Resonant Son

by J. N. Chaney

  The truth was, Heather had endured her own measure of ridicule for my dismissal from the force too. That couldn’t have been easy. Plus, I suspected her complaints about me being “emotionally unavailable” weren’t entirely unfounded. Maybe moving to another system would have helped—that was all she asked for, wasn’t it? But I couldn’t bring myself to leave Sellion City. Call me a creature of habit or just call me stubborn—that was what Heather did—but Sellion City was home, and it would take forces larger than a career failure and Heather Reed to get me to leave.

  Still, a voice in my head told me that Heather should have stuck it out. Should have stayed with me for better or worse—wasn’t that how the vows went? But between my reputation and our lack of credits, this was the hand I’d been dealt. The bright side, if there was one, was that I’d already landed the graveyard shift. I had no need to get a second job now that the Reed household was reduced to one wage earner.

  You’re a slave to the credits now, Reed.

  And that was the ironic thing about all of this. I’d always suspected that Heather was more upset about my cut in salary than the hit against my name. It meant she had to start working again. And now, here I was, barely making ends meet by guarding an office building responsible for over eighty-percent of the planet’s revenue. Sure, I hated that she had to get a job. I took a hit every damn time she left the house, knowing my salary just wasn’t enough. But that was Sellion City.

  “You still can’t afford good scotch, Reed,” I mumbled under the stream of hot water. Someday, that would all change. I just needed to liquidate the unit, sell some things, and keep working these doubles until…

  Until when?

  I was already the “old man” on the detail at forty-five—so said Polski and Hoss when I wasn’t around. I’d seen the surveillance footage. Everyone else my age was in management. I’d be sixty by the time a promotion came my way. The truth was, all my someday soons were fast becoming one day nevers.

  I toweled off and suited up in front of my locker. The EnerTron badge—while it tried to look like a Sellion City Police Department badge—was a joke. It only gave guards authority in Oragga Complex. Still, that meant a sidearm, handcuffs, and an in-ear comm—a lot more than other security details allowed.

  I reached for my weapon, sliding the holster clip over my belt. Then I popped the comm into my ear, clipped the cuffs on my hip, slid my flashlight through its metal loop on my belt, and shoved my EnerTron data pad into its rubberized pouch. I also stuffed my flask into my chest pocket—never mind that it was empty. The superstitious side of being a cop was a hard thing to shake, and this flask had been with me on my first collar. I wasn’t about to tempt fate by leaving it behind now.

  I glanced at myself in the locker mirror just before closing it. My hazel eyes stuck on the gray creeping into the brown hair at my temples. But as I ran a hand along my freshly shaven jaw line, stopping on the scar from the raid, I cheered up. “You still got it, Reed,” I said, giving myself that trademark smirk that Heather said she’d fallen in love with. I was a survivor, and I didn’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

  I left the locker room and stopped in the lounge to grab a cup of coffee. It had been years since I’d pulled a double back on the force. Gods knew I would need all the caffeine I could get. Plus, Oragga didn’t use synthetic. This was the real thing, baby. Actual off-world coffee beans shipped in from who-knew-where and ground seconds before the hot water hit them. The smell was glorious. The job might have been the only choice for a washed-up cop, but real coffee was definitely a consolation prize I would take.

  I stood there, remembering my promise to Polski and Hoss. Still, I had a couple minutes to burn. Bored, I flipped through the news feeds on the always-on screen in the lounge’s corner, hoping to find something interesting to watch. When that failed, I stepped into the admin office and reviewed the entry logs. I wasn’t actually concerned with the information, I just wanted something to do while I finished my coffee.

  Surprisingly, the log showed a few dozen people still working over the Founders Day holiday weekend. I looked for any names that I recognized—some of my regulars—but none jumped out at me.

  “Overtime’s a hard drug to give up,” I said, shaking my head and sipping the last of my coffee.

  I tossed my cup in the trash, smoothed my uniform, and headed down the corridor. I actually enjoyed the thought of being the only guard on duty. It made for a quiet night. And I didn’t mind that, not after the day I’d had. Hell, not after the year I’d had.

  As I approached the lobby door, I heard several voices coming from the other side. Polski was greeting someone with his irritating-as-sweaty-balls voice. For whatever reason, my police training kicked in, and rather than shove the door open, I peered through a narrow crack instead. The act probably saved my life.

  I watched as two men removed pistols from their jackets. Before I could even orient and assess the situation, the men fired on my fellow guards. Rounds struck each man in the head, followed by two rounds into their chests. Polski fell onto his data pad while Hoss slumped back into his chair, his head lolling over his shoulder. I drew my pistol, preparing to target the intruders, when the main doors opened and four more men entered.

  Never mind, I thought. This year could get worse.

  2

  The men were dressed in high-end business attire, looking as though they definitely belonged in the Oragga Complex. It was the assault rifles and sidearms they pulled from their coats that gave them away as being something else.

  I grabbed for the data pad on my hip. I needed to call this in to Haslow, my director, right away. He’d be sleeping at this hour, but I had an emergency override. I got his contact up and was about to initiate the call, when one of the intruders moved behind the security desk, yanked Polski’s body out of his chair, and started typing at the workstation.

