The Assassination of Billy Jeeling

by Brian Herbert

  As a technician in the Army Flight Corps, Rand had become proficient at working on all sorts of aircraft engines and flight components, including complex weapons systems, and as a result of his excellent work he had been offered promotions. But he had turned all of them down, even though he could have been on a path toward becoming an officer. But Rand didn’t want to sit at a desk, or command airmen on one mission or another, didn’t want to be an airman at all, for that matter. Rather, he had wanted to be where he could tinker with flight mechanisms and weapons and repair them, making warplanes ready to take off and complete their missions. Let someone else perform the tasks of actually flying and shooting, which he considered inferior to his own, and dependent upon his expertise. He liked to work with his hands, and get them dirty.

  Now as Rand made his way down a series of three long ramps with his fellow recruits, he found that the air was cold and a little thin (even though this was a sealed area), and he had to adjust his breathing. He took several deep breaths, finally began to feel more comfortable. He noticed some of his companions going through an adjustment process, too.

  Baker knew that he was about to get his hands really dirty here, with the assignment that General Moore had secretly given to him—he was to sabotage all of the defensive weapons of Skyship. This included the large kinetic kill missiles set up like torpedoes to fire out of Skyship in all directions, along with KK480 cannons and Nuke-Packs. Even the large fleet of skyminers could potentially be used for defensive purposes, as all of the craft were armed with conventional cannons, and with sting-melt guns that could inflict a lot of damage.

  He was on his own now. He couldn’t even make contact with any other agents he’d heard were aboard. He didn’t know their names or where they were assigned to work on the huge air station, but if they were only spies gathering information, and not saboteurs, he was a step above them. His expertise required training of a precise nature, and he was highly paid for his ability to complete any assignment that was given to him.

  For this mission everything would have to be timed perfectly, so that all of the onboard weapons were rendered inoperable at precisely the right time. He’d been told that they were undoubtedly under a central command system, and that he needed to get to the heart of it and take everything off line. The fleet of skyminers was another matter, as each of the aircraft had its own weapons. The best idea—postulated by the General—seemed to be to shut down the Skyship defensive system when most or all of the fleet was out on their air-scrubbing and mining missions. Baker also needed to shut down the docks, blocking any of the vessels from returning.

  Then in a narrow window of time, General Moore would attack with his high-speed strike force, and get inside the great ship through the one access point that Baker would leave open, with the mission of taking over.

  Some of the in-flight skyminers might shoot at the attackers, but they didn’t have firepower on the scale of what would be coming against them, and eventually all of these defenders would run out of fuel and be forced down. With any luck, every one of the skyminers would become piles of burned, twisted metal on the ground, having crashed on the surface of the planet.

  “Welcome to Skyship,” a young woman said, at the base of the last ramp. “I am Sandra Orr, one of the proctors.”

  She was tall and beyond-belief gorgeous, with pale skin and large blue eyes. From intelligence reports, he knew this was Devv Jeeling’s girlfriend, and that he was very possessive of her, jealous to the point of being dangerous. There was a report of at least one fistfight between the younger Jeeling and a man who showed interest in her. With his own lack of interest in sex, Baker would have no trouble avoiding any such entanglement. But something about this woman interested him, almost aroused him. She was exceptionally attractive, and was looking directly at him now with those seductive eyes.

  Some of the other recruits were shivering from the cold, but Orr told them it would warm up soon, when they went deeper into the ship. Baker heard machinery sounds behind them, saw the docking area and ramps being closed off by mottled gray panels that slid slowly into place.

  Sandra Orr turned and led them toward an arched doorway, where a towering robot stepped out to greet them. Baker had heard about these mechanical men, and had prepared for them as much as possible. General Moore’s operatives had infiltrated the technology of the police robots, though not truthbots like this one, because of their impenetrable self-destruct systems. However, Moore’s military experts had implanted a new mindwave unit into Rand’s brain, one that could communicate on military and civilian frequencies, and had the ability to sort thoughts and block the detection of any that were conspiratorial. It was an experimental device, and he’d heard of failures. He only hoped his worked.

  Baker tried to relax as a spectrum of light passed over his body, shooting darts of pain into his brain. In his surface thoughts, and in the thoughts comprising his apparent memories, he was another person, totally devoted to Billy Jeeling, worshipping the man in the great ship as if he were a god.

  But buried in Rand’s consciousness he had a backup plan that Moore had given him—to kill Billy Jeeling if the opportunity arose. He felt the tingling of the scan stop, and he was given the signal to move on. He had passed....

  CHAPTER 15

  In all the centuries of recorded history, empires have come and gone; they have risen and fallen, burned brightly and gone dark. With the AmEarth Empire, however, the old pattern has ended. Our rule will last for 100,000 years; it is the empire to end all other empires.

  —Former Prime Minister Princeton Kelly

  Maureen Stuart had been summoned to a meeting by Jonathan Racker, and she was hurrying to get there on time. She’d been delayed by a temporary shutdown of the capital city’s transportation system, a mechanical glitch of some sort, and now she was stepping out of the highlift. It was mid-morning, and she walked quickly across the lobby.

