Rhapsody For The Tempest (The Braintrust Book 3)

by Marc Stiegler

  Colin had barely stepped away from the table when Chance herself plunked her tray down next to Dash. Chance eyed Colin as he moved toward the dish recycling station. "That's Colin Wheeler, right? I've heard a lot about him. He seems really important, but no one can explain to me exactly how or why he's important. I tried looking him up in the archipelago directory. He doesn't have an entry. I thought everybody had an entry. Who is he, really?"

  Dash opened her mouth, then closed it. How to explain Pak Colin? She thought about how he had turned the enemies of the BrainTrust against each other. Did that make him a symphony conductor, or choreographer? And she thought about how he had just now relieved her of the guilt from following too many projects at once. Did that make him the embodiment on earth of the Hindu God Ganesha, the Remover of Obstacles? And she thought about how he had stepped in front of her as Byron had started shooting. What did that make him? It was too much. She gave the best answer she could in a few words. "He is indeed a very important person. He is a friend."

  One of the nice things about Chance was that she understood the depth of that answer, and accepted it as complete.

  Ping stood on the top deck of the Mount Parnassus with Ciara, watching the isle ships maneuver into their archipelago positions off the west coast of Africa.

  Ciara sighed with relief. “It’s about time. This was a wicked long journey.”

  Ping concurred. “Too long with the Fuxing, building them another manufacturing ship. Really, I need to give Colin and Matt a piece of my mind, holding us up like that.”

  Ciara eyed her shrewdly. “You didn’t complain one bit till Jam left. And then you still got to clock Guang Jian for her.”

  “Yeah, well…” Ping pointed into the distance. “Is that a welcoming committee?”

  Ciara looked in the direction Ping pointed. “Not necessarily. We haven’t advertised our arrival yet, didn’t want any enthusiasts rushing out to us before we were ready. Things could’ve gotten ugly with those half-drowned sampans when the Fuxing first arrived on station, I thought we’d wanna avoid that.” She continued to peer at the ship that seemed to be approaching them. “Of course, it could be a different kind of welcoming committee. We’re parking much closer to the land here, barely twelve miles off the coast of Benin, only a little farther from Nigeria. Piracy is rife around here. We didn’t want anyone who was trying to reach us to get hijacked before we could help them.”

  Ping’s smile widened into an expression of glee. “Hot damn! I think it’s a warship of some kind. I don’t think they like us being here.”

  Ciara looked thoughtful. “Benin does have a couple of old French patrol boats for anti-piracy operations. But since the port at Cotonou flooded, along with half the coastal areas, and a bunch of ex-Boko Haram fanatics took control of the government, the Benin government itself has operated the most successful pirate fleet in the area.” She thought about it some more. “It may have been a mistake setting up the Prometheus archipelago this close to the coast.”

  Ping whooped. “Are you kidding me? You were right the first time—if we set up further out, the pirates would be snagging everyone who wants to join the BrainTrust. We have to be here.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Hey, Soup! I need the Big Gun! Make it snappy!” She called the Fleet Captain next. “Captain! Can you see what kind of gun that is on the front of the patrol boat approaching us? A 50mm? Thanks!”

  She turned away from Ciara. “Can’t sit here waiting for them, that gun has better range than we’ve got. Hafta go out to meet them. Gotta get together with Soup on the copter pad in back.” She cackled as she departed.

  Soup flew the copter while Ping hung out the passenger door, trying to get an angle where the Big Gun’s backblast wouldn’t burn Soup to a crisp. “Soup, take us higher, give me more deflection!”

  Down below the crew of the patrol ship was shouting, trying to point the gun at the copter. They popped off a couple rounds, shot some AK-47s in the air, all to no avail. Disregarding the copter at last, they turned their sights on the isle ships of the Prometheus fleet. They fired, but the shot landed far short and off to the side.

  Ping was finally happy with the angle. “Ok, Soup, hold her here.” The Big Gun hummed to life, targeting the enemy ship. “I’ve got you now!” Ping exclaimed as she prepared to press the trigger.