  “What are you up to?” I whispered to myself.

  In the next few seconds, two really important things happened. Two really bad things.

  The first was that the emergency lockdown protocol was initiated. How the man at the terminal knew how to do this was beyond me. But he’d done it.

  “Lockdown initiated,” said an automated voice over the building’s complex-wide audio system. “Please remain at your designated emergency areas to await further instructions.” The voice repeated the alert several more times as red lights replaced the standard ambient lighting.

  Following the automated alert, a klaxon began to blare. Girders rose from the sidewalks outside to prevent vehicles from crashing into the building while steel latticework gates dropped from the window sills and door frames to cover the already bulletproof glass. Then, in a rhythmic chatter that could be heard on every floor in the entire complex, all the doors bolted shut and engaged their mag locks.

  For all intents and purposes, everyone in the building was trapped until someone got the override code. And that code came from the head of security or the CEO, both of whom were at home sleeping. Which was a serious problem since the lockdown protocol also severed all communications transmissions on private and public channels.

  I held up my data pad and noticed that it had dropped its Gal-net connection. I tapped the comm in my ear, initiating a channel scan, but it failed to connect. Nothing was getting in or out of the building without that override code.

  “Dammit,” I said, shoving the pad back into place.

  The second really bad thing that happened was that the intruder at the desk activated the fire alarm. Until that moment, I’d never considered that the lockdown protocol remained in place, even during a fire. But it did. Whoever the engineer was who made that decision needed to be shot.

  “Warning: there is a fire in the Oragga Complex,” said the automated voice. “Please proceed in a calm and orderly fashion to the nearest exit.” Again, the instructions repeated over the system as a second complimentary klaxon joined the first. Yellow lights appeared in the floor, directing me to head to
ward the lobby and out the main doors.

  “You first,” I said in defiance of the computer’s recommended course.

  The six armed intruders—terrorists was more like it—spread out. One walked dangerously close to my security door. For a second, I thought he’d seen me. But at the last moment, he turned aside and, as far as I could tell, stood with his back against the wall. Sure enough, as I looked at the other men, I noticed all the assailants were standing in the shadows, backs against the lobby walls.

  Suddenly, stairwell doors swung open on both sides of the room. Employees poured into the lobby, each person looking scared but trying their best to remain calm. Several women locked arms while men helped the elderly move more quickly than they were used to. As they headed for the main exit, a sick feeling formed in the pit of my stomach.

  “Aw hell, no…” I whispered, watching as the staff tried to get out. The doors were sealed shut. I’d never read the manual on this aspect of the lockdown protocol, but I guessed that not even the fire code made it out of the building, so there’d be no fire department coming to the rescue anytime soon either.

  “The doors are locked!” someone yelled.

  “Someone call security!” another person ordered.

  Then a woman shrieked as she noticed Polski’s and Hoss’s bodies at the security desk. More people screamed, seeing blood dripping down the rear wall. The room reached pandemonium when gunfire erupted, illuminating the vast space with flashes of light.

  “Everyone, have a seat and shut up,” one of the enforcers said, “or I shoot this nice lady in the head.” He grabbed an older-looking woman in a business suit by the hair and pressed the muzzle of his assault rifle against her temple.

  She screamed, eyes squeezed shut. “Please, please, no,” the woman pleaded.

  “Tell the good people to sit down, then,” the enforcer replied.

  “Everybody, please sit down!” The woman’s voice cracked as her captor yanked her head back. Within a few seconds, the hostages found a place on the marble floor. People whimpered, several covering their mouths to keep the sobs at bay.

  Satisfied, the punk tossed the woman to the floor. “Listen up. For the next sixty minutes, you are our prisoners. There will be no bathroom breaks, no medical needs met, and no negotiating for any reason. If you have to shit, shit in your pants. If you have a heart condition, consider this your final episode. If you say or do anything that we don’t like, you will be shot. Sit still, do as you’re told, and you’ll be free people again in sixty minutes.”

  As soon as the man was finished speaking, a set of double doors on the far side of the lobby opened. Eight more men emerged, six of them rolling large cases into the lobby. The hostages stirred at the sight of more assailants. It was the ninth and final adversary, however, who caught my attention. Judging by the confident way he walked and that he was the last to enter, this was the man in charge. No visible weapon, black mustache, and an expensive analog watch on his wrist.

  The fact that none of these goons had done anything to conceal their identities bothered me. Masks meant you were afraid of being caught on camera. They also meant that you didn’t want to be spotted after you returned to normal life or—if you happened to get collared by the cops—picked out in a line-up. You wore a mask because you lived locally and knew the hostages would survive.

  No masks meant you were an arrogant son of a bitch. It meant you didn’t care about being spotted later on because everyone already knew you were a criminal. Because you had powerful allies. And because you didn’t actually intend your hostages to survive.

  A representative from the first set of six armed thugs touched his ear and whispered something. The leader touched his ear, nodded, and then stepped forward to address the room.

  So they have their own comms. Getting one of those would be a priority. If I could hear what they were saying, maybe I could find a way to stop them, or at least keep them from hurting the hostages.

