“I hear you, Stuart. The five ships’ control-key codes will be posted to my personal website within the hour.” She looked up with sudden and convincing fury. “Are we done?”
Stuart visibly recoiled, then composed himself. “Yes, we are.”
“Good. When you're underway with your hostages, please send me the locations of the remaining bombs.”
He tilted his head side-to-side. “Nah! Consider their locations to be an Easter egg hunt to keep y'all busy on your long, boring voyage to wherever the hell you're going.” He was gone.
“Mandy,” belted out Heath, “how could you give in to that madman? There's no telling what horrors the people on those ships will suffer.”
She stared at him a while, tears welling up. “I know he would have set off all the bombs. I believe he really wanted to, just for the hell of it. A man like that,” she smeared a tear off her face, “you don't screw around with. We got off light.”
“This time,” Heath said angrily.
“This time,” she agreed, sobbing.
THIRTEEN
Amanda and Heath sat alone in a dark Noval Office long after everyone else had left for the night. They sat, in opposite directions, looking into the nothingness. Heath had single handedly done quite a bit of damage to a bottle of vodka. Amanda rapped the tips of her fingers repeatedly on the desk. No useful, positive direction could be decided upon before the cabinet meeting drifted apart. In over half an hour, neither had spoken. Since the holo with Marshall, they'd avoided each other's eyes as best they could.
Amanda was beginning to think Heath had passed out drunk. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was soft and regular. Apropos of nothing, he spoke in a low, pained tone. “I'm sorry for what I said back at the meeting. You did what you had to. I'd have done the same thing, God willing, if I were in your place.”
She waited several moments before responding. “Thanks. It hurt more than you can imagine to have you angry with me. I've come to rely on your shoulder.” More to herself, she half-whispered, “More than I should. I need to be stronger.”
“No,” he said sitting up. “You're perfect. Don't change just because those you trust fall short. I think you handled Marshall as well as anyone could have.” He threw his arms up, “The man's nuts. I think he'd have loved to murder all those people and blamed it on you.”
She smiled sadly. “Thanks. That helps.” She took a very deep breath and blew it out slowly. “He could've demanded more. I'm actually surprised he didn't.” She squinted in the near darkness. “In fact, I wonder why he didn't?” She turned to Heath. “Put yourself in his place. If you could've asked for more, why not do it?”
“He could've asked for more ships, but I don't know if that would be such a prize.”
“He could have taken all the farmships, if for no reason other than to hurt us.”
Heath rocked his head back and forth. “Nah. He probably doesn’t need more food. He'd be buying more headaches, more likely. Plus, once he's gone, I doubt he'll think much about us. There's no real benefit in trying to hamstring us. No jollies in it, in the long run.”
She pursed her lips. “I guess. What about more androids? Sure, he can fabricate them slowly, but he has to know there are at least a thousand blanks laying in De La Frontera's lab.”
“Good point. Why not take them? They'd make perfect long-term guards or patronage gifts.”
“Maybe he will ask us give him those, too, somewhere down the line?”
“But,” Heath said, “why not ask when he had us where he wanted us? If he had a second plan, why rely on it? Makes no sense. And what about the newer copy of Stuart Marshall, the one Ryan installed? Why not at least ask for it to be destroyed? Not like him to leave a viable copy behind.”
“It would seem like something he'd want,” said Amanda running a hand though her mop of hair. “Maybe he figures it's not really him, so he needn't concern himself with it?”
“I suppose. Still, odd for a vengeful man to pass on a perfectly good, helpless victim to toy with.”
Amanda rested her elbows on the table. “Let's puzzle this scenario out. He should want more androids. Only reason not to would be that he doesn't like them.” The pair was silent a spell. “He couldn't have forgotten to ask. He's too good.”
“If he figured he could take them—like, steal them—he wouldn't have to ask.” Heath was unconvinced by his own argument. “Maybe he just wanted to screw with our minds, like he's doing?”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “That would be classic Stuart Marshall.
