The Renegade

by P. M. Johnson

  “Cease!” exclaimed Veiju. “My associates perform certain essential functions, Yeura, just as you do.”

  Yeura rapidly blinked his eyes in frustration. “Forgive me brother, but the services I have performed on behalf of the Dhurlan Syndicate far outstrip whatever this mollag has done. As for the Grenn, I understand the need for physical protection. But this other one’s time has run. There are certain laws of nature that must be obeyed.”

  A dry, rasping chuckle rattled up from the Brevian’s chest. “Between the two of us, I would say that you have done greater violence to the laws of nature. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “If you are referring to the Chacksu project, I merely harness and enhance natural processes. You seek to reverse them,” snapped Yeura.

  “This conversation is finished!” snapped Veiju.

  The younger Visk obeyed his brother and sat back in his seat but was clearly angered by the Brevian’s words, made worse by the smug grin on his face. They rode on in silence for some time until the transport came to rest in front of a monumental circular door. They exited the vehicle and Yeura placed a hand on a control panel to the right of the door then entered a code. A narrow band of blue light shot out from the panel and quickly scanned him from head to foot. Another light scanned his companions, resulting in a blaring alarm. Trace outlines of the Grenn’s prosk and Dross Faan’s dagger and sidearm barely hidden under his cloak appeared on the screen. Yeura gave his brother a questioning look.

  “Override the safety protocols,” ordered Veiju.

  Yeura entered a code and the alarm ceased. The circular door then rolled open and they entered an antechamber. One of the walls of the large room contained a clear partition. Behind the barrier was a team of Visk technicians operating a variety of systems that quickly subjected the visitors to additional security scans, not just for weapons but also for molecular tracing devices, potentially dangerous bacteria or viruses, and more. It also performed identity validation and threat analysis functions.

  One of the Visk technicians said something over an intercom device, causing Yeura to step over to a screen embedded in the wall.

  He read the notice and looked first at Dross Faan then at Yeura. “Apparently, the mollag is wanted in several systems for numerous dubious dealings, including more than a few murders.”

  Dross Faan gave a slight shrug. “All in the service of the Dhurlan Syndicate, I assure you.”

  “And as for the Grenn, Torval, he escaped custody on Korsas after demolishing an uhuku house and killing six, including another Grenn.” Looking at Torval, Yeura said, “Grenn on Grenn violence is unheard of. You must be a particularly nasty beast.”

  Torval emitted a low rumbling warning. He pointed a thick finger at Yeura and said, “Ushudu sonvaranoragosh trul vendu mondofasithrundur.”

  “Stop antagonizing the Grenn, Yeura,” said Veiju impatiently. “Now open this door!”

  Yeura nodded toward the technicians and rotated his long blue index finger several times. The second set of doors opened with a hissing sound, allowing them to enter a long hallway beyond. A group of Visk awaited them, bowing their heads to Veiju as he approached. They opened the next set of doors to reveal a large circular chamber inside of which were thousands of broad-shouldered humanoid figures dressed in red and black armor. They were engaged in combat against one another. Some wielded swords in their right hands and on their left forearms were transparent shields emanating from bracers. Others gripped glowing staves in both hands. As they sparred, the swords and staves delivered jolts of energy with every successful hit and sent the struck combatant stumbling backward or tumbling to the ground. Sprinkled throughout the large room, standing on hovering platforms, were Visk doji, or taskmasters, dressed in silver and black. They were shouting instructions down to the armored figures in the pit below, occasionally cracking a whip-like instrument that shot ragged arcs of red-tinged energy across the back of a combatant.

  Yeura ushered the group to his right where a balcony overlooking the massive cavern gave access to a number of corridors and other rooms. Here and there, Visk technicians in green and brown robes could be seen moving behind clear partitions, sometimes stopping to peer down at the figures training below them. Yeura extended an arm toward one of the nearby rooms, but Veiju ignored him. Instead he took a step forward and gripped the balcony railing. Looking excitedly to his left and right, he drank in the spectacle of black-eyed Chacksu warriors battling each other, each one identical to Korba 114, the prototype he himself had so recently brought to life in its new, synthetic warrior body. Veiju licked his thin lips with pleasure and exposed his small pointed teeth in a rigid, gaping grin.

