into which Pavel had fallen connected to streets in both directions, but he was too disoriented to work out which side of the building he had emerged from. His escape car lay at the front. One or the other direction would have to do.

  Pavel stood and immediately slipped on the ice beneath the snow. He checked his balance. White-hot pain shot though his ankle; it was broken – that explained the cracking noise. Ignoring it, he limped towards the open road ahead. The timer on his phone beeped again, indicating his lifespan had shrunk by a third.

  Before he could reach the end of the road, a figure strode into view, blocking his path. For a heart-stopping moment Pavel thought the police had caught up with him.

  But it wasn’t the police; it was a tall suited figure who was oblivious to the biting temperature. He wore odd yellow-lensed glasses that hid his eyes. His face was impassive, as if some freak accident had robbed him of the ability to move his facial muscles. Pavel only knew him as the Collector. The man’s cold ruthlessness had become almost legendary.

  The Collector held out his black leather-gloved hand and spoke in flawless Russian, although Pavel doubted that was his native tongue. “Do you have it?”

  “The police…” gasped Pavel, pointing over his shoulder.

  On cue, the police car skidded into the alleyway. Sirens whooped as the driver struggled to right the fishtailing car as he accelerated towards them.

  The Collector raised his hand, extending his fingers. Pavel saw smoke rising from the leather glove. It took a second or two for him to realize that it wasn’t smoke, but dense nanoparticles, swarming like bees between the Collector’s fingers before shooting towards the police car.

  The car struck the dust cloud at speed – and suddenly froze in place. The sirens warbled feebly before falling silent. Pavel couldn’t work out what had happened … until the vehicle wobbled and began to fall flat.

  Flat.

  With a complete disregard for conventional physics, the dust had rendered the police car into a two-dimensional object. It had width and height but no depth, possessing all the substance of a photograph. Pavel could still see the policemen inside, pounding the windscreen in terror, as if they were trapped in a television screen. The image shattered as it struck the ground, breaking into a billion pixels until the men and car were nothing more than dimensionless molecules in the snow.

  Pavel tore his gaze back to the Collector. “How did…?”

  “Do you have it?” There was a growl of impatience now.

  Pavel hesitated. Since entering business with the Collector he had seen things he could never un-see. Terrors that gnawed his conscience and had even driven him to murder. The beep of his phone made the decision for him.

  “Yes. It is all in here.” He fished the journal from his jacket and handed it to the Collector. “Its last resting place.”

  Without opening it, the Collector slipped the book into the inside of his jacket. Even with his life on the line, Pavel had to know. “So it’s all true? The place really exists?”

  “Its existence and location was never in question.” The Collector tapped the book. “This confirms how Iron Fist works. That’s the key to my entire operation.”

  “I have done my part of the deal. Everything you asked. In return you promised me the cure,” Pavel said.

  The Collector nodded. “I did. And you have it.” He did not move.

  “What do you mean? Please! Give it to me!” Pavel started to feel the cold seep into his veins, a mixture of the Moscow winter and the sudden sense of betrayal.

  “There is no cure. You were never poisoned.”

  “What? That cannot be…”

  “Poison is such a primitive weapon. One I would never stoop to use. The only poison was your own fear. And fear can
drive men mad. Make them commit unspeakable acts all in the name of survival.” The Collector spoke in a calm, even tone. He wasn’t mocking, simply stating a fact.

  “You’re lying!” Pavel shouted – and then his phone beeped the final alarm, signalling his imminent death. Yet nothing happened. He stared at the Collector with astonishment and contempt. “Y-you made me do those things … those terrible things…”

  “You chose to do them yourself. For fear of your life.”

  “You manipulated me!”

  The Collector laughed as he laid a hand on Pavel’s shoulder. It was the first human gesture he had seen from this mysterious man since they had met two weeks ago. “People perform best when they believe they are doing the right thing, comrade. You have been a great asset to the cause. Shadow Helix will know of your accomplishments.”

  Pavel was suddenly aware that particles were flowing from the fiend’s glove and rapidly spreading all over him. He opened his mouth to speak but was unable to utter a sound.