“Or,” Heath's voice perked up, “he doesn't want to bring future threats, like Jackson turned out to be. A few replacements for himself and Drawjoy would mean he was the only immortal in play.”
“That makes the most sense, I guess. That'd only mean he's changed his tactics a bit since before we left Earth. Unfortunately, it doesn't represent a juicy insight into his mind.”
Amanda set her head in her hands. “I still can't think of a thing we can do to get our ships back. Even if your great-grandfather popped up this instant, I doubt he'd be able to pull it off a second time. Marshall's got to have put some defenses against that cube in place.”
“I wonder if he even can? I mean, how could he protect himself from that level of tech?”
“Well, he could keep hold of the dead man's switch indefinitely. If he was cornered, he could send destruction our way at the speed of light. It'd work until we've found all the bombs.” Heath looked to the ceiling. “He could surround himself with hostages. If Jon confronted him, he'd think twice if innocent people were at risk.”
“Yeah, he'd have to settle for indirect attacks, wouldn't he?”
“They could be turned against him!” Heath sprang to his feet.
“The hostages?” Amanda asked with obvious confusion. “How do you figure that?”
“No. Androids could be used against him! That's why Stuart doesn't want them around, especially with Jon and his supercube. He's worried Jon'd ask his magic box to puppet the androids against him.”
“Easy, cowboy. Back in the saddle. If that were the case, he'd have to worry Jon'd be able to just manipulate him, so Stuart would be in the same predicament.”
“Maybe he'll put aluminum foil all over his head?”
For the first time since the cabinet meeting, Amanda smiled. “Quite the picture. Him pressing it down tight with both hands so there's no chink in his armor.”
“Or, maybe he hopes a Faraday cage would protect him? He could hide in one constantly.”
“What the hell's a Faraday cage?”
“Oh,” he said, “it's an enclosure formed by a conductive material designed to block electric fields. It's a safe space from electromagnetic intrusions.”
She tapped an index finger on her chin for a minute. “Don't see how that piece of information benefits us either. Whether he's sitting in a cage or a hot tub, he can't know what will stop Jon.”
Heath's face went blank. “But it does!”
“Heath Ryan! Are you holding out on me again? How would Marshall being shielded from radio waves help us?”
“Remember how I said De Jesus put in a backdoor program to shut down all androids?”
“Yes. But I still…”
“It means I'd have to be in the room with him to make it work.” He shook his head like it weighed one hundred pounds. “Not easy, not safe. Not gonna be fun.”
“What are you babbling about? Is Marshall's insanity contagious? You're not getting within a million miles of the man, literally!”
“I have to. It's the only way. We get one shot at this, so I have to be in line of sight to him to shut him down.”
“When were you planning on telling me about your rogue mission, Mr. Vice President?”
“Sooner or later,” he had a guilty look on his face, “probably.”
“So, let me get this straight. My vice president, the father of my unborn child, and a man with a family at home who depends on him is planning to wa
ltz into Stuart Marshall's secret, secure inner sanctum with a control box in his hand and switch the SOB off before he takes control of his mini-fleet of ships?”
“No,” he waved his hands vigorously in the air. “No way! I don't know how to do the waltz, and I'm not about to learn.”
“Stop it! You're not going anywhere. If our security people vet your plan and think it has one chance in the universe to work, they'll send someone trained for the mission. You, my out-of-shape desk jockey, are staying right here.” She pointed downward at her desk.
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “There's another brilliant part to my plan.”
She folded her arms and scowled convincingly. “What?”
“If I'm killed in the process, I won't have to tell my wife about my infidelity.” He smiled grimly. “That's the best part, as far as I'm concerned.”
“Men!” was all she could say. “If you could get your priorities as straight as your dicks half as often, the world would be a brighter place.”
FOURTEEN
Stuart Marshall rose from the desk he'd used to deliver his ultimatum. He had a big old smile across his face. Winning was such a wonderful thing to do. The fact that it was a Ryan and a Geraty whose noses he'd rubbed in the sand was all the sweeter. Life was good! Everything was falling into place. He had his ships back, he had the remainder of humanity by the balls, and he had his technician again. Nothing could stop Stuart from having the powerful, unending life he so richly deserved.
