GOD OF MAN: Deus Ex Web Series

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GOD OF MAN: Deus Ex Web Series

Postby Clancy Stein » Wed Jul 12, 17 6:29 am

I'm currently writing, in my spare time, an experimental novelized serialization of the Deus Ex story. I combine the different dimensional possibilities (discounting the alternate realities, of course, where JC simply dies before the end), into a single narrative as if documenting how it really happened or how I am choosing to interpret it for the purpose of telling a single story.

The series is called God Of Man and I'm only as far as liberty island.

Here is an excerpt of what I'm working on:

Alex Jacobson looked over the multitude of feed monitors streaming footage from the various agents & squadrons on and around the island. To his left, a screen showed the eyeview of Agent Hermann, imprisoned by the NSF in a makeshift cell. His visual feed was damaged due to some kind of electromagnetic interference on his end. It was the only conceivable reason Hermann was even able to be captured at all.

Jacobson looked at the screen next to Hermann's. It was Paul Denton's. He was on a coastguard speedboat patrolling the waters, investigating the naval security breach, visually tracking the barge before it was lost in the sea traffic.

As a greyhat, Jacobson was not surprised at how the hackers managed to slip UNATCO's dragnet. They had used the precise loopholes he had warned the brass about in his last debugging report. The new grid was his own design, and he knew it would be unbeatable.

Suddenly, Agent Paul's feed went offline. Jacobson was used to seeing this. It was likely redacted by other higher ranked operators who were in direct contact with Paul. They redacted the stream on Jacobson's end, or probably struck it from the record altogether, to insure confidentiality with the primary operative.

“Alex, we have compound coverage of aerial support.”

He looked across the room over to the monitors at another operator's station with officers gathered around, then turned back to his own to bring up the same footage.

A private strategic advisor stood over the operator in the other station.
"Copy that, Sgt. Major," he said, speaking into his headset. "The tag number is Alpha Kilo Fiver Bravo Three Zero Three. We need visual confirmation. I assume our registry scanners are corrupted; they will not verify our inquiry. Over?"

The screens swapped between visuals from an Apache chopper, the visuals from the visor cams on the troops inside, and the satellite view locked on the chopper's vector coordinates to a fixed center on its primary rotor. Jacobson shook his head in dismay.
They couldn't establish that connection with the barge? This level of ineptitude in our national security is appalling. Somebody's getting the shaft for this....

He flipped back two of his screens to the agent feeds on his tricaster, cycled through their viewpoints periodically in between coordinating the aerial recon support. The choppers just couldn't seem to find their own freighter. It's like the NSF sunk it and loaded it on a different cargo ship....

Wait a minute....

Jacobson switched on the display of a handheld device plugged into a touchpad stitched into his pant-leg. He put the channel feed on Agent JC Denton, whose GPS signal pinged him in the Northern dockyards.

His connection to JC was still partially blocked. He hadn't been able to forge authorization for full access to his feed yet, and had to hack a delayed signal from the agent's digiscreen-shades synced to an unusual datapad device, perhaps customized like his own, which was rare. He hadn't seen its barrier pattern before, so he couldn't crack its code.

Jacobson plugged in his micset to his own handheld then embedded a VM recording to the agent's inbox. Instead of a video message he uploaded a still image of his face as the sender, then compressed the message to a small sized audio-only file format.

He sent a carefully phrased message, one that was general enough it wouldn't go on record as having too much information. The relationship between operator & operative was such that only authorized information from the brass went to the operator who passed it on to agents & troops in the field. Likewise, intel gathered by operatives was supposed to be catalogued & sent back up the chain of command to intelligence officers. No information, unless strictly authorized, was ever permitted to reach other departments carte blanche. It was a carefully stratified hierarchy of security clearances.

“Heads up, JC. While you're on the docks, I need you to get some images of the serials on those cargo crates. It may help our patrols locate the terrorists on the water.”

That should keep him on his toes. Make him think someone’s always watching.
But that I also got his back....


Using a screenshot function of my shades’ visual field I captured images of what remained on the docks. I ran the crate serials with the shipping manifests of all cargo shipments in or out of the North Docking Harbor to be cross-checked with the Bills Of Lading in each authorized vessel. Then I sent the long\\lats of the departed speed boats I’d seen earlier to Jacobs to be traced for nearby seaboard activity on SATCOM, the positions of the targets to be sent to Paul's naval recovery team & support chopper.

One of the dock workers saw me leaving the boathouse after talking to Harley. I didn't realize this until I was halfway up the pier & I checked SATCOM to find them creeping along toward my position on the marina. I ducked behind some crates & waited, drawing my pistol, listening in the dark....

"Guy in a coat... gonna check it out...."
The two men passed, but a third figure was closing in from behind. I couldn't make it out. If I zoomed the view it would have to reload the entire field, causing lag in the feed. It was real-time-now and it would save my life, I decided to wait them all out, praying it wasn't a bot. The two men stopped on the other side of the crates. They were whispering to each other.
"Wait... quiet!"
"Shit! Is... is that one of ours?"
"It's the cops!"
"To hell with this!"
They started running down the pier toward the boathouse. Suddenly the entire jetty started trembling & swaying back & forth. The men were running, the robotic walker was stomping behind them. The mechanical ostrich legs with hydraulic pistons pushing & lifting, made a sickening sound as its metallic pronged talons paced crazily after them, a gyro-gatling "minigun" spinning cylindric barrels humming while it lined up its bridge-body, a glowing red cycloptic hyphen above the gun targeting them like a long-range barcode scanner.
Then it spoke.
Then a deafening sound like a rapid ripcord motor string being pulled continuously, propelled high caliber slugs from the mini-machine gun. The two men were cut down instantly, and a few tracer rounds lit for an instant white streaks flashing across the darkness. I was afraid a few stray rounds might have gone through the wood panel shack and struck the drifter woman.
Then it stomped off back toward the Statue.
Jacobson sent a delayed message.
"Heads up, JC. There's an allied walking turret coming your way to make a sweep of the North Dock & secure it for the CoastGuard. I already used Harley's codes. I will forward any intercepts to you. The terrorists don't know they've been infiltrated. It's already over."

If you liked this, here is a link to the other parts I've written.

https://fullspectrumradio.wordpress.com ... x-humanus/
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Clancy Stein
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