  Suddenly a flash of uncontrolled fire erupted from the stern of the patrol ship. Black smoke then belched forth, obscuring the flames. The ship slowed and drifted to starboard as if the rudder had twisted.

  Ping stared in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even get a shot in!” She glanced at the Prometheus ships. “Did someone else shoot before I got the chance? But they’re too far away.”

  Soup sympathized with her. “Doesn’t look like the ship’s been very well maintained. In fact, not maintained at all.” He flew lower. “Look at all the rust on that bucket.”

  Ping groaned. “Now we’ll have to rescue them. And we can’t send them back to Benin, they’ll just start pirating again. So what’re we going to do for a prison? Make the ship they’re on into a prison?”

  Soup headed the copter for home. “Quite a mess, winning a battle like that.”

  Dmitri strolled along the outside walkway of the Dreams, taking in the crisp evening air, just approaching the gangway to the Haven, to his home. He spread his arms wide as if trying to grasp the entire world. He still felt amazed to be alive, even more amazed to still be wealthy, and most amazed of all to still be a member of the BrainTrust. He strove now to be indispensable for the BrainTrusters. His investments covered the gamut of projects on the archipelago. He never would have predicted things could work out this well, given the circumstances he’d found himself in when he first brought his yacht alongside the Elysian Fields.

  “Dmitri!” he heard his name called. He turned to see Colin Wheeler jogging toward him.

  Dmitri watched him approach, puzzled, but smiling nonetheless. “How can I help you?”

  Colin shook his head, “I’m good. Believe it or not, sometimes I don’t come asking favors. Sometimes I even offer them.” He held out a small cardboard box. “A memento.”

  Dmitri mechanically accepted the proffered gift. “Thank you, I guess.”

  Colin laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “You should definitely look this gift horse in the mouth. But don’t worry. As long as you’re careful with it, it won’t harm you.” And with that Colin jogged cheerily away.

  Dmitri took the box up to his dwelling, nodding to Gina as she went out. Gina seemed to have forgiven him, at least sort of, despite her first whispered words to him after his release: “Kidnap anyone again, and I’ll strap you to a rocket engine test stand. Ever seen a steak after being broiled by five million pounds of thrust? I have. That’s you.”

  It had occurred to him that the threat was neither idle nor impractical—not at least for Gina—but it didn’t bother him. He believed in loyalty and honor, and he had no intention of doing anything disloyal or dishonorable to the people of the BrainTrust again.

  Reaching his desk, he picked up his old Smersh-5 combat knife and sliced the seal on the box. Inside was a dull gray lead vial, diligently sealed, and a simple manila envelope.

  He stared at the vial, then picked up the envelope. He used his index finger to reach under the flap and tear it open.

  The letter inside the envelope was short.

  Dmitri,

  Over the years, I have been drawn to the conclusion that we should always keep mementos of our most striking near-death experiences. To keep us appreciative of our second chances, to keep us alert.

  We extracted this from your blood. Rhett Woodson on the Chiron can dispose of it for you if you’d prefer. Or you can keep it if you have a safe enough place for it. Your choice.

  Dmitri stared again at the vial of polonium. If he had any sense, he would take it directly to Rhett. But… he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with it. So, until he figured it out, he decided to put it in the wall
vault behind the bookcase next to his desk. Not only was the vault almost impossible to find, the vault manufacturer guaranteed it against just about everything short of a tactical nuke. The vial should be safe enough there.

  For generations, the California coastal housing market had boomed. Decade after decade, ever since they had first started bulldozing the orange groves to make way for office complexes, the value of real estate had risen on an exponential curve faster than the median income of those desiring a place to call home. Prices became obscene. Wise men asserted they had to go down, and a small dip in prices heralded loud claims that the end was finally nigh. But as real estate markets across America crashed and burned and were reborn weaker and smaller, California real estate continued to ride the wave of human hope and determination. Even after Deportation Phase II had driven all the foreign engineers out of Silicon Valley and obliterated the workforce to collect the almonds, oranges, and avocados from the remaining fields, coastal California real estate had dipped but then recovered as miraculously as a phoenix.