He was still debating the wisdom of reanimating his old crew. Duncan had gone over to serve the false Marshall, so the kid was out. But whether Stuart should bring back the other three Horsemen was unclear. He wasn't sure he needed them at that juncture. He was absolutely unwilling to share power, and they might eventually demand some. They could, of course, be resurrected if the need arose down the line. The Four Horsemen were drinking buddies, but Stuart wasn't sure he needed such companionship any longer.
He wouldn't assume power over his ships for another day or so. He decided to enjoy his last worry-free excursion in public. Once his location was public knowledge, Ryan, the eternal boil on his backside, might be able to control Marshall's robot brain. In the future, he'd have to remain safe and secure in his suite, venturing out at his peril. Yes, one last stroll amongst his people would be nice—invigorating, even.
He exited his cramped apartment into the center of the hurricane that was always Mrs. Wong's kitchen. The Fortune Garden restaurant was, for reasons incomprehensible to Stuart, very popular. Its tables were full day and night. That meant the kitchen's pace varied from frenetic to a blur. Cooks, pots, temporarily living chickens, and shouts flew in every direction, all at once. This suited Stuart well enough. Once he was over his disgust to have to humiliate himself by living amongst such squalor, his living arrangement was tolerable. Mrs. Wong asked no questions and accepted his gold with glee. Occasionally, when she felt he was due for a rent increase, she'd say something to the effect that he reminded her of someone but couldn't recall who. Aside from that blackmailing, his relationship filled his temporary need for anonymity.
Once he was back on top, he'd planned to pay her one final visit. He promised himself he would not kill the hag, only maim or disfigure her significantly. Stuart was, however, self-aware enough to acknowledge that he was given to breaking his promises. That day, his final day in hiding, his thoughts did not dwell on Mrs. Wong or the unholy smell in her kitchen. He, thankfully, had more global issues to ponder.
He stepped into the crowd that heaved to and fro on the sidewalk as it passed The Fortune Garden. He wedged himself into the flow heading a particular direction and matched its pace. The masses surrounding him laughed, coughed, conversed, and stank of body odor, but they also completely ignored his presence. As they paid him no notice, they could never betray his location. Even the most sophisticated security cameras were unable to pick Stuart's face out of this staggeringly dense crowd. As with most actions he'd ever taken, Stuart was proud of his choice of hiding places. He enjoyed being so much brighter than everyone else.
After a while, the crowd thinned out enough that he could move freely. He hiked up his hoodie and bent his neck as far forward as he could without too obviously doing so. Stuart was out on the town for no reason in particular other than to ease his painful boredom. He considered grabbing a bite to eat or seeking out a brothel but decided neither option was all that alluring. Soon, he’d be back eating the best food and screwing the best women. The local standards were so nonexistent as to make a mockery of Stuart’s discriminating palate regarding both important pleasures. He could wait.
How, he fretted, would he structure his soon-to-be-realized reign? For, as surely as cream rose and torching a few critics silenced dissent, his was to be a kingship, not a mere presidency. King Stuart? King Stuart I? Perhaps Emperor Marshall? King Stuart Marshall I sounded more balanced, more perpetual, than Emperor Stuart Marshall. Then again, emperor did have a heft to it no other title could equal. Wait! He smiled outwardly at his brilliance. Emperor King Stuart Marshall I. Yes! With his new brand of power—harsh, swift, and eternal—the title declared itself. And his descendants, who would be as numerous as the stars in the sky, would be emperor kings and empress queens in their own right. Together, they would divide up the known universe and rule it with one iron fist. And he would be their god!
