The Ezekiel Factor

By Caroline Noe

Detective Lauren Frost has always been notorious.

Her father – hero or war criminal, depending which side you're on – invented Artificial Intelligence Clones to fight in our place, only to be murdered by his own traumatised creation.

When Lauren's attitude and foul mouth get her saddled with the lowly case of a missing A.I. on the eve of their rights negotiations, she's forced to work alongside a far from dream team:

Her romance phobic partner,

The veteran A.I. who hates her very name,

A psychedelic technowiz A.I. with PTSD,

And Ernie, the ankle biting Miniature Pinscher.

When the case escalates into the hunt for a serial killer, the agenda becomes terrifyingly personal.

For the past can never be deleted.

 

This book contains:

Foul language. Usage of F-bombs

Reference to war and gangland violence

Brief reference to sexual violence

 

230 pages

 

Praise for The Ezekiel Factor

There's no dipping your toe into this story. Instead, it's a full body plunge from page one…

…not just leavened with wit, it's positively shot through with dark humour and genuine warmth.

The world Caroline Noe has created is compelling, strange, futuristic, vivid and visceral, yet oddly familiar.

The ending was shocking, but then resolved itself into an immensely satisfying conclusion.

From the stunning cover to the last line, The Ezekiel Factor is an enthralling, all action, thrilling read.

Detective Lauren Frost may be my favourite heroine of the year.

 

About the Author

Caroline Noe lives in London, juggling the writing of fantasy and science fiction novels with her other great love: photography. When she's not scratching holes in notebooks, she can be found standing on her head, straining for the best shot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Noe
• Release date: Jun 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215574256

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The severed head plopped into the steel bucket with a gelatinous thump, eyes wide open, as though pleading in vain for a reprieve. For the blood-spattered Grade A Laboratory Technician, trapped in lowly butchery tasks, this was simply another day’s tedium, heaving with mundane chopping and endless filling of buckets.

Peeping out from her usual hiding place, the watching child still found the process of retrieving heads mildly distressing for her stomach, despite knowing the owners felt no pain - at least for the few hours before rebirthing.

Little Laurie (as her mother called her when she wanted to be obnoxious) turned away from the relentless flying blood and crunching spines and stared out of the window. Her nose wrinkled at the stench of dried urine and faeces, mixed with festering wounds, but she could hardly complain, since she was trespassing. Her father issued the off-limits ban after he caught her pulling the head off her doll, pretending to rebirth the hapless toy. Her mother just cackled and levitated under the influence of her latest drug.

Bored with reading yet another mathematics manual, she had crept out of the family quarters, past her passed out mother and down onto the laboratory floor, commonly known as ‘The Factory’ to the squad of technicians assigned there.

Wedged between the back of a spiralling metal staircase and a bay of filthy windows, Lauren scraped blood spatter and a thick layer of dirt off the glass, catching a reflection of her mousy brown ponytail as it swung from side to side. A sparkly scrunchy and her oval brass locket were the only girly things about her. Perpetually tearing around the military base had proved to be the kiss of death to frilly dresses and ribbons, even if she had been inclined to wear them. Gangly ten year old limbs fitted far better into baggy black fleece sweaters and beige combat trousers.

Widening that newly scuffed hole with the side of her fist, she peered out of the window. A shaft of sunlight broke through rolling grey clouds, casting a spotlight on the wild beauty of snow covered hills, but treacherous winds and frequent snow flurries made them a death trap, especially for an adventurous girl plotting to slide down the steep gradient on a tea tray.

Before she could contemplate an escape plan, a grey truck skidded on a patch of black ice and screeched to a halt beside the concrete slab that encased The Factory, blocking her gaze.

Not another one she thought, cringing.

Death trucks arrived day and night, rumbling out of vicious battlefields within pockets of Britain. ‘It could be worse’ hollered social media news, twenty four hours a day. The rest of Europe and the Americas faced so many casualties that rebirth laboratories could barely keep up with the supply of fresh soldiers for the grinder. Nobody much cared, so long as the battles didn’t keep taking out the urban power grid and the food kept coming. At least normal people weren’t dying anymore.

Door hinges squealed in protest as the driver flung himself out of the truck and slammed the door with such venom that the chassis rocked. He looked barely out of his teens, but then, so did all the A.I. soldiers. He thrust a greasy lock of hair off his forehead, revealing the horizontal formation of ridges creating his unique barcode.

Great. More meat. The sneering owner of the voice met the A.I. soldier’s glare with a snort of amusement. What you looking at?

The A.I. didn’t reply. There was no point. If any of these human soldiers cared anything for their A.I. colleagues, there was precious little evidence of it. He shivered in the freezing temperatures, camouflage battle kit doing nothing to keep the icy wind at bay, staring with barely contained rage at the face poking out of the fur-lined hood of his parka. The warmly padded soldier hurled what passed for coffee into the snow and propped his tin mug on the windowsill beside Lauren’s eyes. She ducked in reflex, before sidling back into position.

