The Devil’s Breath: AI: Augmented Intelligence, #1

By Harry Dayle

Metropolitan Police Sergeant Xavier Baxter's life has just ended — and has just begun. Presumed dead by everyone who knows him, he's been involuntarily recruited into a secret government organisation calling itself The Attic.

Now Xavier is part of a ground-breaking experiment into augmented intelligence. A crack team of geniuses have given him incredible mind-expanding abilities. But is he in control of his own head anymore?

Before he has a chance to find out, The Attic throws him into an investigation, the likes of which he has never known. Someone inside MI6 is turning British agents over to the Russians, and Xavier must discover who.

Time and a hidden enemy are against him as he races to prove his worth before The Attic ends its experiment — and Xavier's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Dayle
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224605644

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The shopkeepers of Camden Market were already heaving racks of garish clothing and bizarre accessories onto the pavements, ready for a day of brisk trade. The orange glow of the street lamps muted the vibrant primary colours of their storefronts into a dull palette of greys. In another hour or so the place would be buzzing. But in another hour they would be long gone.

I don’t get the appeal, Xavier muttered, staring at the world on the other side of the passenger window. Fourth biggest tourist attraction in London. Why? What is it hundreds of thousands of foreigners see that I can’t?

Chloe sniggered. It’s because you’re ancient.

Two years. Two years older than you. You won’t let me forget it, will you? I wish I’d never told you. He smiled. Anyway, age has nothing to do with it. It’s because I’m not a hipster.

Camden’s not for hipsters. They just want you to think that.

No, it’s for gullible tourists. Look at this lot, wheeling out their furry jackets and flowery shirts. Load of shit, the lot of it.

Chloe slowed the vehicle as they approached an intersection. Which way, Sarge?

Xavier craned his neck as he got his bearings. It had been an age since he had last been up this end of town. Maybe it was the early hour, but he couldn’t help thinking the place felt like a sanitised version of its former self. London was changing faster than he could keep up. Even Camden High Street was becoming homogenised, with carbon-copy chain stores moving in and squeezing the independents into an ever tighter spot centred around the famous market. They could have been in almost any town in Britain and had the same view.

Go left there, at the pub, he said. It’s at the end of this street.

We’re going back on ourselves. We’re basically lost, aren’t we?

Stop complaining, DC Fry. We’re surveying the vicinity before we make the knock.

The car slipped into a side road where the clothes shops and tattoo parlours gave way to restaurants and eateries offering cuisine from around the world, then a series of industrial buildings and budget hotels, before ultimately morphing into a residential area. To their right stood an imposing modernist white block, to their left a row of neat terraced brick houses. Both sides of the road were well kept, tidy, at odds with the earlier part of the street. Xavier shook his head as he considered the dwellings and the price tags they commanded — figures which might be confused with telephone numbers. He could think of places he would rather live, should he ever find himself with a spare million or three.

Pull in anywhere along here. It’s number ninety-three. The last one on the left.

Chloe deftly manoeuvred their unmarked car into a space between a Range Rover and a Porsche. She killed the engine, and turned to Xavier, waiting on his word to make a move.

Right. He clapped his hands on his knees. Now remember, he has no reason to believe we’re coming for him, but that doesn’t mean we can be reckless. He stands to lose a lot. We go in, make the arrest, and get him back to the station. Keep it simple. Don’t engage the relatives or anyone else who might be in the house.

What if they attempt to destroy evidence? We don’t have a SOCO team.

We won’t find anything in there. He’s too smart.

What if he doesn’t answer the door?

Then we’ll come back with a warrant and force entry. But he’ll open the door. He’s no idea Jenkins has talked. You know what he’s like, he won’t miss an opportunity to gloat and tell us we have nothing. Never underestimate the power of ego.

Fair enough, Sarge.

Let’s do this. Keep those out of sight until the last minute, DC Fry.

Chloe nodded, stuffed her handcuffs into the rear pocket of her jeans, and let her pink leather jacket fall back to cover the bulge.

Xavier led the way. He nodded once to Chloe, stepped up the single low step to the front door, and pressed long and hard on the bell.

There was the sound of voices from an upper floor.

Xavier bit his lip. He turned to face Chloe, who was blocking the opening in the iron railings bordering the tiny front yard, the only route out of the house. You should make the arrest, he breathed.

Sarge? This is your shout. You’re the senior officer.

