by Brett P. S.
Short Change
Book One of the Resonance Saga
Brett P. S.
Copyright © 2015 Brett P. S.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
Prologue
Crime Doesn’t Pay
Manchester, UK
The night air stung Paul with a fresh winter’s frost on his lips as he stood watch outside the new Savage Steel facility. His hands gripped his flashlight tightly as he stuck them underneath his coat sleeves. Construction was underway on the factory for some time, but that was during union hours. As it stood, Paul probably wouldn’t have much trouble climbing over a few steel bars to get inside, so the security door behind him was more or less for show. The siding on most of the walls was incomplete, and the place stunk of oil and grease, not that he could smell much in this weather.
There wasn’t much to look at either. Somehow, the fat cats at Savage Steel decided to set this one down on the outskirts of Manchester instead of within the major centers of domestic traffic. It was going to be hard to find people who had the petrol to burn. Damp, dark woodlands. Off road was an understatement, he thought.
“Jean!” Paul shouted.
“I’m coming!” Jean answered.
Paul glanced back to see him making his way, carrying two canteens freshly filled with a hot brew from inside their SUV. He could see bits of steam pop out from the loose cracks in the caps, letting out puffs of smoke as they shook. Jean handed one over and began to unscrew the cap on his own.
“We need to stay on watch, Jean,” Paul said.
“You worry too much,” Jean replied. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Something might, you know. You’ve heard … haven’t you?”
Jean wiped the residue from his drink off his beard.
“Don’t give me that rubbish.”
Paul took a sip and felt the warm liquid fill his throat as it went down. It was good tea. Not too hot. Not too strong. If Jean was going to slack off, this was the way to do it. Paul’s fingers twitched at the sound of something ruffling the grass in the distance by the tree line.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he shouted, pointing his flashlight in the direction where he heard it.
“What? I don’t see anything,” Jean said.
Paul shined it around the area but couldn’t make out anything more than a few shrubs. Definitely wasn’t anything moving, but it wasn’t very windy and the trees would have acted as a windbreaker. He scanned the area from his vantage point until …
“There it was!” he shouted again. “Right over there!”
Jean spat on the grass.
“Well, I’m not looking. You go!”
“Fine,” Paul replied. Hunched over a bit, and with his flashlight held high, he strode out past unkempt grass and onto the old dirt road. “Bonsoir?” he asked as he crept forward. His fingers grasped the flashlight even more tightly. “Anybody there? Ca va?” He stood some ten meters from where he last saw the tall grass ruffle on the side of the road and kept his place for a good thirty seconds.
“Heh … you might be right after all!” Paul yelled back.
When he got no reply, he whirled around to see Jean lying in the grass with his canteen cracked wide open. He rushed over and noticed Jean’s forehead had a strong stream of blood running down from the hairline. He checked for a pulse. Good, still breathing. Paul pulled out his cellular phone from his coat pocket dialed the number, but there weren’t any bars and all he heard was an obnoxious dial tone. For some reason, he noticed something right next to Jean’s head also lying in the grass. Paul reached down and picked it up.
“A franc?” he said to himself. “No, it’s an American penny.”
Paul’s thoughts were broken by gunfire. It was the sound of dozens of automatic rifles lighting up at once, and they rang through the winter air like sirens. The pulsating waves shook his eardrums as he ran up to the automatic door. Hurriedly, he pulled out his key card and swiped it. The door unlocked with a clicking sound.
Paul saw hundreds … no, thousands of shrapnel shards flying about. Armed men in black gear were perched on top of the unfinished balconies, laying down bursts of gunfire that were concentrated in the center of the facility. A mass of shrapnel that coalesced around a person. Paul saw a good deal of the bits lying at his feet, but on closer inspection, he saw that they were in fact a very different kind of thing. Pennies, Yen, Francs, Pesos.
“Oh mon Dieu … it is him.”
Chapter 1
Party Dodger
Marseille, France
1 year prior…
Miles Emmerson. Age, 25. Recently hired employee of Savage Steel, the largest arms manufacturer in France and second largest in the European Nations. Miles inspected guns for a living. He would check for blemishes or mechanical defects and through a meticulous process, ensured a quality product met store shelves and private racks.
Miles stopped in the park to catch his breath. The cool autumn night air was almost enough to keep his temperature down. His shirt was showing a bit of perspiration, same as his jogging pants. Two kilometers was probably enough for now, he thought to himself. Two on and one off. That was a good regiment. He caught a glimpse of a park bench off next to the stone path he ran on, but he pulled his body back with sheer will. Walking was the plan.
