SPLINTER GROUP (standard:Satire, 2139 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Jan 18 2005	Views/Reads: 3902/2371	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There was only so much people (his people) could take. Only so much abuse. Only so much deliberate discrimination. Only so much disregard and snide remarks. Well, they would take no more. It was time to strike back.

Cole Bogard took the screwdriver from the pocket of his combats and
looked behind him.  In the dark confines of the ventilation shaft he 
could see the bobbing lights of his comrades as they clambered towards 
him. 

“Everybody ready?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper through the ski
mask. 

“Ready!” 

“Ready as I'll ever be.” 

“Let's do it boss.” 

“I'm good to go.” 

He felt a surge of pride.  They had trained hard for this moment. 
Months of pouring over blue prints of the Bradbury Bank Building.  
Months of dry-runs and equipment checks.  Months of pain staking 
planning, until each one of them knew the layout better than they knew 
their own face. 

It was surprisingly easy to get the information they needed, reflected
Bogard.  They had upwards of one hundred and fifty members now in 
fifteen separate cells.  More than a few of those members worked in 
this very building. 

Sometimes it frightened him, how quickly this thing had taken off.  From
humble origins to a fifth column of trained insurgents in a matter of 
months.  But the cause was just and he and his comrades believed in it 
absolutely.  There was only so much people (his people) could take.  
Only so much abuse.  Only so much deliberate discrimination.  Only so 
much disregard and snide remarks.  Well, they would take no more.  It 
was time to strike back. 

“Okay everybody, kill the lights.  I want infra-red only from here on
in.” 

He pulled the heavy goggles over his head.  The ex-soviet surplace took
a few moments to kick-in, then the shaft and grill were clear in his 
green-tinged sight. 

He fumbled the head of the screwdriver onto the screw and thumbed the
switch.  There was a tiny whirring, then the screw popped out and 
rattled down the shaft.  One more and he had it opened, pushing the 
grill out and up on its hinges. 

“Okay, team. You know the drill.”  He felt a strong grip around his
ankles and then inched himself forward, out of the shaft. 

“Little bit more,” he whispered, and eased forwards a fraction until he
was out from the waist up.  Suspended upside down, he twisted and took 
a look around the room. 

It was quiet. 

Banks of desks, partitioned into cubicles, lay below him; receptacles
for battery-humans.  One side of the office was glass.  Outside, a 
breathtaking vista of city life.  Office blocks and towers stood 
against the sky vomiting light pollution into the night.  Below, on the 
city streets, cars and taxis snaked their way between the buildings, 
brake lights blinking like the sleepy eyes of demons. 

At the far end of the room there was a glass door.  Through it, he could
see a security guard reading a newspaper by the light of a lamp. 

He signaled to be hauled back up. 

“Easy hit, guys.  One guard, just like we figured.  Petrov, you be the
anchor man, the rest of us will go in.” 

Petrov unwound a length of nylon rope and tied it around his waist.  He
wedged himself between the steel walls and lowered the rope to the 
floor of the office. 



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