You did the legwork. Besides, you’ve got your OSPRE coming up in a couple of months. An extra arrest on your record will look good alongside a decent exam score.

Are you sure?

Feet pounded on stairs behind the door.

It’s yours if you want it.

She grinned, nodded eagerly, and stepped up to the entrance. Xavier pulled back, giving her room, just as the door opened to reveal a skinny man with a bald head and fuzzy ginger beard that almost doubled the length of his face. He wore grey jogging bottoms, a loose blue t-shirt, and no shoes. He leant against the door, half his body concealed behind it.

DS Baxter, he exclaimed with false delight. And DC Fry. What a nice surprise. You found the bastard who did it yet?

Mr Howell. Chloe took a deep breath. I am arresting you on suspicion of theft, arson, and perverting the course of jus—

Xavier saw the intention in Howell’s eyes, reacting even before there was physical movement. Their suspect stepped sideways, pushing the door away and revealing the weapon in his previously hidden right hand. Xavier only became aware he was shouting, Gun, after the word was already out of his mouth.

As Howell raised the pistol, Xavier got his arms around Chloe and half-turned, pushing her towards the pavement.

He heard the crack of the first shot go off behind him.

That was a good sign. He remembered his training: if you hear the gunshot, you’re still alive. Chloe screamed and Howell said something, but the words were a twisted jumble of sounds, incoherent when combined with the ringing in Xavier’s ears.

The two of them stumbled forwards onto the pavement, Xavier’s mind working overtime. If Howell wanted them dead, and the hot slug of metal now burning in his shoulder blade supported the theory, then they weren’t going to get away from this. Their suspect had opened fire on his own doorstep, shooting at police officers. It would end one way.

But he could try to save Chloe.

He pushed her forwards, shouted, Run! in her ear, hoping beyond hope she would have the good sense to scarper.

And then Xavier turned and charged back towards the house.

Howell was standing on the edge of the step, gun raised, a wry smile on his lips.

Behind Xavier, Chloe shouted something. His name?

Run, DC Fry, Howell commanded, saving Xavier the trouble.

The hole in his shoulder grew hotter, wetter. A small part of him knew he had taken a bullet, but that part would have to wait. There was one priority: delay Howell. Buy time for DC Fry. He reached out his hands, just a step away now. He would die, that was a given. But if he could just get in a punch, or knock the weapon sideways. Win a few more seconds for DC— For Chloe.

Howell’s finger squeezed the trigger, the barrel inches from Xavier’s face.

This time, he didn’t hear the shot.

There was only the briefest instant of pain, a flash of awareness as the bullet entered his forehead.

And then, nothing.

ONE

Annabel McDonald stared through the window, barely listening to a word the director said. She’d heard it all before, and would hear it all again. Next month. And the month after. And the month after that ad infinitum, until she had something concrete to show him.

Beyond the thick foliage of the trees directly in front of her stretched St James’ Park. Annabel wondered idly if it might be possible to engineer a way for those magnificent and ancient specimens to become firewood. It would make the view so much nicer.

Annabel. Annabel?

Yes, Director?

I don’t think you grasp the seriousness of the situation. This is it now. End of the line. You’ve swallowed your entire year’s budget. I’ve even borrowed money from Mr Adams’ budget — something he is unaware of, I should add, so I’ll thank you for keeping that between us — all for Maisie. Every four weeks we repeat this little chat, and every four weeks I’m disappointed. It cannot continue. I need something by the end of the month or we are done. Your team is done. Maisie is done.

She sighed, turned back to face him, though she remained at the window. Annabel preferred the height advantage from not sitting. Maisie is ready, Director.

Excellent. Show her to me.

You know I can’t do that yet.

I know no such thing. If Maisie is ready—

She is.

If Maisie is ready, then you won’t have a problem introducing her to the home secretary on the thirty-first.

She caught her breath. The home secretary’s coming here?

The director leant forwards, spread his large hands on the green felt of his desk, and smiled a wicked smile. The thirty-first.

But—

If Maisie is everything you say she is, you have nothing to worry about.

She’s not the problem. It’s— We need a subject.

There have been plenty. I read the records. Make a point of it. Let’s face it, if you let me down, I can kiss goodbye to my cosy retirement on Horse Guards.

If you’ve seen the records then you know there is a problem with the subjects that come our way. Our needs are specific. Maisie’s needs are specific. She cannot be forced upon just anyone. There are issues of compatibility.