  Racker’s office was on the top floor of his own building, the tallest structure in the AmEarth Empire, with sweeping views of Orca Sound and the craggy, white-capped peaks of the Olympus Mountains to the west. This structure differed from the classic designs that were so prevalent here in Imperial City, something he could get away with because of his fabulous wealth and high-level connections. The radical design of his building made it the target of whispered controversy, and there had been derisive comments made about it and insulting names for it, but always anonymously on social media venues.

  The detractors said it resembled an immense mushroom from the northwest woods with a long thick stalk, because the vaulted uppermost level was much wider than the floors below. Or that it looked too much like the old retro-style Space Needle that used to be in this vicinity, one of the structures that had been torn down when the whole city was razed and rebuilt as the glorious new Imperial capital.

  Racker’s headquarters building had a clear glassplaz exterior, so that the black metal frame and the inner workings of each level—including the highlift elevators—could be seen from outside. Yet, only a select few ever got permission to see that realm from such a vantage, just the approved passengers of tourist aircraft that were permitted to fly nearby. These were all carefully screened people, selected only from the most elite of society throughout the Empire. Rank had its privilege, as the saying went.

  Now as Maureen Stuart entered Racker’s office, she saw the diminutive old Latino at the window, staring at a passing ornithopter, a white craft with red Department of Tourism markings on the hull. The flying ship hovered in one place for several moments like a hummingbird, its wings flapping in a blur, and then flew off.

  His overdressed wife, Carmela, stood beside him. None of the other meeting participants who were supposed to be here had arrived yet.

  A full-figured brunette with long hair that tumbled around her shoulders, Carmela was not usually at their meetings. Taller than Racker, she accentuated this with stiletto heels, so that she stood almost a head above him at the window. To Maureen, the w
oman’s pale yellow dress, while expensive and embroidered in small jewels, was gauche, as were the gleaming diamonds on her rings, her necklace, and even her smart watch.

  Carmela turned theatrically and narrowed her gaze suspiciously at Maureen, then looked at her watch. She didn’t make any comment; Maureen was exactly on time. In any event, Racker didn’t seem to be concerned about the time. He appeared to be deep in thought. But it could be something else, a medical issue; he was quite old.

  Known to be jealous of other females, Mrs. Racker thought every woman was out to get her husband’s money, and she might be right about many of them, but not about Maureen, who only tolerated Racker, and barely put up with his wife.

  Carmela had recently gone in for a full-body makeover, getting her face, teeth, hair, tummy, neck, breasts, arms, legs, and everything else tuned up at the same time—reportedly in a five-day marathon of top surgeons and cosmetic technicians from all over the world. She’d tried to be secretive about the procedures she’d gone through, but social media was buzzing about what she’d done, and most of the comments were favorable—except for the anonymous detractors.

  She might look fine in photographs and public appearances (to warrant the approvals), but up close and in person, Maureen thought she almost looked frightening, like a horror movie character. She was younger than Racker, but was still over sixty, and the things she’d done to her face this time—having even the tiniest lines removed, as well as reducing the size of her nose, enlarging her lips and implanting rouge in them—gave her a mask-like appearance. And something had changed with her hairline—it was lower on her forehead now, with a new widow’s peak. There was something peculiar about her eyes, too. The lids were different, and the corneas around the dark pupils looked too white.

  Maureen sympathized with women who worried so much about their looks. Personally, she would rather age gracefully.

  Realizing that Carmela was taking too much notice of her, Maureen gazed past her, and out the window. To the west over the city, the sky was hazy, and Maureen saw a squadron of skyminers working above the tall buildings, gathering the bad air into their bulbous bags, as well as separating minerals and other elements for processing by the mother ship, which she saw in the distant sky.

  The tycoon’s office, and the much smaller offices and cubicles of his staff, were all on one immense circular floor, on a level that was triple the size of each circular floor beneath it—with the vaulted top floor supported by a cantilever system that extended horizontally, reaching out a considerable distance beyond the core of the building.

  The top level had a clearplaz floor, providing Maureen with a stunning view straight down past her feet to the tops of office and residential buildings far below. It didn’t frighten her at all, didn’t make her feel at all queasy, not even when the floor moved a little as Paul Paulo walked past her.

  The wiry, silver-haired man had just arrived behind her, carrying a worn-leather case under one arm. The overly handsome General Rivington Moore followed, walking with his characteristic swagger, in full uniform with his cap in place. It amazed her that a man that young had so many medals, and held such a high rank, even with all of his charisma. He gazed around the office, had more than the usual expression of confidence on his face.

  Racker turned, motioned for the other three to take seats in soft chairs around a low table, where a serving woman was setting up a silver tea pot and porcelain cups. She looked at him, asked, “Will that be all, sir?”

  He nodded.

  She bowed crisply and left.

  The old industrialist looked at his wife, said with an edge of sarcasm, “Don’t you have one of your appointments about now?”