Get on with it then.

The soldier stamped his feet on the icy road as the A.I. driver hauled open the truck’s rear doors. Blood dripped onto the chassis with a metallic ting, but the pool was already freezing beneath the lifeless fingers of a dead soldier. He lay, a haphazard chaos of shattered limbs, teetering on a pile of mutilated young men, each corpse bearing his own barcode identification.

It had all been far less messy once upon a time, or so her father had explained. His wonderful invention of Artificial Intelligence, the Ethics and Learning chip, or E.A.L, was originally designed to be carried inside synthetic bodies, based on a remarkably cheap, flexible plastic. For a while he had been a hero. The war on terror could continue without a single homespun boy or girl needing to lose life or limb to the battlefield or roadside bomb. Even better, once the chip received programming, it could be transferred between bodies without further training being required, gaining more experience as time went on.

Digest 412TDX was the catastrophic event no-one saw coming.

When piles of landfill spread into the streets and the sea became too clogged with all that nasty plastic from annoying older generations, some bright spark (not her father, he insisted) came up with the idea of a lovely bacterium that would digest the problem. Unfortunately, its mutant offspring spiralled out of control, eating their way through every synthetically based item on the planet, including washing machines, hairdryers, transport bodywork and the A.I. soldiers. Coupled with spiralling climate fluctuations, economies collapsed and food became the great bargaining commodity. Small conflicts exploded into all-out war as politicians fought to feed their hungry constituents and national borders moved, daily.

Urban sprawl swiftly rebuilt itself in wood, stone and scrap metal, which meant that using metal bodies to house the piles of digital brains with their E.A.Ls, liberated from dissolving synthetics, became far too expensive. Fast track human cloning answered the question of how to continue an endless war.

With a population far more perturbed about where their next meal was coming from, the partial scraping out of human brains to be replaced with digital ones hardly registered on the sliding scale of moral concern, even when the first prototypes came on line and promptly tore holes in themselves or imploded from overheating.

The messy process soon refined to clone the segments and glands of the brain needed to regulate the body, such as hormones, whilst locking in place the programmed elements with their protected E.A.L. Cloning rebirth centres sprung up all over the world, including the hideouts of the very terrorists they were trying to eradicate.

Lauren, being Doctor Frost’s daughter, understood all of the airbrushed history she had been taught, but was yet to quite comprehend the point of it all. She wasn’t alone. The war being fought to protect the ‘people’ had, over the years, morphed into a monetary sinkhole of boredom, acceptable so long as it stayed well away from them. A ten year old child was one of the few who actually saw the huge numbers of mutilated A.I. casualties keeping her ‘beloved country safe,’ as the politicians liked to phrase it.

The icy wind began to howl, travelling on the edge of darkening clouds, heralding another snow storm.

Private, help him. Now, barked a familiar voice.

Around the edge of the smeared peephole, Lauren watched the granite faced, silver haired Captain Grayson march past the truck and thump his fist on the side. The lounging human soldier jumped to attention, wiping the sneer off his face before helping the shivering A.I. to drag each body from the truck. After laser scanning the ridged barcode, they threw each corpse onto a moving conveyor belt, which rumbled its way inside the concrete edifice.

Lauren peeped down at the bodies with a child’s ghoulish fascination. Missing limbs and exposed organs bore no terror for a Frost, only staring eyes making her shudder. One unfortunate A.I. was only missing part of his right arm. A human soldier would have been transported to a hospital, but the A.I, having been assessed for battle utility, was allowed to bleed to death so that his E.A.L could be harvested and rebirthed in a new body.

You’re done here, Captain Grayson told the driver, as soon as the last dead A.I. landed on the conveyor belt. There’s a new batch to pick up.

I’ll clean the truck, the driver replied, glancing at the blood coating the chassis.

No time, Grayson grunted, waving his hand in dismissal.

The A.I. scowled at the mass of bodies as they rolled inside The Factory, limbs bouncing like some grotesque dance of death.

Now, Grayson insisted.

The driver got back into the truck and drove to the far end of the building, arriving just as a door opened and fourteen barcoded A.I.s shuffled out, barefoot, wearing only a linen shift over their pristine nakedness. They peered up at falling snow with wide-eyed confusion, desperately trying to locate where they were, before being herded onto the bloody truck.

Lauren stared at one whose stocky build, olive skin and black wavy hair set him apart from the others. He appeared only a few years older than her, on the cusp of manhood, but she knew, from the look of horror on his face, that his E.A.L. chip was already loading into the blanks, telling him that his nightmare life was recycling, once again. He glanced down at his toes, paddling in half frozen blood, then back up at the concrete monstrosity, and straight into her eyes.