Then you and Maisie must learn to be less picky, Annabel. Beggars cannot be choosers, and you are begging with an empty bowl.

We’ve tried widening our selection criteria; look how it worked out for us. Sooner or later we’re going to find ourselves in hot water if we carry on the way we have been. People will notice. Do you want that to deal with as well? To dig us out of that kind of hole?

Annabel’s watch tapped discreetly against her wrist. She slipped her hand from her pocket and glanced at its tiny screen. The director was talking again, but she didn’t hear him. I have to leave.

I haven’t finished.

She was already three strides towards the door. It’s Elise. She waved her wrist in the air. They’re bringing someone in. A new potential.

The director lifted his chin. Make it work. You’re out of time. The thirty-first, remember? Make this one work. I’m not asking for a miracle, Annabel. Give me something — anything — I can show to the home secretary, otherwise we’re both screwed. His words echoed through the open door, chasing Annabel down the corridor as she ran for the lift.

The voices came first. Close by. Hurried but under control. There was no light, no sensation, only sound. It was impossible to make out the words, which was odd, because there was no background noise, and the voices themselves were loud enough. It was as though they were speaking another language.

That must be it. Foreign voices.

And yet…

Something tugged at the edge of his mind, like a distant memory aching to be recalled.

What was a memory anyway? A thought of something that had happened in the past.

So he had a past. Interesting.

One of the voices changed. Took on a tone of concern. It was joined by another sound. Electronic, not natural. A bleeping, persistent.

Then, silence.

The second time the voices came, he recognised they had gender. Female. And he was male. He wasn’t entirely sure what male meant, or female, he just had an intuitive feeling that this was how things were.

He still didn’t understand the voices. In fact, he didn’t understand anything much at all.

Voices in and of themselves were unsurprising, something familiar. Yet he had no recollection of ever having heard any before now.

Soon the voices went away again, and there was nothing.

The third time the voices came, he had begun to remember. Voices meant people. He was a person, too.

Possibly not anymore though.

People had senses; he had none beyond hearing. He was a free consciousness floating in a void. No way to communicate with those voices, no physical being with which to signal. Only thoughts, fleeting and half-formed. Perhaps the voices were thoughts too, and not sounds at all. Maybe he could reach out to them with his own thinking. But how? The question preoccupied him for some time. It could have been seconds, it could have been years, there was no difference.

Pain. Terrible, intolerable, mind-blowing pain.

Like the devil’s breath upon him.

Yet through the pain, logical thought grappled to find reason. Pain implied a physical being. He was nothing more than a free-floating spirit, so how could so much pain be possible?

The voices came again. Urgent. Panicked.

Incredibly, in spite of the mind-twisting agony, fully formed words broke through. Words he understood.

Switch it off!

It’s keeping him alive.

It’s killing him.

I’m not losing another one. This has to work.

If you won’t, then I will—

Nothing.

Light. No sound.

He hurt. This time there was no doubting it; the pain was attached to a physical form. Brightness burned into him. Weight pressed against his back, his arms, his legs. He was aware of these body parts, but had no control over them.

He began to remember.

Gun. There had been a gun.

Chloe.

The pain intensified. Beside him, something bleeped.

Voices came from afar, growing louder.

Is he awake?

Hard to tell. Brainwave activity’s erratic.

Meaning?

Also difficult to tell. It’s been up and down for a while. I think he might be suffering.

Yes, he was suffering. He needed to communicate that, make them understand. If only he had a voice himself.

I should give him something.

Wait. I’ve got an idea. A different voice. Male.

If he’s hurting, you can’t—

Just let me try.

If you kill him—

I won’t kill him.

A new noise now. Tap tap tap.

The pain grew stronger, and then vanished in an instant.

What the hell did you do?

Whatever the response, it slipped away and was lost as he retreated into a void of timeless infinity.

He opened his eyes. The effort was monumental, like trying to rip open the crust of the Earth with the power of his mind alone. The blackness turned a dim shade of blue, but there was nothing to see. Was he mistaken? Was he dead after all?

Mr Baxter?

A face leaned over him. It wore glasses, through which golf ball-sized eyes peered at him.

Mr Baxter. Welcome back. Give me a moment, I need to fetch somebody.

The face disappeared and footsteps retreated.

Not dead then.