  It was too good to be true. And like most things too good to be true, it was not true, though it took truth almost a century to emerge.

  Truth made its first stumbling appearance on the California scene after the news broke that the entire SpaceR operations, manufacturing, and launch systems had moved to the BrainTrust. Truth thumped its first victims when the excessively wealthy learned that Gina Toscano had sold her mansion without pursuing an upgrade to an even bigger mansion.

  Truth started a rout of its opponents after the Cogent News article published its list of all the people targeted for civil forfeiture proceedings.

  It takes surprisingly little truth to topple a grossly overpriced and overleveraged real estate market. When the billionaires all put their mansions on the market at the same time, the millionaires noticed that they could upgrade at very reasonable prices. Prices that fell quickly to mirror the prices of the smaller mansions of the millionaires. The millionaires moved swiftly to trade up…but only the first few made the trade before the values of the smaller mansions started falling. Soon the upper middle class started demanding millionaire mansions for a middle-class price and the values of middle-class homes fell, to be met with a shocking lack of buyers even at the new lower prices since so many middle-class people learned their companies were moving out of the state and leaving them behind.

  The California government, as dependent on real estate taxes as it was on corporate taxes that were also disappearing, found its traditional, steady, reliable revenues plummeting towards the bottom of a pit as impervious to human preferences as the concrete launch pad of a rocket booster.

  8

  Siberia

  I don't make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.

  —Will Rogers

  Jam struggled in vain to keep an eye on Julissa and her copter as she slipped her own copter low and fast through the midnight darkness over the border from Northern China into Russia. “Important safety tip,” Jam muttered to herself, “it’s very hard to keep track of a stealth copter if you want to make sure it’s following you.” She resisted the urge to call Julissa and tell her to shut off the stealth mode. Either the Russians or the Chinese or both would nail them in minutes without it.

  Had the copter actually needed her piloting skills, she undoubtedly would have died already; she was simply not paying enough attention. In the end, she gave up her attempts to find Julissa and turned forward to watch the snowcapped trees glow in the moonlight. She had to put her faith in the GPS systems aboard both copters to land them in the same place.

  Absurd side trips seemed to be the hallmark of life as an Expedition Commander. She reflected on her phone call to Dash after she had gotten familiar with the copters as Dash had requested:

  Dash explained, and Jam tried to object. “You want me to go where? You want me to do what?” Jam pulled out her tablet and looked at the map. “Do you have any idea how deep in Siberia that is?” She listened further. “Ok, I get it, we’ve got to get his wife and daughter so Joshua can let Gleb out of the brig. But…whoa, they may be guarded by Alexei and Vasily? The same two who…oh no, certainly not a problem, just wish Ping were here, she’ll be upset to be left out…ok, just for you.”

  Jam had hung up shaking her head.

  Now she was deep in Siberia in search of the family of a former kidnapper and attempted murderer. Life with the BrainTrust truly had its own flavor and tempo.

  Eventually, Jam reached the specified coordinates and the autopilot brought the copter down behind an embankment of snow separated from the rutted road by a couple rows of evergreens. Moments later a shadow occluded the moon, and Julissa landed behind her. Jam trudged back to her partner in crime.

  Julissa’s eyes gleamed. “This is so exciting,” she whispered.

  Jam grunted. “Just stay here with the copters. If someone finds you and stops to investigate, at the first hint of trouble, take your copter home.”

  “You’re really sure you don’t want me to come along? I could carry a gun if you wanted me to.”

  Jam rolled her eyes. Julissa had lived an impoverished life, not only in terms of wealth but also in terms of experiences. She was enjoying this little excursion—breaking and entering into the territory of a superpower—entirely too much. Jam hissed, “Stay here.”