The sky was mostly clear tonight, but there were some planes flying up high. He could see the lights as they passed by. It was a pretty good night. Pretty good run as well, but the street lamps were going to shut off soon. Miles pulled out his cellular phone and brought up a map. Due South East through the park. Then South a bit down the city streets. After that, being jumped wasn’t a possibility, and he should get a good view of his office. He was going to shove it back into his pants pocket, but the device vibrated. Unknown phone number? He swiped the screen and held it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, short stuff, where are you?”
Miles heard a good bit of noise coming from the background. He scratched his head a bit. Must have forgotten to add Beth’s contact info. There were plenty of productive things he could do tonight. A party wasn’t one of them.
“Sorry, on my way,” he replied.
“Please get here soon, okay?”
“Oui, be there in a few.”
Miles picked up the pace. He wasn’t … all that short. 5’2” was … decent? Miles forced himself to power walk through the park, and around the time he could see the gated exit, he caught wind of something odd. It smelled like a bit of ash, and he squinted through the distance to check. Sure as sulfur, the big old smoke stacks of Savage Steel were pouring out puffs of black soot.
It was so faint that he almost didn’t catch it at first. What little comprised the black clouds was well camouflaged in the backdrop of a starry night. Interesting. Union labor wasn’t working this hour of night, so who could it be?
“Never liked parties anyway,” Miles said to himself.
Chapter 2
Chance Witness
Marseille, France
Miles strode his way to the outer fence of the compound. Quietly, he crept along the fencing, and he didn’t really understand why. There was … this sort of feeling. The hairs on the back of his neck slowly rose, and his hands felt a bit clammy. He peered through the fencing and noticed that far into the compound and inside a window at the far end of the courtyard, the lights were on. That was the steel mill, where they made the raw materials.
Why in heaven would anyone be using it at this hour? There didn’t appear to be any staff around. Miles took out his phone and started dialing a number, but he stopped. His job wasn’t worth a false alarm. He needed to confirm that it wasn’t legitimate first.
He shoved his phone back into his pocket and looked around for an entrance. Over to his right, there was a security door. He walked over and jiggled the handle. His eyes lit up as the door swayed with the slightest bit of pressure.
“That’s not good,” he said with a chuckle.
While a poor job on the night watch was a feint possibility, it only gave credence to his darker suspicions. But life was too short to hesitate. Better go on in. Miles told himself a dozen times over; just get a look-see, then get out and call the authorities.
It became something of a mantra as he navigated dim halls lit by bare starlight. He heard the sounds of boiling molten metal churning in the far off distance. Miles never got a chance to see that part of the factory, but he imagined that brutes and workers with thick overalls normally filled it. A firearm would have been a nice addition right about now.
He stopped just short of the door that led to the facility. The viewport hung on the upper half, so he raised his head just high enough to see through. The heat soaked through the view port glass, warming the skin of his forehead on touch.
It was difficult to tell exactly what he was looking at. There were figures in various places. Some of them were armed. Others weren’t. Over near the northeast center of the room, three men were standing next to a working vat of molten iron. One of them was tall. He was very tall, like at least seven foot … and he was holding something. It was a bag of some kind. It was a big bag.
The tall figure hoisted it up and threw it softly into the vat of iron. Miles watched intently as the object sank slowly into the mix. As it sunk, the bag caught on fire, but he squinted to make out a protrusion. It was something leaning out of it … it was …
“Dieu!”
Miles jumped back and covered his mouth faster than he could even think to do so. He bolted back down the halls, trying to put as much distance between them as he could breathe the midnight air, he slammed the door behind him.
“A hand,” he huffed to himself. “It was a ... hand.”
Chapter 3
The Police
Marseille, France
Miles stormed through the city streets of Marseille, pushing his heart and lungs to the limit. He looked back like he did several times before, frantically searching, scanning for any kind of activity that seemed out of the norm for pedestrians. Men in suits. Men with guns. They must have heard him. They must have seen him leave, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Miles stopped to catch his breath. He must have run at least four kilometers, but the adrenaline made it feel like less than one. His concept of time was out of whack as well. With shaking hands, he pulled out his cellular phone and struggled to articulate half-numb fingers, but it was of no use. He looked up at the street sign. He … he made it all the way home! This was his street and his new apartment was just two buildings down. Miles hobbled over to his apartment door. He searched around in his other pocket for the keys. Good, at least he didn’t lose them.
Miles hurriedly slammed the door and ran up the short flight of stairs that led to his second floor apartment. He used the second key and over the course of the next few fumbling seconds, finally stood right in the middle of an empty living room. Well, it wasn’t empty, exactly. There were a few stacks of cardboard boxes laid out beside his couch, and there was an old television set backed up against a wall that ran mostly parallel to it.
Once his hands ceased shaking, he drew out his phone and began dialing the emergency numbers … but a thought jumped through his head. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. No, but it was realistic.