He experimented with the various sensations in his body. He detected two legs, two arms, but could move none of these limbs no matter how hard he tried. Instead, he focused on a smaller goal. Directing all his power of concentration at his mouth, he forced his lips apart. Warm air rushed between his teeth and a reflex action made him try to cough, without success.

A new face appeared, deep brown eyes looking down on him. A pretty face — he couldn’t help but notice — framed with long, thin black hair.

Mr Baxter. You don’t know how happy I am to see you.

He tried to make a sound, but such a level of control over his body eluded him.

Let’s take this one step at a time. The face moved away and studied something outside his field of vision. First of all, try to blink if you can hear me.

Xavier dragged his eyelids down, extinguishing the blue glow, then forced them open again.

Excellent. The relief in her voice was palpable. Gosh, this is really very exciting. Very exciting. I expect you have no shortage of questions, and there will be time for those later. First, we must concentrate on getting you up and running properly. She moved further away and by the sound of it, began fiddling with some kind of equipment, though she stopped abruptly and returned to look at him, frowning. I should introduce myself. Sorry, I feel as though we’ve known each other for so long, but it won’t be like that for you. I’m Doctor Knight. I’ve been looking after you. Well, part of you. The important part, shall we say? It was touch and go for a while I don’t mind telling you. You’ve been astonishingly strong though. Beaten all the odds. Very exciting.

The reflex kicked in again, and this time he coughed.

I expect you’re thirsty. Probably hungry, too. We’ll take care of that in time. Not up to eating or drinking yet though. A long way to go. Long way.

Food and drink were the least of his worries. He only wanted to know one thing, and so he tried to speak, even managed a small grunt. Shaping it into anything resembling a syllable proved beyond his abilities.

Doctor Knight leaned in so close her breath tickled his cheek. I say, are you trying to talk? You are determined, aren’t you? Excellent, that’s excellent. All in good time. I think for now, the best thing would be to switch you off for a while so you can get some more rest. You woke up early, you see? We weren’t expecting you back quite so soon.

How long had he been out for? A day? A week? He needed to know. More importantly, he needed to know about Chloe. Was Chloe okay? He tried another grunt.

Doctor Knight wasn’t listening. She had moved around behind him and was making that tap-tapping sound again.

Xavier just about had time to trawl through his memories and work out what it was, when he felt his eyes close and he was dragged back into the emptiness of the void.

The next time Xavier opened his eyes, the operation was considerably easier. His skull throbbed, and his bottom, too. The reason for the latter appeared to be because he was no longer lying down, but was sitting. To his great surprise he found he was able to turn his head.

He suspected he was in the same room as before, given the dull blue glow which he now saw emanated from a gap between the walls and ceiling. Both were black, and they seemed to absorb the little light available. There were no windows, and the door must have been behind him because there was none visible.

He looked down to his own body, unsure what to expect. He remembered the gun, remembered taking a bullet in the shoulder. Perhaps that explained the drip connected to the back of his hand. He was dressed in a hospital gown. It didn’t provide much in the way of comfort or warmth, but the room was far from cold.

Experimentally, Xavier tried opening and closing his mouth. Spurred on by this minor success, he advanced to attempting speech.

He…llo? he croaked.

Ah, Mr Baxter. Good.

Doctor Knight stepped in front of him and bent down, examined his face as though he were a small child who had fallen and hurt himself. She took a penlight from the top pocket of her white coat and shone it into each of his eyes in turn.

He flinched, which she seemed delighted about.

Excellent. Truly excellent. You’re coming along nicely.

Chloe? he managed.

Chloe? Oh, Chloe Fry, hmm? You’re wondering how she is?

Xavier nodded gently, cautious of making sudden movements that might prove painful.

Fascinating. The doctor stepped around the chair and, judging by the scratching sound that followed, scribbled some notes. What about pain? she called back. Are you in any discomfort?

No, he lied. Chloe? He took the deepest breath he could manage. She…okay?

Oh yes. Yes, DC Fry was fine. I say fine, she suffered blood loss at the scene of your shooting. You saved her life by all accounts. Took a bullet meant for her. Do you remember that, Mr Baxter?

He nodded and glanced again at his shoulder. There was no tell-tale lump of padding or bandages visible through the gown.

Let me see, I’ve got some notes here somewhere. Here we go. Yes, the bullet entered your left shoulder, exited cleanly and entered DC Fry’s back. It had been slowed sufficiently by your body that it didn’t do much damage to hers. So, she’s fine. Well done.

