The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  Michael saw Sammie’s indignance at being shunted aside. He took a measure of comfort that someone else felt as useless as he. They backed into the cushioned vertical slats of the still-seat pod. Brey showed them how to trigger their slat’s magnetism. They rubbed their hands three times, laid their catalyzed palms against the slat, and a gentle suction grabbed them, head to toe.

  “It will hold you against any stress,” he said. “To release, close your fingers into a pair of fists. Step away. Simple. Close your eyes, you’ll be asleep in two minutes. Trust me – it’s a deep sleep.”

  Michael was exhausted and would have accepted the advice were he not stupefied by the constant attempts on his life. The slat allowed minimal movement, but Sammie moved her lips. Perhaps planning ten steps ahead, like any good Chancellor? He wondered what Ophelia meant when she referenced Sammie’s “good fortune.” Michael felt like the idiot who missed the punchline.

  Moments later, when Patricia appeared before the teens with a palm-sized blinking cube, Michael’s despair thickened.

  “Both,” the chief announced. “Subcutaneous transponders. Likely planted through dermal nodes.” Before either teen could speak, she told them, “We call them bleeders. Proprietary UG tech. Each of you has one at the base of your brain stem. Had to be the admiral. He welcomed both of you – a handshake, Samantha. A hand on your neck and shoulder, Michael? Yes?”

  “I don’t understand,” Michael said. “What’s a bleeder?”

  “Temporary tracker and intelligence-gatherer. Links to your neural system, records everything you say and do. Transmits through the closest open stream, then it dissolves. No evidence.”

  “Everything?” Sammie said. “But why us?”

  “Good question,” Patricia said. “Bleeders have a lifespan of two standard hours. Perrone must think you have strategic value.”

  Michael’s stomach twisted. “Hold the fort. He knows everything we said since we left the hillside?”

  “If not yet, soon. Both Dr. Tomelin and I opened our streams.”

  Michael pegged himself as more than an idiot. He was a genuine sucker. He remembered how the admiral questioned their scripted tale about his wife and son’s heroic deaths. And Perrone’s words:

  “I find time reveals all.”

  He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

  “I am really starting to hate you people.”

  14

  Intercollectorate Presidium of the Unification Guard

  Great Plains Metroplex, North American Consortium

  T HE GPM HAD NOT CHANGED SINCE AUGUSTUS PERRONE first landed here thirty-nine years earlier to begin his career. The great cathedral of the UG government remained exactly as constructed seven centuries ago. It was dedicated at the height of the Collectorate’s glory: All forty worlds achieved stable economies, and the great migration was complete. He admired its vision, the consistency of tradition, the time-honored symbols of its permanence.

  He also realized, as did many, that the great institutions of the Chancellory would soon crack at their foundations. He feared the day but vowed never to witness it. Now, as he stood at the base of the Atrium Aeterna and looked skyward to forty flights of forged crystals from every planet, Perrone contemplated his gamble. He studied the hundred-meter brontinium statue at the center of the atrium and wondered what Johannes Ericsson, the UG’s founder, would think of coming developments. He tapped his internal stream and dictated in silentium to his personal log.

  “I lost a wife and child today – not that they were ever truly mine to lose. Nonetheless, I have no personal investment in the coming generation. This proposition liberates me. Whether to unleash a catastrophe that will kill millions or a genocide targeting billions, I cannot say. I will see the future take form today. For the sake of a boy’s life, I had best be impressed. End log.”

  The cavernous central promenade of the GPM harbored a continuous echo, as the hushed tones of the hundreds of Chancellors at its ground floor drifted skyward to form an incoherent music amid the crystals. The music calmed Perrone until his aide arrived.

  Major Sexton Marshall, 9th Battalion, Inner Colony Command, saluted the admiral with a side-nod. Above average by peacekeeper standards, he stood 7-6, an inch taller than Perrone, 400 pounds of muscle. His officers called him The Monolith.

  “They are being prepared, sir. The facility is combat-ready. We may commence at your command.”

  “That level has been cleared of non-essentials?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, the chamber was undergoing a refresh cycle. Three Solomons on duty. We dispatched them to new assignments.”

  Perrone winced. “I have always objected to Solomons working anywhere in the GPM. Mark these words, Major. Our liberal policies will have consequences someday soon. And what of the brothers? Do they realize what will happen next?”

  Marshall frowned. “Difficult to say. Specialist Bouchet has been asking questions. He strikes me as a man who expects answers from his commanders, especially when he is assigned to an admiral. As you predicted, stripping him of his uniform and nullifying his amp have left him feeling somewhat vulnerable.”

  “And James?”

  “Stoic. I would expect a boy on this side of the fold for less than two hours to show terror. We have stripped him bare, stranded him in a frigid isolation cube, and yet …”

  “Out with it, Major.”

