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Marshall Cavendish International - H.J. Pang

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113 pages

English

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Description

After a geomagnetic storm, Singapore is plunged into apocalyptic ruin. With Fusionopolis the high-tech base of the secret society conglomerate that has taken over control of the island and a server system located under the Gardens by the Bay, Singapore in the aftermath is unrecognisable. Greg Lin travels along the ruined SMRT lines to find his son who has been taken by the triad that has been kidnapping children for experimentation. Along the way, he learns about a computer cult who seeks to find the last of the world's data that can help rebuild society. Together with the remnants of the now-defunct SAF forces, Greg storms the Marina Bay Shoppes where The Last Server is, in an explosive climax where he eventually discovers that the crucial data everyone seeks may not be of this world.

Sujets

Adventure (Guyana)

Singapore

Science fiction

Adventure

Thriller

Singapour

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Publié par	Marshall Cavendish International
Date de parution	21 octobre 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9789814868778
Langue	English

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With the support of

2020 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited
Text H.J. Pang
Published by Marshall Cavendish Editions
An imprint of Marshall Cavendish International

All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Requests for permission should be addressed to the Publisher, Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited, 1 New Industrial Road, Singapore 536196. Tel: (65) 6213 9300. E-mail: genref@sg.marshallcavendish.com
Website: www.marshallcavendish.com/genref
The publisher makes no representation or warranties with respect to the contents of this book, and specifically disclaims any implied warranties or merchantability or fitness for any particular purpose, and shall in no event be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.
Other Marshall Cavendish Offices:
Marshall Cavendish Corporation, 99 White Plains Road, Tarrytown NY 10591-9001, USA Marshall Cavendish International (Thailand) Co Ltd, 253 Asoke, 12th Flr, Sukhumvit 21 Road, Klongtoey Nua, Wattana, Bangkok 10110, Thailand Marshall Cavendish (Malaysia) Sdn Bhd, Times Subang, Lot 46, Subang Hi-Tech Industrial Park, Batu Tiga, 40000 Shah Alam, Selangor Darul Ehsan, Malaysia.
Marshall Cavendish is a registered trademark of Times Publishing Limited
National Library Board, Singapore Cataloguing in Publication Data
Name(s): Pang, H. J.
Title: The last server / H. J. Pang.
Description: Singapore : Marshall Cavendish Editions, 2019.
Identifier(s): OCN 1121162583 | eISBN: 978 981 4868 77 8
Subject(s): LCSH: Organized crime--Fiction. | Dystopias--Fiction. | Singapore--Fiction.
Classification: DDC S823--dc23
Printed in Singapore
This work was produced during the 2016 Mentor Access Project by the National Arts Council, Singapore.
To my characters, who insisted on their stories being told. One can only do so much to block out their voices.
To my Ma, who encouraged me to write, study and work at the same time. A juggling act of sorts, but then, everyone s an acrobat in their own way.
Come on, Greg. Get a move on already!
PROLOGUE
G REG CLUTCHED HIS right arm, wheezing hard with his back against the wall. Blood ran down its length, soaking into a battered elbow guard. The sounds of semiautomatic gunfire echoed from the other side of the room, their loud echoes bouncing off the electromagnetically shielded walls. Right across from him was a dead commando of the Old Guard, lifeless eyes staring accusingly back at Greg.
He knew the end was near. Who was he to believe that he could take on the might of an entire triad crew, with only the help of a computer cultist and an old commando? The 418 Dragons triad may not be as well trained, but they were far better equipped and prepared than a washed-up soldier like him.
Right in the centre of the room was humanity s last server, its superclocked processors humming serenely in the midst of shouts and gunfire. Before the control interface stood the computer cultist, Wesley, his body trembling as countless streams of data passed through his cerebral datalink. Even for a steadfast devotee of the Code, the security protocols of the server were fast taking its toll on his mind. Several figures lay upon makeshift beds set in a circle around the access point, maintaining their unconscious vigil. Wires trailed from their heads to the central control point.
Get down, Wesley! yelled Greg, yanking his last grenade out from a pouch. He fumbled with the pin, but without warning, the wall to the server room was blown in, showering him and Wesley with fragments.
Greg lay groaning on the cold, hard floor with a sharp ringing in his ears, praying that if he and Wesley were to die that day, all they had worked for would not be in vain.
The fate of the people rested on them both.
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER
Two and a half days ago
G REG S GRANDFATHER ALWAYS said he never liked the Causeway. To him, it represented a precarious dependence on another. It was at this border crossing that billions of litres of water had flowed through pipes, the daily lifeblood of an island nation until it realised that having it home-made was so much less trouble. It was across this bridge that countless traffic jams occurred, every single day, where frustration and sheer boredom threatened to kill those in line. After all, the two countries mobile data plans weren t interchangeable.