  To his horror, he felt himself gently falling backwards, staring skyward – his body possessing nothing more than the thickness of a shadow…

  There’s nothing more exhilarating than flying, thought Dev, as he shot at forty miles per hour down the narrow avenue of shelves, seconds before his HoverBoots decided to malfunction and twist him upside down.

  His dark hair whipped into his eyes and he gave an involuntary shriek. Rocking his body like a pendulum, Dev attempted to roll himself back upright as a heavy metal shelf rushed to meet him head-on.

  It didn’t work.

  With a grunt, Dev strained to lift his head just enough to prevent it cracking against the shelf.

  “WOW!” he exclaimed, then whooped with delight at surviving the near miss.

  That’s when the right boot made a loud pop and black smoke spewed from its coolant vents. Now powered by a single heavy boot, Dev was sent spiralling to the floor.

  With a terrible scraping noise, the remaining HoverBoot dragged him across the smooth polished floor until he finally thudded into another shelf and the boot died with a death rattle.

  Silence flooded the warehouse.

  Dev took a deep breath. That joyride hadn’t quite gone to plan.

  I guess it could have been worse, he thought woozily as he sat up and looked around at the mess.

  Dev only became aware of the creaking at the last moment, and looked up in time to see another massive shelf topple like a felled tree. He threw his arms over his head as it crashed down on top of him – and some of the most advanced technology the world was not yet ready for rained down on him.

  “Devon?” An apoplectic voice suddenly bellowed from his watch. “Devon Parker? You are in serious trouble!”

  “Oh, boy,” Dev sighed, putting his head in his hands. It was worse.

  *

  The pain was biting as Dev rapidly pulled the plaster off his face. It smarted for a moment, but at least the Heal-o-Plast had repaired the cut made by the falling tech. He gave three short breaths before yanking the second plaster off his arm. It hurt like crazy, but like the one on his face, the deep cut on his forearm had completely healed without leaving even the hint of a scar.

  Dev sighed. Like so many items stashed in the Inventory, the Heal-o-Plasts could be used for such good, but instead the authorities had deemed that they were not for public use. Dev could never understand why. Surely instantly healing people was a good thing? He turned to watch his uncle, Charles Parker, straining to the heave the heavy metal shelving units back into their upright position with the help of a grumpy robot called Eema.

  “Trust you to be messing about down here,” tutted the robot in her best schoolteacher tone.

  Eema was a beyond-state-of-the-art artificially intelligent computer system, a marvellous blend of engineering and computer coding, and the Inventory’s ruthless security. Eema couldn’t simply be copied like a normal computer program. She was special. Her physical form was a metal sphere two-and-a-half metres in diameter, capable of rolling at up to thirty miles per hour. She could then unfold into segments that formed multiple arms, legs, and even an assortment of weapons. A holographic head, the size of a bowling ball, floated just above her body, like a huge yellow-headed emoji. The usually smiling face looked irritated every time Eema glanced in Dev’s direction.

  With the shelves back up, Charles Parker and Eema carefully placed the fallen items back in their allocated spaces: a box of Smart-Putty, a digital zodiac detector (which claimed Dev was born under a different star sign every time he used it), a can of anti-graffiti paint and many other banished items. He examined each under a light, looking for the slightest tear, ding or scratch.

  The only sounds coming from Dev’s uncle were a series of exasperated tuts and sighs. Dev would have rather been told off, shouted at – anything but hearing his uncle’s trademark disappointed tut. It was psychological warfare and Dev couldn’t take much more. The sooner this was over with the better.

  Throwing away the scrunched-up Heal-o-Plasts, he decided it was time to help clear up his mess. He bent and picked up a white spherical object.

  “NO!” Charles shouted, snatching it from his hands and holding it protectively to his chest, caressing it as if it were a puppy. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

  Dev shrugged. “Nope.” He hated the way his uncle’s accusing glare bored into him.

  “A Higgs-Bos-Bomb. And do you know what it will do if it’s triggered?”

  Again that glare, like a loathsome headmaster ready to belittle his student.

  Dev decided to play his game. “No, Charles. What will happen?”