  “Something familiar in his eyes. I’ve seen it before battle: Peacekeepers who have faced death and now honor it by preparing to inflict it upon others. He is not of this Earth and yet …”

  “He is. Yes, Major, I saw it when I first met him near the IDF. He spoke with poise, lied to me with grace about my wife and child. What he seeks goes far beyond you and me. Perhaps I should fear him. Or perhaps I should slice off his head and be done with it.”

  “But there’s far too much at stake. Yes? We have to know.”

  Perrone sighed. “Indeed. We should be going.”

  As they joined the moving spiralcase toward the underground levels, Perrone calculated as far ahead as he dared.

  “Are the last of our people positioned in SkyTower?”

  “They are, Admiral. However, I have concerns.”

  “Such as?”

  “I question their loyalty, should the worst-case orders be given. If they believe they can negotiate a better deal for their descendencies, they will turn.”

  “Yes, and every Presidium within twenty light-years will demand our heads. Therefore, the next two stages must be executed with precision. Agree, Major?”

  “Naturally, Admiral. Which brings me to the latest concern. I have been monitoring your circastream, as you asked. Most of the contacts have been routine. But as I prepared to join you, I captured a transmission from Dr. Tomelin. She believes you targeted her ship with orbital slews. She …”

  Perrone froze. “She what? They were attacked? Their status?”

  “None harmed, but she is put-out. It was him, yes? Bouchet.”

  The admiral snapped his fingers and smirked.

  “He played his hand too soon. The man is desperate. Is there any way he knows we have the Jewel?”

  “No, sir. Not James. Nor Valentin.”

  “How soon before we have the Ukrainian package secured?”

  “Scorch is underway now. I expect finality within the hour.”

  He slapped the major on the back. “You’re a fine officer, Sexton. I have worked with three Marshalls in my time – brilliant, the lot of them. You have a proud descendency.” He leaned in and lowered his voice as the spiralcase dropped near his level. “Return to your station and establish a full surveillance on Tomelin’s team. Analyze the bleeders I planted on the Pynn girl and that strange proto-African boy. Pass along anything actionable.”

  “As you command, Admiral.” He glanced toward an upcoming corridor blocked by the red glow of a cascade shield. “Best of luck in there, sir. May the results go our way.”

  Perrone stepped off the spiralcase and des
cended a bridge into a sector set aside for classified interrogation and re-education. He opened his amp and disarmed the cascade shield. He took a tube down six flights and stepped out onto a control balcony overlooking a stark, oval chamber cast in spotlights. A barrier of two-way glass on all three sides hid the balcony’s occupant from the open expanse below. He took a seat and swiped his hand across the glass, forming a rectangle. The chamber’s holo-controls flared into action.

  He tapped the open comm. “Are they ready, Lieutenant?”

  The voice of his Scramjet pilot returned. “In position, sir.”

  “Escort them in. Ten meters and hold for my command.”

  He closed the comm and spoke to the glass. “Open InterStream diode. Command authorization 1-9-Perrone-X-Invidious-AdmSync.”

  A holographic window, three feet square, separated from the glass. Stream filters trickled down like raindrops on glass.

  “Initiate contact with Amp 779255997-Bouchet.Emil. Override inner security field. Admiralty authorization Classification.D1Storm.”

  His request, while in technical violation of the Earth’s constitutional statutes regarding stream privacy, manipulated its way past security barriers and directly into the personal stream queue of Perrone’s target. The new window revealed the face of a mustachioed man wiping his lips with a gold-lined napkin.

  “Hello, Emil,” the admiral said with a swagger. “Caught you dining, have I?”

  Emil Bouchet, a man of deep-set eyes, receding hairline, and birthmark beneath his chin, leaned back into a palatial chair and looked off-screen for an instant. He showed no outward emotion, which disappointed Perrone.

  “Actually, Augustus, I just enjoyed the last savor of an exquisite cherry and pomegranate tart. Frances and I were preparing to settle in for a quiet evening.” His voice carried a soothing even nonchalant rhythm. “When my amp triggered, I told Frances, ‘Why would anyone of stature show such a blatant disregard for etiquette?’”

  Perrone slapped his hands together and belly-laughed.

  “Etiquette? Is that what you call it, Emil?” His humor dissolved in an instant. “I wonder what the etiquette is regarding the use of illegally-purchased energy slews unleashed on a civilian target?”

  Emil’s placid features did not alter. “Oh, I would think a crack on the knuckles at the least. What are you implying, Augustus?”

  “You missed, Emil. Or should I say, the mercs you hired botched the job. And even if you had succeeded, you would have killed no high-value targets.” Perrone soured his voice. “I have him, Emil. Your son. The Jewel.” He paused, measured his next word for effect, and watched Bouchet’s eyes. “Both.”

  Perrone saw a fraction of a wince, the tightening of a wrinkle.

  “I am not disposed to your twisted humor, Augustus.”