God Marshall? True, but potentially a bit “off-putting” to some demographic segments of his subjects. Best not to cross the street in search of trouble. Stuart Marshall, god? No, too indirect. The Divine Emperor King Marshall I? Yes, now that wasn't bad at all. Giddy, he set those issues aside. Time was on his side, and he could decide later. Wait. Should it be written “time was on his side,” or “time was on His side?” Don't ever sell yourself short, he chided himself. He held power for the people, not for himself. The people wanted icons they could look up to, from the mire that was their existence. Stuart had sworn to serve the people as best he could. Providing them a tiny ray of light in their dark lives by being a stunning vision of glory was a kindness on his part. Or His part. Note to self: Sort out capitalization later.
Lost as he was in his revelry, Stuart plowed over an ancient old man cobbling together his forward progress with a walker and steely determination. The senior crumpled to the walkway with a sickening crunchy-squish. Once on the ground, he remained motionless.
Stuart was instantly outraged at the useless codger. With incendiary anger and unbridled fury, Stuart began kicking at the fallen citizen. “Watch where you’re going!” he screamed, as the point of his boot landed repeated blows to the fellow’s heaped-up body. “You could have hurt me. What were you thinking? Are you an assassin sent by Satan—or worse yet, Jon Ryan—to destroy me? I’m no one’s fool and certainly not yours.” Stuart’s foot kept swinging, but it no longer found purchase amidst the octogenarian’s bones.
Stuart looked from side to side and found that several passersby were pulling him backward, away from the motionless body. In spite of his robotic strength, Stuart could not free his arms or spin out of their restraint. A panic set in. His assailants must also be androids! How else could they master him so completely? More assassins dispatched by the accursed Ryan to derail the bright future he was to gift to humanity.
His outrage was complete, and it was pure. He head-butted the nearest monster that held him. That allowed him enough movement to cast off the other soldiers of darkness and rally to the defense of the general public, which he, Lord Stuart, represented.
Bleeding and broken good Samaritans tumbled to the ground. Someone shouted to call the police. Aha! His would-be murderers needed backup. He, being no fool, wouldn’t wait for the arrival of any more of Ryan’s goon squad. He launched one last killing blow at one of his foes and began running home, back to his hidden fortress. No one would find him, and no one could follow. No! He was too clever, too fast, and too invisible for human eyes to follow.
He ran like the righteous wind he was, sweeping
the planet to purify it, and he disappeared.
Three hours later, a huge contingent of armed soldiers surrounded the city blocks at whose center was The Fortune Garden restaurant. Police and military personnel in civilian garb simulated the normal ebb and flow of people in the cordoned-off zone. Even infant-size dolls were paraded around, to help complete the picture of normalcy visible from the restaurant. A plan had been rapidly agreed upon by the combined security forces, but not a single person was certain of its wisdom or safety.
It was clear from the observation cameras that followed Marshall's haphazard progress to his lair that he still held the dead man's switch in his left hand. If he couldn't be incapacitated without releasing pressure on the trigger, millions would die. The sketchy plans involved Heath Ryan interceding to stop Marshall, though it was not disclosed to the security personnel how that magic would be accomplished. If the vice president failed, an all-out assault would be launched. At the very least, there could be no possible escape for the murderous Marshall.
The front door to Stuart Marshall's hovel flexed under the force of the knocking. For several minutes, Stuart tried his best to ignore the interruption, but he finally gave in. He opened the door to find the diminutive Mrs. Wong glaring up at him, hands positioned defiantly on her hips.
“What?” he snapped. “I've very busy and have no time for you.” He started to shut the door.
Mrs. Wong's tiny foot halted the closure. She stepped forward to occupy the portal. “You got roaches!”
Stuart was dumbstruck. Of course he had roaches. He lived behind this troll woman's squalid kitchen. “And? Why do you pester me with such triviality?”
“Roach no trivial!” She edged up to him and thumped his chest with her finger. “You bring roaches! I never have roach before you. Now, I have roach everywhere!”
He was uncertain how to proceed. His first instinct was to beat her to death on the spot. Alternately, he could invite her in, dismember her, and place what remained in the restaurant's refrigerator. Or, he could take the bait. That was not, specifically, how Stuart perceived his choice, but it was the one he made.
The Forever Fight: The Forever Series Book 3 Page 8