  Carmela nodded. Then, gazing coldly at Maureen, she said, “I suppose you think I’m going shopping, but that isn’t true at all. Actually, I’m taking classes to improve my mind, learning all sorts of things—math, science, the military history of the Empire, even. And business, of course, with so much money to handle. Does that surprise you?”

  “Of course not,” Maureen said. “You are a very intelligent woman, and you know what is best for yourself.” So, Maureen thought, your brain is also part of the full-body makeover.

  Carmela Racker smiled stiffly, gave her husband a peck on the cheek, and left. She had a sensual manner of walking, Maureen had always noticed, the way she swayed her hips and held herself in a posture that pushed her breasts out to their maximum possible effect. According to anonymous social media comments, Carmela had captured Racker with a sexual hook, and then reeled him in; she caught a really big fish. It had undoubtedly been a seduction, Maureen thought, and despite Carmela’s overt sexuality she really was an intelligent woman, with good common sense. She was far more than a body, more than the appearance that she worked so hard to perfect.

  Jonathan Racker joined the others, who had been pouring steaming hot tea in their cups while they waited. The old man still seemed to be deep in thought, and had shown a little irritation with his wife. Maureen had seen him shoot a couple of brief glares in her direction as she went out the door.

  “I’m pleased to report some progress toward getting rid of Mr. Jeeling,” Paulo said, breaking the uneasiness in the air. He opened the leather case, passed documents around the table.

  While Maureen examined her copy, Paulo said, “As you can see, Jeeling is increasingly despondent, spending more and more time alone on the high walkway at night, gazing at the stars. He values his reputation very highly, and we’re shooting arrows in it.”

  General Moore set his ornate cap on the table, flipped through the pages. “Jeeling is mounting a more organized response to some of our criticisms, providing purported proof that he’s not profiting personally from Skyship or living in regal splendor. Funny, though, he’s remaining silent about his educational, work, and family histories—including the charge that he does not descend from slaves, as he always claimed.”

  “It’s a pattern I’ve noticed in legal matters,” Stuart said, nodding. “People comment on areas where they feel strongest, but are silent about areas where they are weak.”

  “We have evidence of his family history,” Moore said. “They were AmAfrican chieftains who sold enemy villagers into slavery. But we have only vague information about Billy’s life before he undertook the Skyship project.”

  “He’s weak in those areas,” Stuart said, “stronger in others.”

  General Moore scowled. “The next thing we know, he’ll be using the race card, saying we’re attacking him because he’s black.”

  “No sign of that yet,” Maureen said.

  Moore slapped his copy of the document on the table with a disgusted look on his face. “The report doesn’t say when that ni—... when he will be gone.”

  Maureen scowled. The officer had been about to use the verboten “n” word, which she’d heard him do in the past, sometimes receiving criticism from his fellow conspirators for doing it. This time he refrained, but she still considered him to be contemptible.

  “That’s hard to say,” Paulo said, with his own scowl. “Could be weeks, or months.”

  “Or years,” Moore said.

  Maureen tore her gaze away from the good-looking officer, and asked, “Who provided this report?”

  “Last page,” Paulo said, pointing at one of the open documents. “Middle paragraph. A metalworker named Sulls Johan. The only agent we’ve managed to infiltrate onto Skyship. Says he got the information from a robot he was repairing the body on, just working on a limited assignment—repairing a metal body plate. Suddenly the whole machine malfunctioned, and data spewed out of its speaker screen.”

  “I have six agents on Skyship,” Moore said. “Three spies and an equal number of saboteurs. My people have already caused some damage, designed to get Jeeling’s attention.”

  “Six agents?” Paulo said, “in addition to ours?”

  Moore grinned. “Six to one, my friend. I win.”

  Stuart stared in disbelief at Moore, and saw shock
registering on the faces of Paulo and Racker.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Paulo demanded. “What wild, unauthorized action have you taken?”

  “I’ve grown tired of the waiting game,” Moore said, with a hard smile, “and your one weakling agent, who doesn’t do much except interrogate broken robots. So I decided to take action to end the stand-off. I’ve already staged a nice little explosion on board that blew a hole in the hull. It was repaired quickly, as I anticipated—just a little warning to them. My men also broke a few things in recent months, machinery, robots, and they disabled the highlifts that Billy uses the most. Small stuff, to make him know he’s no longer welcome on Skyship. We’ve forced his son to do constant security sweeps, having put both of them in a constant state of nervousness.”

  “Call your saboteurs back!” Paulo said. “We don’t want Billy killed or Skyship damaged! We don’t know how it operates. The technology has been kept secret from us. And the disaster warning. Have you forgotten? Skyship can’t be destroyed or attacked!”

  “Rubbish!” General Moore said. “Jeeling fabricated that threat to scare us off. He’s bluffing.”

  “Do you know that for sure?” Racker asked.

  “He’s bluffing. I can always tell when a man is telling a tall tale, even if no one else here can recognize the signs.”

  “And what are those signs, exactly?” Maureen asked.

  “You wouldn’t understand if I explained them to you. No one here would.” Glaring, General Moore put on his cap and rose to his feet, then looked at the doorway, indicating that he was about to leave.