  “Look at them!” he exclaimed. Unable to contain his excitement, he clicked his teeth together with joy. “They’re magnificent!” Turning to his brother, he asked, “How many did you say we have?”

  “Seven hundred thousand,” replied the younger Visk with satisfaction.

  “Not nearly so many warriors as Empress Khadiem has at her disposal, but enough if used wisely.”

  “Yes, Veiju. And of course she must also contend with the Lycians.”

  “A fact which we will use to great advantage,” agreed Veiju.

  He gazed once more upon the thousand or more Chacksu on the training floor below. It was just one of more than two hundred such training facilities located throughout Iso Boht. The Dhurlan leader spread his long, blue fingers wide then slowly brought them together. He repeated the gesture several times as the wheels of his mind whirred with possibilities. Suddenly, he turned to face Yeura. With his hands clenched tightly into fists, he declared, “The time has come for bold action, my brother. The Empress’ forces will soon reach Agurru, and both the Chancellor and the Dewar would be greatly indebted to anyone who can tip the scales in favor of Agurru’s defenders.”

  “Your warriors await your orders,” said Yeura confidently.

  “Excellent! We are sending our army to war, my brother. The future of our Syndicate rests on the shoulders of our Chacksu. If we fail, the Dhurlan will never recover. But if we succeed…if we succeed, Yeura, we will have laid the foundations of a dynasty that will rule the galaxy for a thousand generations and more!”

  Chapter 34

  When the viper and the fox unite, the farmer must beware.

  - Russian Proverb.

  Orson Bishop carefully wiped the blood off the blade of a long folding knife. He closed it and placed it in his pocked then stepped over the body of the man who’d been following him, one of Attika’s no doubt. He walked casually in a northerly direction, weaving his way between dilapidated buildings and down alleyways. Several minutes later, he approached the side entrance of an old brick building at the end of a block lined with crumbling structures. The building’s brick exterior had once been a rich burgundy color with white trim but was now covered in a grayish patina consisting mostly of dust and soot from a nearby coal-burning power plant built a few years after the Impact. He was met at the door by a man wearing a hip-length brown coat and a tattered wool cap. Over his shoulder was an urban assault M-35. The man motioned for Bishop to step into the building then ordered him to lift his arms. He waved a device along Bishop’s body, stopping when it flashed red near his coat pocket. The man reached in and found the knife, which he unfolded and held up to the dim light filtering through the edges of a boarded up window.

  “It’s a pocket knife, not a bomb,” said Bishop as he lowered his arms.

  “Why’s there blood on the blade?”

  “That’s not blood, it’s jam. I used it to make a sandwich.”

  The man frowned at Bishop’s dark humor, then he folded the blade and placed it in his own coat pocket. “Arms back up,” he ordered.

  Linsky complied and the man gave him a final pat-down.

  “Upstairs.”

  “May I lower my arms?”

  “You can shut your hole and go upstairs,” said the man.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Th
e floorboards creaked under his feet as Bishop walked deeper into the building’s interior. The windows of the ground floor had been boarded up long ago, but years of exposure to rain, sun, cold, and wind had split the planks here and there, allowing a few shafts of early morning sunlight to filter through. He turned to his right and ascended the stairs, carefully avoiding those steps which appeared to be rotten.

  “I’ll be back for my pocket knife,” he said to the man who continued to watch him from below.

  When he reached the second floor, he saw a table in the middle of a spacious room. The table was about ten meters away from a bank of windows, most of which had been shattered many years before. Unlike those on the ground floor, they had not been boarded up. Through the empty window frames, Bishop could see the heart of Boston with its tall buildings gleaming in the morning sun. Like other major city-centers, Boston had been built up to be a shining example of law, order, and renewal under the leadership of Malcom Weller and his successors. Rebuilding the derelict centers of major cities had been critical to Weller’s carefully managed narrative, evidence that his reforms and the People’s hard work and dedication were bearing fruit. Of course, judging from the nearby derelict buildings and collapsing houses on the city’s fringes, the reforms didn’t make it very far beyond the city center.