  Charles Parker’s eyes flinched for a second. He hated it when Dev used his proper name. “That’s the point. Nobody does! That’s why you can’t just come in here and knock things over like some wild … weasel.” He shuffled over to the shelf to replace his precious baby.

  Dev tried to hide his smile. Brat was harsh language coming from his uncle. He picked up a small tube of what looked like mints. He must have dropped them when he crashed. He pocketed them.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do this. I was just checking out those cool-looking HoverBoots…” Dev realized playing nice was going to get him out of the warehouse quicker than arguing.

  Charles picked up the still-smouldering right boot and looked at it sadly. “The XV-19 HoverBoot prototype from 1936! Prototype – that’s why it’s here in the Inventory; I thought you understood that?”

  Dev hung his head. He’d heard it all before and it always annoyed him. Prototypes. Just experiments.

  Charles gestured around. “The public is not ready for any of this technology. HoverBoots, rocket packs … my gosh, can you imagine what would happen if a bunch of thugs got their hands on the Camo-Jackets?” He carefully placed the sphere back on its special shelf mount. “And you could have been crushed by the shelf,” he added as an afterthought.

  Dev shook his head; that summed up their relationship perfectly. He was always the afterthought.

  “Anyway, I thought you were afraid of heights?” said his uncle.

  Dev shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on going very high. Just, y’know, fast. I’m not afraid of fast.” It was crazy. How could he live in a place surrounded by so much potential excitement, so many amazing pieces of kit, yet have one of the most boring lives on the planet?

  Charles continued. “The world is in turmoil enough as it is. The Inventory is here to make sure that nothing like that gets into the wrong hands to make it worse.” He indicated to a large disc-shaped object, about the size of a bus, that was covered in a heavy tarpaulin. Dev guessed it was a recent addition, as it hadn’t been there last time he’d been in the section.

  “Says who?” The words blurted from Dev’s mouth before he could stop them. He edged closer to the massive disc. Curiosity to know exactly what was under the sheet burned deep in his gut. That was his problem – he was curious, like the proverbial cat.

  Charles scratched
his grey hair, then adjusted his glasses before giving Dev the usual curt answer. “Says the World Consortium.”

  “Oh, that bunch of unelected suits nobody really knows anything about?”

  “That’s enough,” Charles snapped. There was ice in his voice, and Dev knew instantly that he was on dangerous ground. Charles looked around at the remaining chaos his nephew had wrought and shook his head. “There will be a punishment for this.”

  “Every day spent with you is a punishment,” said Dev out loud, and instantly regretted it. There was no real love between him and his uncle. Theirs was a relationship of convenience. Nevertheless, Charles Parker provided everything for him, and he knew he shouldn’t have been so impulsive to speak his thoughts aloud. However, if Charles had heard, he showed no sign of it. Dev heaved a sigh of relief.

  Curious and impulsive – two explosive parts of his personality. He wondered which came from his mother and which from his father. He didn’t recall ever meeting them, and Charles Parker never spoke about them. Every question was skilfully navigated by his uncle, a verbal ballet that left Dev more muddled than before he’d asked.

  Cold light from a half moon hanging low in the sky bathed the small town of Edderton and failed to highlight anything of interest. That was as poetic as Dev could get about his hometown as he looked vacantly across it from the hilltop on which his uncle’s farm lay, while beneath it sat the labyrinth of vast interlocking warehouses that made up the Inventory.

  Dev’s hooded top was pulled tight but did little to warm him. He shivered against the winter nip and thrust his hands deeper into his jacket. He felt bad about the HoverBoot incident, but reminded himself it was only natural to rebel when your life was as unfair as his was. And it wasn’t only at home. His mind wandered to the injustice inflicted upon him earlier that day at school…

  It had been during a hated swimming lesson. (Dev could swim perfectly well, so he didn’t see the need for him to prove this to his teacher.) As usual, he had been keeping to himself and ignoring his classmates. Dev had never had a close friend. His classmates had all learned to keep away from the class nerd for fear that he would start to talk about science, some complicated new piece of technology, or a subject that was equally dull.