They gazed at one another for a long moment: a child and a young man, both, in their own way, old before their time, and a gentle smile crept onto his face, temporarily banishing the terror. She raised her hand to wave, but the door slammed in his face, severing the link.

What do you want from me? You know this isn’t the time for this.

Lauren spun at the voice of her father, his anger echoing down the spiral staircase in tandem with the hard thump of each footstep. She scooted around the trundling conveyor belt, leapt over the increasing pile of bodies busy dropping off the end, and raced past two technicians dumping the closest corpse onto a bloody bench.

The thwack of the cleaver followed her through swinging doors into the sterile blinding whiteness of the main rebirth unit. She crawled under a birthing bed and hid behind the draped canvas covering.

Peeping through a tiny gap in the corner, she watched a technician arrive with the latest batch of heads, thrust them into the cleaner and march out, barely missing a step. Steel claws clamped each blood sodden cranium in place as a glass shield dropped down. A flash of light seared the outline of the row of heads onto her retina. The barcode data downloaded into the main computer in a stream of digits, identifying the wretched owner of each hidden E.A.L. Spiralling lasers sliced away the useless hair, flesh, skull and organic brain, exposing the prosthetic right eye and ear microphone unit. Beneath lay the artificial brain, its tiny components flashing an unceasing warning. A cloud of superheated steam shot from a nozzle with a viper-like hiss, sterilising the reclaimed unit with its shielded E.A.L.

A long shrill whistle heralded the completion of the process and the clamps rotated, transferring each brain into the next available tube in row after row of glass containers, covering the floor of the unit. If she squinted, Lauren could catch the vague outline of male bodies of various sizes growing inside each tube, floating in opaque viscous glop, monitoring wires piercing each brain. All A.I. were male, misogyny being rife in the debate as to the ideal soldier. The accelerated cloning procedure used bioengineered reclaimed and recombined DNA from thousands of donors, to produce the perfect body height and mass, whilst creating the unique ridges in the bony skull for easy tracking and identification. The A.I. might look uniquely different, but they were designed for combat.

The squawk of a claxon ricocheted across the unit and she heard a whoosh as the doors swung open and closed again with a solid click.

Six three four, a technician announced, barely stifling a yawn as he checked the flashing console.

His three colleagues surrounded the birthing table, their boots appearing beneath the drapes hiding Lauren. The glug of emptying viscous liquid swiftly gave way to a whirring motor as a glass tube, with 634 etched into the front, rotated from vertical to horizontal and deposited the slippery body onto the table with a slimy plop. The boots briefly shuffled a few inches as they positioned the body and locked restraints into place over his arms and legs.

Lauren wasn’t particularly curious about the newly rebirthed A.I, having seen hundreds of them arrive in their new bodies. They were all naked, male, barcoded and, right now, the latest would be having probes stuck straight through his prosthetic right eye and into the E.A.L, which was always gross, and also into his heart. The E.A.L chip was designed to shut itself down when the host body neared death, to prevent traumatic damage. Both the new heart and the chip would then be brought back to life.

Unfortunately, there was also one other thing they all had in common: they all screamed when they awoke.

She heard the zap pass through the probes. The A.I. shocked back to consciousness, heaving against his restraints and banging repeatedly on the table above her head.

No. I want to die. Leave me alone, he screeched, his voice laden with horror.

She stuck her fingers in her ears, not out of distress, but because the racket was far too loud, muffling the fake comfort being dished out by the bored technician.

Calm down. You’re fine. Stop shouting and breathe.

The response was decidedly profane, telling Lauren that this particular A.I. had lived long enough to learn some interesting language in one of his previous incarnations.

If you carry on like that, you’ll be shipped back to the battlefield naked, the technician warned. In the snow.

Fuck you, you piece of shit.

Charming. Sergeant Morris to the rebirth unit please.

On my way.

The hiss of the radio cut off the last syllable, but barely a minute passed before she heard booted feet march across the concrete floor and a whip whistle through the air. The A.I. sucked in breath as each lash landed, his stream of swear words ceasing long before the sergeant’s arm grew tired.

Peering under the drape, Lauren watched bare feet slap onto the floor and pace beside the sergeant’s boots. She knew from experience that he was headed for, what was laughingly called ‘The Waiting Room,’ which constituted another bare concrete cube where the newly rebirthed A.I. would sit on the floor and wait to be shipped back to carnage.

The technicians swept from the unit, leaving behind them a silence, broken only by the odd gurgle and peep. Lauren poked her head out from beneath the drape and scanned the laboratory. Finding herself alone, she darted amongst the tubes, peering through the glass at the growing bodies within. She stared in fascination at the skull already forming, cells cloning around the flashing brain stem and the pink spinal column swinging beneath.