  The former Justice Guardian returned his attention to the table. Alexander Linsky was sitting there. He wore a dark gray suit under a black overcoat. Fine leather gloves covered his hands. His thin brown hair was slicked straight back, and though he looked thinner than when Bishop had last seen him, his grey-blue eyes were as keen as ever.

  Linsky pointed a gloved hand at a rickety wooden chair across from him.

  “Please sit,” he said.

  As Bishop approached the chair, a man in a brown leather jacket stepped out of the shadows. He folded his thick arms across his broad chest and glared at Bishop. In his mouth was a wooden toothpick. Using his tongue, he casually rolled the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.

  “Hello, Linsky,” said Bishop as he sat down. Pointing a thumb in the direction of the man in the leather coat, he said, “I see you haven’t improved the quality of the company you keep, though judging from this one’s toothpick, he’s likely more hygienic than the others.”

  “Apologies if you find them offensive,” replied Linsky. “At least I’m not consorting with Septemberist scum. You’ve gotten very cozy with the enemy, Bishop. I hear you frequently meet with Attika herself.”

  “I’ve offered her the odd bit of advice here and there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “More than that, I’d say,” countered Linsky. “Weapons stashes seized, communications intercepted, loyal SPD operatives rounded up and prosecuted.”

  Bishop smirked. “I have to make myself useful. Otherwise she’ll look for advice elsewhere and throw me back into that awful cell. Besides, you know I haven’t given her anything truly damaging.” Bishop crossed his legs and scratched his chin with his thumb. Then he pointed a finger at Linsky and said, “In fact, you owe me a debt of gratitude. What would Attika do if she and her Conguard minions failed to uncover any SPD personnel or weapons caches? I’ll tell you what she would do, she’d dig deeper and deeper until she found something that would really hurt. At least this way she and her tribunals are busy incarcerating a few low level scoundrels.”

  “Scoundrels?”

  “Yes, Linsky, scoundrels. You know, rogues, rascals, riff-raff. Hardly model SPD officer material, if you ask me. Or do you prefer I use the term Storm Front? Clever rebranding, I must say. I didn’t realize you had such flair.”

  Ignoring Bishop’s attempted levity, Linsky leaned forward and laced his fingers. He clenched them together into a double fist then rested them on the table and looked at Bishop through narrow eyes.

  “You didn’t come here to talk about a few bones thrown to the dogs, Bishop. You slinked your way up here from the capitol for a reason. What do you want?”

  “To congratulate you on your escape,” said Bishop with a warm smile. After seeing that Linsky wasn’t buying it, he said, “Let me be frank. We share a common affiliation with the PRA, you and I. It was the proverbial good old days. Life was much better for us then. I’m surviving, just barely, but I’ll never see any real power in this absurd new order Attika is busily constructing. In fact, I’m sure my neck will be stretched the moment she no longer finds me useful, so you can understand how I’d prefer to go back to the old way of doing things.”

  “Are you sure?” said Linsky. “As I recall, Grand Guardian Harken threw you into a Development for betraying the PRA.”

  “The only thing I betrayed was Harken’s ridiculous fantasy of expanding our borders across the Mississippi,” snapped Bishop. “I told him that without the Apollo Stone the whole venture would be a terrible mistake. Now look at us! We can’t feed ourselves, the League of Free Cities is victorious, and humanity has learned that Earth is a stinking backwater in a galactic struggle that threatens to swallow us whole. Had we focused on recapturing the Apollo Stone as I suggested, we could have defeated the League and remained happily ignorant of the Sahiradin, the Lycians, and the rest of it. But Harken refused to proceed with caution. Not only did he make a hasty decision to join with the Sahiradin, about whom we still know almost nothing, but he also failed to defeat the heavily outnumbered League Defense Force.”