And here Greg now was, standing atop an old SBS bus overlooking its entirety. Up above shone the late morning December sun through a patch of clouds. Ahead of him, millions of dollars worth of COE lay rusting and abandoned, their value further depreciated by the long-looted engines and headlamps. Once something only the well-to-do could afford, these cars were now discarded like trash on the broken road. An old billboard six years out of date advertised the Singapore Air-show. Upon the horizon lay the hazy outline of what used to be home to Greg, but now all he could feel was a sense of trepidation as he surveyed the skyline, once filled with looming structures, now with hills of rubble. No city had ever looked more forlorn to him, not even the dilapidated facade of Johor Bahru. This was how things were in the world now, a world he had wished his children would not see. But it was far too late for that.
The way across the old Causeway was treacherous, and Greg was impressed that the structure still stood, six years after The Storm. Sections of bridge had been pulled apart in places, noodles of rusty rebar holding them together like precarious threads. Breaking into a run, Greg leapt across a gap, landing hard onto the hood of an early-model Toyota Avanza. He stiffened as the underside of the car groaned against the tarmac, shifting from its years-long rest. Greg scrambled quickly across its rusty surface as the vehicle pitched over the edge of the bridge, his feet landing on concrete just in time. He looked back at the car in its descent, which landed with a resounding splash in the murky water.
That was close. Even on water, a fall this high could kill. But a larger gap loomed ahead, with only the concrete dividers by the side still intact. Steeling himself, Greg held onto the railings, sidling his way across slowly but steadily. Twice, the concrete beneath his feet crumbled, and he had to quickly reaffirm his grip.
His arms and feet were already aching by the time he got to where the car inspection areas were. The cars were parked permanently at their eternal graves, no chance now of ever clearing customs. Their windows long since smashed in, not even the seats remained. Entire conduits of wires had been ripped out and pilfered for applications in the post-Storm economy.
Eh! Who are you? demanded a voice.
Greg turned quickly, dropping into a crouch. He had gotten careless. Three men emerged from behind the surrounding pillars and an old immigrations booth. All wore the signs of hostility and hard living: dust-coated skin and eyes that always seemed to glare. Unlike most wastelanders Greg had encountered, however, these guys lacked that hunger in their eyes. Yet the weapons they wielded betrayed their potential for trouble. He could handle the two parangs, but the scratched Taurus 85 police revolver posed a problem.
It s okay! I m not here for trouble! Greg raised his hands and tried to back away towards the edge of the bridge, but the one with the revolver stepped towards him, weapon sights raised to his face.
I asked who you are! You better answer! he snapped. Despite being the smallest of the three, he carried himself confidently. Most likely the leader. He was the only one who wore the same grey jacket that Greg did.
I m a runner from the 418 Mines! I m on your side! Greg said. Here, let me show you! He drew the sleeve of his jacket up slowly, exposing the armband he wore beneath. A crudely-dyed image of a flame between a hammer and pickaxe showed itself, clinging tightly to a well-toned bicep.
The trio s leader looked towards his armband briefly. A look of mingled surprise, along with shock crossed his face as his men shuffled their feet.
You re with the Minelords?
Greg nodded.
From whereabouts, exactly?
The mine of Teluk Ramunia! I ve come bearing a message for this outpost. So if you ll let me He gestured to the satchel by his side.
The guard leader turned to a scruffy, bearded man with a scar across his left cheek. Rashe, go get that from him. Shen Ren, cover Rashe. No funny moves, understand?
I m Greg. Greg Lin, said Greg, forcing a smile. I ve also brought some treats for you all. Goreng pisang from a stopover point.
Goreng pisang? Gimme lah! snarled Rashe. He snatched the satchel from Greg, and turned it upside down. A short parang and half-full bottle followed by two sheets of folded paper and a bundle landed with a thump. While Shen Ren picked up the messages, Rashe tore apart the bundle s wrapping. He was already munching as Shen Ren handed the papers over to his leader. The leader read the folded messages as Greg waited.
At long last, he lowered his gun. Good of you to bring these to us. I m Liang. We haven t heard anything for a long while from the other 418 outfits. How long did you take to get here? Did someone drop you off?
A few hours, lied Greg. He followed as the leader beckoned them to follow him. Already the tension was dissipating. A truckload of our enforcers were passing by, so I managed to catch a lift near to wherever they were going. The quieter of the two peons, Shen Ren, took a swig of water from Greg s bottle before passing the satchel back to him. You re the 432 for this outpost?
49er in command, corrected Liang. The Minelords were under the umbrella of a larger