You can’t say things like that.

The door flew open with such force that it smashed into the wall and rebounded. Lauren ducked down behind the row of tubes, watching as her father yanked a barcoded A.I. over the threshold and slammed the door behind him, their white lab coats flapping in the breeze.

If someone hears you, they’ll take it as treason and kill you. Or worse, ship you to the battlefield. You’d last five minutes. You seem to think it’s easy for me to keep you here.

Thank you so much for caring, the A.I. snarled back at Dr Frost. Forgive me for not worshipping at your footstool.

Lauren scowled with confusion, never having heard her father argue with his A.I. assistant, 4287. They were usually so close. Her mother often screamed at her father for spending more time with the ‘fake job’ than with his own family.

What’s the matter with you? Frost grasped 4287’s shoulders. You know what we’re up against here. Look, we’re not ready yet. You know we’re not.

We’re half way there, the A.I. pleaded. That’s good enough. This isn’t what you signed up for. Some of my brothers have been reborn dozens of times. This isn’t right. You know that. I know you do.

Frost turned away. They’re not your brothers... and what do you expect me to do? Disobey direct orders? How long do you think I’d have?

4287 ran his fingers through a shaggy mop of ginger hair and sighed. If they took me?

Frost reached up to the taller man, resting a palm on his neck and running his thumb along the jaw line. I’d never let them take you.

4287 pushed his hand away. And exactly how would you prevent them? This has to stop, Rob. It has to. I can’t just stand by anymore.

You’ll do what I tell you, Frost growled, his face barely inches from the A.I. You hear me? Do you want to sink us all? Frost’s gaze snapped away from 4287 and caught a reflection of his daughter, crouching behind a tube. Lauren? What you doing there?

Hiding, she replied, not being one for lying.

From your mother?

From everybody.

You know you’re not supposed to be here?

Yep.

An amused smile tipped the corner of his mouth. Lauren stared up at a face bearing an older, more careworn image of her own with deathly pale skin, wide set hazel eyes, slim nose and overly plump lips.

Hi Fourtwo, Lauren said, grinning up at the A.I. beside him.

4287 smiled back and bowed. Miss Frost.

Her father ushered Lauren in the direction of the door. Let’s go. Time for lunch. Your mother will be waiting for us.

Doubt it, Lauren quipped.

Doctor...

Frost glanced back at 4287, mouthing, Not now, before sweeping through the door.

Is Fourtwo mad at you? Lauren asked, as they climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor.

Frost opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he planned on saying aborted between his brain and lips. A jolly folk song exited instead.

When the snow is falling and the wind howls through and the night is darker than the shadow of the storm...

Lauren giggled and joined him in his mother’s favourite ditty; a song his wife loathed to her core, along with the memory of the vitriolic old woman.

You will shine a light from your heart and from your eyes that will guide me safely to...

Shut the fuck up! shrieked a female voice, emanating from their living quarters, swiftly followed by glass smashing against the closed door.

Frost kicked the door and marched in, leaving Lauren to tiptoe around fragments of glass, swimming in a pool of syrupy yellow liquid. The smell of lemon chemicals made her eyes water. Apparently the thrower had decided to vent her spleen on a bottle of cheap shampoo.

What have you taken this time? Frost spat at a razor thin stick insect, with sunken dark circles where her eyes ought to be. Greasy brown hair, which could have done with a passing acquaintance with the deceased shampoo bottle, slapped against her face as she raised her head. The rest of her body stayed where it was, draped over the couch.

What do you care? Kate Frost snarled, letting her head drop back onto a cushion.

Lauren didn’t catch her mother’s eye; it never boded well to be noticeable.

Lauren, go to your room, sweetheart, Frost told her, letting his tone drift back to a semblance of calmness.

Kate sneered and mimicked, Go to your room, following the order with a pain laden cackle. Or, tell you what, go play with the fake job. He might want you.

Leave her alone, Frost demanded. Try finding something worth doing, instead of pumping yourself full of that rubbish.

Kate laughed. You can say shit. We both know you’re not that nice. And where have you been all day? With him?

Anywhere’s better than with you.

Lauren, having heard this stuck record countless times, tried to inch towards her room without drawing her mother’s attention. No such luck.

Stop sneaking around and find some backbone, Kate sneered, sunken eyes glaring.

Lauren froze, struck dumb, as always.

Doctor Frost. Sir, a man’s voice hollered, followed by footsteps thundering up the stairs and a hammering on the door. A soldier flung it open, not waiting for a response. Doctor Frost, the Captain needs you now, sir. It’s the A.I.s.

It’s always the A.I.s, Frost muttered, heading out with hardly a backward glance.