  “It seems you are the fortunate few,” said the leader, stepping forward to address the room. “You are those who will witness and tell of our little escapade. Not to worry, however. We should have you out of here in no time.” He checked his watch, then smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger.

  “My men have already given you the ground rules. So as long as you do what you’re told, this should be a relatively enjoyable experience for you, all things considered. You will, I imagine, be the highlight of every future dinner party you ever attend. Sit back, relax, and await further instructions.”

  A hand went up from someone in the crowd. It was a man in his early thirties. Gods, what was he doing?

  “Hey, Suit,” he said. “Got a question for you.” By his tone alone, I could tell this one was working the graveyard shift for a reason. Cocky, schmaltzy, and exactly the kind of sales rep you didn’t let in your house.

  The lead criminal did not look enthusiastic about the interruption, giving the hostage a thin smile. “How can I help you, mister…”

  “Deveneau,” replied the man, standing up.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Deveneau?”

  “Right, well, the thing is, I’m really not sure you know what sort of situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” I whispered, willing the man to sit back down. He was going to get himself killed, maybe others as well.

  “And what sort of situation do you perceive that I’ve gotten myself into, Mr. Deveneau?”

  “Well, judging by your men, your weapons, and whatever you’ve got in those cases there, you’re clearly here to steal something, am I right?”

  “How incredibly perceptive of you.” The leader sounded like he was mocking Deveneau, but the employee didn’t seem to pick up on it.

  “Credits, I’m assuming?” Deveneau asked. “Cause that’s what everyone asks about when they find out where I work.”

  “How astute. The truth is, I really was really hoping to become obscenely rich from this score.”

  “I figured as much.” Deveneau smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t blame you either. I’d do the same myself if I had the stones, you know what I’m saying?”

  The leader squinted. “Is this going somewhere, Mr. Deveneau?”

  “Right, so, this whole theft thing? It’s gonna be pretty difficult for you to pull off, I hate to say.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely. First off, gaining access to the vault floor is next to impossible. And even if you could, you have SOTA encryption—”

  “SOTA?”

  “Sure, stands for state-of-the art. But don’t feel bad. People miss that acronym all the time. Then there’s your rotating passkeys, biometric scanners, and that’s if you get through the vault’s impenetrable outer shell.”

  “I really do seem to have bitten off more than I can chew,” said the leader.

  “And you’re not the first. So,” Deveneau said, straightening his tie, “if you want, why don’t we just arrange a trade. I’ll get Mr. Oragga’s personal assistant’s assistant on the line, and you two can hash out a fair deal—hostages for credits. No one dies, and you get your payout. It’s easy business. What’d ya say, mister…”

  “Oubrick.”

  “Mr. Oubrick. Nice.”

  “Are you in sales, Mr. Deveneau?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess. Listen, I like your plan, I do.” Oubrick walked into the crowd of hostages. The other enforcers raised their weapons to cover their boss. “It’s simple, straightforward—”

  “Well, what can I say? I’m good at my job.”

  “Clearly. There’s just one problem.”

  “Contingencies? I’m sure we can factor those in. What is it?”

  “I really like killing people.”

  Deveneau’s face froze. Was he going pale? It was hard to tell in red light.

  “Well… I—”

  “You can’t factor that into your plan, can you?”

>   “I mean… is there something else that—”

  Before Deveneau could finish the sentence, Oubrick removed a pistol from beneath his jacket, aimed it at the hostage’s head, and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash lit up the room just as the bang made several people scream. The bullet sent a plume of tissue out the back of the man’s skull. The matter sprayed on a few of those seated, causing them to reel in horror. Deveneau’s body fell backward and slammed onto the marble with a thud.

  Dammit. The body count was up to three, and these guys hadn’t even been in the building five minutes. If there was one thing I hated more than bullies, it was murderers—the worst kind of bully. The cowards.

  Oubrick wiped his pistol with a handkerchief and placed the weapon back in his shoulder holster. “Would anyone else care to negotiate for us?” The man looked around the room. “Good. Now please stay seated and you’ll receive instructions in—” he looked down at his timepiece— “fifty-four minutes.”

  Oubrick turned and headed back toward the second group of men and the cases. Fifty-four minutes before their mission was over and they did gods knew what with these people. I slowly closed the door, but the barrel of my pistol clunked against the side of the doorframe. I cursed, pausing long enough to hear Oubrick say, “Go check it out.”

  3

  I left the lobby doors, crossed the service corridor’s junction, and raced back down the security hallway toward the surveillance room. I reached for my access pass, trying to get the card pointed in the right direction. That was when I noticed the green Open light on the door’s lock. For whatever reason, the lockdown had failed to secure this door. Once through, however, I saw it was not locking behind me either. Which meant whoever was coming after me would have an easy time gaining access to the security hallway.

  One on one, I could probably take this guy—as long as I shot first. My sidearm was no match for his automatic weapon. But gun fire would also attract more of the enemy, which meant finding concealment was critical. I wouldn’t hesitate to kill every single one of these bastards given the chance—they’d just killed three civilians—but knowing when was even more important than knowing how.