  With those parting words, Jam picked her way through the trees onto the road and followed her GPS to the destination not quite a kilometer away. The sky brightened within moments of reaching the road. Her timing had been entirely too close, they had landed the copters barely in time to avoid being visible in daylight.

  Vasily stood in the snow outside the dacha and rubbed his eye to clear that hazy film blurring his vision. He couldn’t help rubbing it. Fiddling with the eye was instinctual; it made no difference knowing there was no film on it. No clearing of the blur was possible; his electronic replacement eye saw things as well as it could. Dash had told him it was remarkably good, all things considered.

  He watched the little girl run through the snow, laughing as she shaped snowballs to throw at her mom. He observed to himself that he had had much less pleasant postings than this, watching over Gleb’s wife and child in the middle of a wasteland so vast it served as a prison all by itself. The only place you could go within five kilometers to find another human being was the real prison, an actual godforsaken gulag. The gulag served as a constant reminder that his life could be so much worse.

  And of course just outside the gulag was a cemetery to remind one that even the gulag could look good compared to other alternatives. Yet he still wanted to avoid the gulag.

  This thought brought him around to watch Alexei scowling at the two women. Alexei had assumed that part of the job should be using the woman and the child for his personal pleasure. After all, Gleb had failed in his mission and deserved punishment.

  Alexei’s assumptions did not fit with Vasily’s own interpretation of the Premier’s curt instructions. “Hold them. Keep them unharmed, and hold them.” He could easily imagine winding up in the gulag because of the Premier’s differing opinion on the meaning of the word “unharmed.”

  On the other hand, he could also easily imagine winding up in the cemetery because of Alexei’s fierce defense of his own interpretation of the word. Keeping Alexei from running amuck was a constant dangerous balancing act.

  Life had been so much simpler and better on the BrainTrust.

  A melodious female voice, muffled by the snow but nonetheless strong and clear, came from behind a tree very close at hand. “Let me see your hands,” the voice said in English with a distinct British accent. “Move and die.”

  Vasily finally placed the voice. He had heard it during Ben Wilson’s First Launch party that now seemed to have occurred thousands of years ago. Jam, as he recalled, had explained she had learned English from the Brits as a Pakistani commando.

  Vasily started to raise his hands, but the little girl ran in front of Alexei
, who grabbed her as she passed and pressed his gun to her head.

  Alexei hissed, “Grab the wench, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Gleb’s wife stood, confused, near at hand. Vasily grabbed her and matched Alexei’s pose. He whispered urgently to Alexei, “Throw the gun down, you idiot, or she’ll drop us where we stand.”

  Alexei shouted at the tree, “Come out with your hands up, or the girl dies.”

  Vasily rolled his eyes. This was going to go so badly so quickly.

  Jam swore under her breath. She’d been watching them for some time, making sure there were no other soldiers around, trying to decide whether to just shoot the two men or give them a chance to live. In the end, she had screwed up. Correcting the error was going to be complicated.

  Jam shifted her gun to her left hand, raised both her hands, and stepped out from behind the tree.

  Alexei smiled. “Oh, things are going to be so much better now. At last, someone to play with.” He took a deeper breath, and shouted to Jam, “Drop the gun!”

  Vasily called, “Alexei, you can’t play with her, she’s a BrainTrust commando!”

  This acknowledgment stopped Jam cold for a moment. At last someone respected her skills! About time. Unfortunate circumstances, however.

  Jam spoke calmly to Alexei. “Very well, dropping the gun now.” She watched him for a moment, confirming that he had started to relax, and had shifted his gun to point at her rather than the girl.

  Jam released the gun from her left hand. It fell.

  Then Jam let her knees fold. As she fell, and the gun fell, she swept up the gun with her right hand.

  Alexei fired. He had aimed at her chest while she was standing; the bullet barely creased her shoulder. Jam fired back and rolled sideways.

  Alexei fell like a stone, which indeed he was. With his medulla oblongata now turned to pureed soup, his body fell without so much as a finger twitch.