The words were spoken simply, and again Xavier had the feeling he was being treated like a child, congratulated for having drawn a nice picture or having tidied away a mess, not having saved the life of a colleague.

You were not so lucky, Knight continued, strolling back into view. She held a binder in her hands, and leafed through pages, nodding to herself and making small noises in her throat. Satisfied, she closed it, tucked it under her arm, and looked him in the eye. There’s no nice way of saying this, Mr Baxter, so I’ll just tell it like it is. During your operation to arrest a suspect, said suspect pulled a gun on you. As I said, you took a bullet in the shoulder, thus saving the life of your colleague. According to DC Fry’s own report, you attempted to take on the suspect unarmed, apparently in order that DC Fry might make her escape. The suspect shot you at almost point-blank range in the forehead.

Xavier remembered the barrel in front of his eyes. Remembered a moment of pain. Remembered not hearing the shot. He tried to move his right hand, the one without the drip piercing its skin, and was surprised to find he could lift it easily. He raised it and brushed his fingers tentatively against his forehead, holding his breath as he did so.

Interesting, Knight exclaimed. She rushed back behind him and scribbled some more.

No…hole, Xavier managed.

"Not anymore, no. The plastic surgeons did a marvellous job. Oh, you were a big mess when they peeled you off the street. Essentially brain dead. That’s a technicality though. I would define your condition at the time as cerebrally dead, because your brainstem was functioning, which is how you were still breathing and your heart was still beating.

The bullet entered the frontal lobe of your brain. She came around beside him. Here, she said, prodding his forehead with the end of a pen. Presumably your suspect was shorter than you as he must have been aiming slightly upwards. The bullet scraped through the parietal lobe and exited here. She traced the pen up over his head and tapped again just beyond the crown. Small calibre, shot at close range. Some might say you were lucky. The entry and exit was clean. The heat from the bullet cauterised the wound as it passed through, which is why there was so little blood loss from your head. The same cannot be said for your shoulder. You almost bled to death at the scene.

Don’t understand, Xavier said. The words came more easily now as the muscles of his mouth and throat remembered how to operate and loosened up with each word. How come not dead?

"Quite simply because we got to you in time. You were very, very lucky. One in a million chance of surviving, I’d say. If the bullet had strayed a millimetre or two from its actual path, the damage may well have been too severe. Also, quite by chance there was an ambulance less than ninety seconds from your location. Your colleague called in urgently, and the paramedics had you on a ventilator before your brain gave out. And your brain did give out. So by the time we got our hands on you, you were absolutely brain dead, being kept alive by machines.

But we saved you, Mr Baxter. How, is a long story, and something we will explain in due course. For now, we need to work on getting you fit again. You’re doing remarkably well, it must be said, but these things cannot be rushed.

A thousand questions begged to be answered. Doctor Knight’s explanation made little sense to Xavier. As he tried to process everything he had heard, his mind became muddled and confused. The light grew dimmer, and he felt the chair fall away from under him.

And there he goes, Knight said, her voice receding at a hundred miles an hour. I told her it was too early. I’m going to switch you off for now, Mr Baxter. We’ll talk again soon.

Before he could ask the obvious question, his eyes closed and the world blinked out of existence.

TWO

Nine more days passed before Xavier saw Doctor Knight again. She saw him though, he was sure of it. He had been transferred to a different, lighter room. One wall was mirrored, and he guessed by the way his carer glanced at it constantly when she thought he wasn’t looking, that someone — Knight, he was certain — was on the other side, observing.

The nameless nurse would not be drawn when asked about this. All I know is I’m to help you with your physio, she would say.

The mirror was the source of another shock to Xavier. The first time he glanced its way he assumed he was looking through a window at someone standing on the other side. Only when the stranger copied his movements precisely did it register that he was seeing himself. It was a Xavier Baxter he did not recognise. Gone was his thick black hair; now his head was covered with a close-cropped fuzz, the sort he associated with army recruits. It made his already large ears seem even bigger, and it did nothing to hide the new scar across his skull. His well-toned body had lost much of its bulk, and although Xavier was not a short man, the reduction in mass seemed to cause him to lose some of his stature. Only his bright blue eyes and crooked nose — a constant reminder of another arrest turned violent — were unchanged. Xavier preferred to avoid the mirror after that.

The rest of the room was filled with