  Bishop paused and shook his head in disbelief and frustration.

  “And then, just to make sure we all knew he was a blundering idiot,” he continued. “The old bastard ignited a second war with the League, which destroyed the PRA, and ushered in the Septemberist Revolution. I might have spent a few months in a gulag assembling transmissions for trucks never to be built, but at least I didn’t have to watch while that doddering idiot destroyed the foundations of the PRA.”

  “I didn’t realize you had such strong opinions about the Grand Guardian’s leadership abilities.”

  “I do,” replied Bishop with a jab of his index finger. “And if he were here, I’d say it to his face.”

  A long pause followed this last statement while each man evaluated the other. As the former subordinate to Bishop, Linsky might have felt some lingering sense of obedience or fear, but his eyes were devoid of all emotion except contempt. Bishop sensed it right away. Which way would this clandestine meeting go? Would he leave the building with his hand strengthened or would it all end right there in that decrepit building on the outskirts of Boston?

  He glanced at the man in the leather jacket, wondering if he would make a move. Despite his size and strength, Bishop was confident he could kill him if necessary, but then there was the man with the M-35 keeping watch at the door downstairs. And of course, he could not forget Linsky. There were few men alive more deadly than the former SPD colonel, now Commandant of the Storm Front.

  “You say you’d tell all this to the Grand Guardian if you could,” said Linsky. “You may have an opportunity to do just that.”

  Bishop cocked his head slightly to the side and folded his arms across his chest. “Really? I thought he’d been whisked away by a Sahiradin shuttle the night the good citizens of the PRA sacked the Capitol Building.”

  “He sent me a message,” said Linsky. “He’s coming back, Bishop. He’s coming back with Sahiradin warriors. In fact, he ordered me to occupy a certain installation when the moment is right.”

  Bishop leaned back in his chair. “How did he communicate with you?”

  “That’s no concern of yours, but you can believe his coming back.”

  “Very well,” replied Bishop dismissively. “If you want to inspire your Storm Front officers by claiming to have talked with the old man, that’s your business. But tell me, what installation have you got your eye on?”

  Linsky raised a finger and slowly wagged it back and forth. “You’re an advisor to the enemy. Why would I share that information with you?”

  “Fine. I came here to offer my assistance in toppling th
is pathetic new government in exchange for a position of authority in the new regime. I have gathered a considerable amount of useful information about Attika and her cronies. Tell me what you want to know, and I’ll get it.”

  Linsky smiled. “Just tell me her daily routine. Where does she go and when?”

  “That’s easy enough, but you’d better bring a plenty of your Storm Front boys if you attack her. She doesn’t go anywhere without at least five well-armed Conguards plus two armored vehicles ready to provide support.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Linsky. “You tell me her routine, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “And you’ll provide me with a place in the new order? You know I’ll be an effective ally, Linsky, but I need power. I’m at the bottom of the heap and I hate it down here.”

  “If you give me your full cooperation, I’ll try to remember you when the time comes.”

  Bishop drummed his fingers on the table. “If you kill her, I won’t be of any more use to you. Her Septemberist cronies will come for me first. Tell me ahead of time, and I’ll come join you when the deed is done. Agreed?”

  “If you wish,” said Linsky.

  “And you won’t betray me?”

  Linsky took in a deep breath and grinned. “Bishop, you and I graduated from the same school of politics and power. I need allies to tear down Attika’s regime and prepare for the Grand Guardian’s return. You need a friend who will protect you when the PRA is reestablished and we begin handing out blindfolds and cigarettes. As long as each of us offers something the other needs, there is no cause for concern. Isn’t that so?”

  Bishop scoffed. “Please print that on my execution order. You forget that it was I who trained you. Neither of us can be trusted. Nevertheless, I do agree that we need each other for now. I’ll get you the information you want, but I’ll withhold a few other juicy tidbits as life insurance. You can never be too careful these days.”

  “Fine,” said Linsky as he held out his gloved hand.