“The police can’t protect me,” Miles said to himself.
It occurred to him that perhaps those weren’t ordinary thugs in suits and combat overalls. There wasn’t a face in that factory that he could pin down, but … no, he was sure of it. Those men WERE Savage Steel. No other explanation seemed more likely, and even on the off chance, putting himself into a death trap wasn’t worth risking his own life.
Savage Steel had its roots buried deep into the social and political structure of France as a whole. They were economical heroes to all of Europe, so if there was a single soul they wanted to eliminate, you could bet that few could do much to stop it from happening.
“I should call,” Miles started whispering quietly before he stopped himself again.
A cold thought sent a shiver up his back. One particularly important possession of his might actually outlast him come morning, and it might be best if he didn’t leave any loose ends for others to tie up. He gazed at his phone as he held it in the palm of his hand. His eyes glossed over. His face remained expressionless in a blank stare, but a loud banging at his door broke his state of mind.
“Ouvrir la porte,” said whoever was on the other side. “Nous sommes la police.”
They couldn’t come inside without a warrant … could they? Miles tried to think of what he was going to do. There wasn’t any other way out of his apartment … at least not conventionally. He scanned the room for something he could use as a weapon if he needed to, and that’s when he spotted his old little league baseball bat. He grabbed it, hoping he didn’t have to use it. He hoped they really were just the police.
Miles held it behind his back with one arm and cracked the door open with the other. He took care to leave the chain lock in place, for what little good it would do.
“Yes,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Miles caught a glimpse of them, a middle-age looking man and woman in police uniforms. He never paid close attention to the folks before, but he did notice they weren’t wearing badges.
“Is your name Miles Emmerson?” the one closest to him asked.
Miles glanced down through the crack in the doorway and saw that the officers were carrying SS-24 Assault Rifles. He didn’t even think. Instead, he did the first thing that popped into his head and slammed the door shut locking it down in a transition that was almost seamless. He hit the floor just as wood and metal splinters exploded through his apartment door in a steady cascade that lasted several seconds.
His eardrums were ringing, and all of his extremities ran numb. He gathered himself and tried to get up. Miles reached across the carpet for his bat, which he lost in the commotion, but it was out of reach. He got on his knees and crawled over, but as he gripped the bat firmly with both hands, the door came crashing down in a ripped mangle of splinters and metal shrapnel.
The two officers stood in the center of the room. One fixed his eyes on Miles while the other seemed more concerned with keeping watch.
“You always make a mess,” the woman said.
“Take it easy,” the man replied. “Nothing wrong with having a little fun, right, kid?”
Miles barely noticed that the man’s comment was directed at him. Instead, he took the chance to lunge at him with a firm swing, but the bat shattered to pieces with the resounding ring of an automatic rifle. He felt a tightening in his gut and looked down to see that a fist landed clean through his defenses.
He stumbled back and landed across his coffee table and part
ly onto his couch. His fingers raced to find anything of use as the uniformed man approached him with a grin.
“Any last words, kid?”
But all he could find was a handful of change, just a pile of pennies from his time back in the states. Of all the rotten …
“Sure,” he said. “Here’s my two cents!”
For what little good it would do, Miles threw up his fist full at the guy’s face. He hoped he would choke on it. He waited with his eyes closed for the final bang, but he didn’t hear anything … that was, until he heard the sound of a very loud thud. Miles opened his eyes and looked up to see two very small holes in his ceiling. He looked over the coffee table to see a body.
“The heck?” he said aloud.
He could almost feel something lodged in his ceiling. Yeah, he could feel two things, but the woman noticed now that her colleague was down for the count, and Miles could see her head turn away from guard duty.
Miles reached up and a pair of pennies darted back into his hand. He could feel it like there was some kind of resonance around them, as if they were extensions of his own arm.
“Hey, lady,” he said just as she was about turned around. “Penny for your thoughts?”
And like that, he willed the coins to zip clean through the air and cascade off her forehead. She was out like a light, just like that. Miles decided that he didn’t have time to dawdle though.
Chapter 4
Many Paths
Paris, France
Franklin Beaudry, a man of many paths, A.K.A. ‘Arc,’ strolled up the granite steps that led to the Mr. Adamson’s conference room. A very large table sat in the middle with chairs reserved for representatives of the shareholders. For the moment, they laid open and empty.
A very tall individual stood at the farthest corner of the room, his attention preoccupied by the glowing lights of a Paris night. Franklin made his way across and stood silent. This was how it usually went, of course, so he’d grown accustomed to it. The Iron Giant seldom stirred, but there was something in particular that interested him. Franklin knew that much, watching the way Mr. Adamson gripped a manila folder tightly within his palm.
“You know why I’ve called you here, don’t you?” Mr. Adamson said, handing it over.