Codename Omega: Omega Rising

By Jessica Meats

Jenny Harding has no money, no qualifications and no career history. A job working security for a big tech firm seems too good to be true. Maybe it is.

She is tasked with hunting down a group of thieves who have been stealing sensitive technology. Caught up in a battle involving alien forces, Jenny has some important questions to answer:

Who are the thieves?
What's their real purpose?
And is she on the right side?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Meats
• Release date: May 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781291403534

Jessica Meats

Jessica Meats has a degree in mathematics and computer science from the University of York and works for Microsoft as a technology specialist. This love of technology is clear in her first novel, Child of the Hive, an action-packed adventure set in near-future Britain involving the dangers of technology that hasn't quite been invented yet.

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Codename Omega:

Omega Rising

Jessica Meats

Copyright © 2013, Jessica Meats

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

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ISBN: 978-1-291-40353-4

Chapter 1

The problem with heroes and villains is that it’s not always easy to tell which is which. Particularly when you are one. Right and wrong used to seem so simple. When you’re little, you think the world is clearly divided into good guys and bad guys. When you grow up, you start to see the compromises and the tough choices and all the shades of grey. Then you find yourself in a world made up entirely of grey and the boundaries between right and wrong are so hazy you can’t tell when you cross the line.

When I took the job at Grey’s Tower, I was naïve enough to still believe I was one of the good guys.

Navy and the others will have their own opinions on where this story should start, but for me it started when I declared independence, moved to York, and failed to find a job. The plan was to work for a year or so to build up funds and then head to university. Most of my friends from college had already gone in that direction, or moved to places like London and Leeds following job prospects. I picked York. I rented a damp room on a street of grotty terraces. The area was populated with students, struggling single mums, long-term unemployed, and other denizens of the lowest rung of the economic ladder. I told myself it was just a short-term arrangement while I got sorted but my bank balance was heading south at an alarming rate.

So I hit the street with a pile of CVs, applying for anything that looked half-decent. I hadn’t meant to apply to Grey’s Tower, and I hadn’t a clue what went on there when I did. I was just walking between a pub that was hiring a barmaid, and a sports shop with a help needed poster in the window. Grey’s Tower was a big new office building on the way, all metal and glass and angled architecture. Despite the name, it wasn’t much of a skyscraper but it still seemed somewhat out of place in the centre of York. I knew my way around a word processor, so I went in, hoping that they might have an opening for an assistant or filing monkey or something. At that point, I was desperate and would have taken a two-day contract unpacking furniture.

So I walked in, past a couple of security guys in black suits that looked like rejects from The Matrix. I crossed the shiny tiled floor to the shiny reception desk to speak to the shiny-smiled receptionist. She had a suit that probably cost more than six months of my rent. She smiled widely with perfect teeth, but her eyes were obviously asking who I was and what I thought I was doing there. I tried to exude confidence as I offered my unfortunately slim CV and said that I was wondering if there were any openings.

She told me that she’d put my CV on file. Based on her expression, I translated file to bin, thanked her politely, and continued on my way to the sports shop. I didn’t think there was a chance in hell that anyone from Grey’s Tower would so much as read my CV.

I actually had an interview at the pub, and the landlord said he’d try me out for a couple of days to see how I got on. Given that I broke three glasses in my first evening, ended up pouring beer on my foot trying to pull a pint, and messed up so many orders I lost count, I figured that bar work wasn’t for me. The fact that I spent half the evening up to my elbows in dirty glasses meant that I didn’t mind it too much when the owner said he’d found someone else. But it put me back where I started: out of work and with the next rent payment looming all too closely.

I was walking home from the pub after closing time, wondering how to ask my parents for a loan without it sounding like I couldn’t cope on my own. I was tired and distracted. At least, that’s what I’ll blame for the fact that those guys got so close to me.

Three guys were lurking on the corner of my street, talking quietly amongst themselves. I was used to clusters of students hanging around after the pubs shut so I didn’t pay them any attention until I was walking past them. Then a fist came flying towards my face.

I blocked it on instinct with a simple cross block, a million sparring sessions having drilled the reactions into me. All of a sudden I was fully aware of my situation, surrounded by three guys who apparently were spoiling for a fight. My brain flashed up panicked thoughts of rape and terror filled my entire being.

There was no time to think, no time to plan. I was just moving. Everything was reaction. One punched, I blocked, dodging sideways and trying to put him between the others and me. His friends came at me. I got one with a punch to the gut, the other with a kick to the crotch, but I took a hit in the process, a straight punch that I hadn’t fully blocked. It grazed my face with enough force to shake me slightly. Enough for the first guy to get another punch to my chest, catching my breast with bruising intensity.

By then the adrenaline was pumping. A few seconds into the fight, and I knew I had to act quickly. If this lasted, I’d be a punching bag. I couldn’t fight all three at once. So I didn’t worry too much about blocking, knowing I had to take them out fast. Palm strike to the nose, roundhouse to the back of the leg, straight punch to the stomach, knee in the crotch, back fist across the side of the face. Soon they weren’t trying to hit back at all, just trying to cope with the onslaught of blows I was raining down on them. Take control. That was one of the first pieces of advice I’d been given in sparring, and I wasn’t going to let these guys have a moment to think.

There was no style to what I did, no grace, no precision. I was just hitting out with everything I could, every scrap of training driving me to take them down quickly and make sure they stayed down.

The whole fight lasted mere seconds, ending up with the three of them on the pavement groaning. Two of them were clutching at their groins; the third was bleeding heavily from his nose. He held up a hand in my direction in a gesture of surrender, not making any move to get up.

The only sound was my heavy breathing and the thump of my heart in my ears.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Someone approached. A young woman in a slick suit who looked completely out of place on this dirty street.

Quite impressive, Miss Harding, she said.

Who are you? I asked. How do you know my name?

You gave us your CV. Consider this your first interview. You passed with flying colours.

An interview? Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but I was completely bewildered. She handed me a card.

Mrs Grey would like to speak to you tomorrow morning at nine a.m.

***

It was mostly curiosity that drove me to put on my only suit and head for Grey’s Tower the following morning. I wanted to know who those goons had been the night before and why anyone would think assault was a suitable way to start an interview process. So I turned up at the Tower as instructed and went to the receptionist. She looked more suspicious than she had on my first visit, staring at the patch of purple bruising covering my cheek. The rest of my bruises were thankfully hidden by my suit jacket but still I felt conspicuous.

Jenny Harding, I said. I’ve got an appointment with Mrs Grey.

The girl behind the desk looked at me then looked at a list of expected visitors. She stared at that list as though expecting to detect a forgery, but then she printed off a visitor badge with my name on it. A couple of minutes later, I was greeted by the woman I’d met the night before. She introduced herself as Lucy, Mrs Grey’s personal assistant.

I quickly learned