  The admiral sighed. “And I thought I was the cold fish. Here it is straight, Emil. I hope the news settles as well as your tart. Within the hour, both of us will likely be childless. A fair dessert, yes? You shuffled away my wife and son fifteen years ago to look over a boy you hoped never to see again. Today, you tried everything in your power to kill him. And while those facts beg a series of urgent questions, the only relevant concern is that your son, the First Specialist who joined the UG against your wishes, and your other son, a perversion of bioengineering, are about to kill each other. In the likely event you do not trust my words …”

  Perrone grabbed a new image off the holo-controls and threw it into the holocube of Emil Bouchet, who leaned forward. Perrone waited until shock turned to fear. He was not disappointed.

  Down below, Valentin and James Bouchet stood twenty feet apart from each other, naked but for a wrap over their genitals. A peacekeeper stood at each brother’s side.

  “Tell me, Emil. Does James realize you discarded him? Does Valentin know what he truly is? Our sins weigh heavy. Yes?”

  Bouchet cupped a fist against his lips and cursed, the most emotion Perrone ever saw from the man.

  “I will contact you later, Emil. You deserve the courtesy of knowing how many sons you still have, if any.”

  15

  J AMES HAD EXPERIENCE WITH LOCKER-ROOM BULLIES, so he perceived the best strategy involved closed lips. He said nothing while escorted from the admiral’s Scramjet blindfolded or while stripping naked in a windowless cell as big as a walk-in closet. He avoided eye contact despite the peacekeeper’s condescending stare.

  He made no sudden moves when the officer told him, “I saw what you did to that merc. Go ahead. Annihilate me. You can’t kill us all with that trick, and I doubt you can stop a flash peg.”

  James looked within and dug his feet into the gulf shore’s hot sand, as if it might offset the cell floor’s bitter cold.

  “He’s right,” James told Ignatius. “I acted too soon. Now I don’t have the element of surprise.”

  “True,” Ignatius said, topping his shiny skull with a floppy souvenir beach hat. “But you still maintain a strategic opportunity. They fear what you have not yet shown.”

  “Oh? I got other talents aside from burning people alive?”

  “You have me, and they are unaware of our relationship. Never forget: We can have a fruitful conversation in the literal blink of an eye. Chancellors are strategic thinkers, but they also take enormous pleasure in the sound of their own voices. Use their arrogance to our advantage.”

  After James stripped, the peacekeeper handed the t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers to another soldier and ordered them disintegrated. He returned with palm open, bearing a gray coin that James thought resembled silly putty. The officer told him to stand still.

  “This is an organic bonding sheathe, standard issue for close-quarter combat and kwin-sho contact drills. I will press it against the apex of your pubic domain and hold for five seconds. The bonding solution will establish a molecular connection, and the sheathe will extend to enclose your genitalia. Assuming your brother does not kill you, the sheathe will protect your manhood.”

  James did not resist. The clay-like mass warmed his skin. When the officer retreated, the sheathe expanded across his most delicate region like a predator.

  “We have confirmation,” Ignatius said. “You and Valentin will be pitted in a match to the death.”

  “He said kwin-sho. What is that?”

  “A savage competition which Chancellors consider an art. Valentin is well-seasoned. Fortunately, kwin-sho demands physical skillsets only possessed by Chancellors. Whatever they have planned, James, will be at best a modification.”

  “So? Valentin has a hundred pounds on me.”

  “And an assumption of absolute superiority. James, do you consider me an ally?”

  “No, but you sure as shit can defend yourself.”

  “Good answer. Skeptical yet practical. What do you say we run our paces through a few basic maneuvers?”

  In a flash, Ignatius stood near water’s edge, where the sand packed firm. He wore a white karate robe with brown belt. He motioned James forward.

  Moments later, two peacekeepers took James. When they stepped into a long, shadowed corridor, they intercepted Valentin and the two soldiers marching abreast of him. Like James, his brother was also stripped but for a bonding sheathe across his genitals. The physical mismatch never seemed more staggering.

  At some level, James admired Valentin’s perfect symmetry – the V configuration of sculpted, undulating upper torso and a narrow, chiseled abdomen. Terminator. Schwarzenegger. It all fit. More than that, James saw an empty, soulless contempt in his brother’s eyes. James detected no rage, no thirst for victory; nor did he sense any desire for familial outreach. In this moment, he would have appreciated a condescending smirk.

  “If he kills me, will he even care?”

  Their practice round concluded, Ignatius toasted the sunset.

  “He did not know of you yesterday, so if he no longer has to know of you tomorrow …” He sipped champagne from a long flute. “The question answers itself. Make sure he knows of you to
morrow.”

  That was the general idea, although James understood he had no shot at victory in a fair fight. Instead, as he marched in silentium toward the inevitable, James wondered what Perrone hoped to gain. Was this vengeance for Christian and Agatha? Did he want to see how far he could push the Jewel before it incinerated Valentin? Neither possibility, nor the theatrics, made sense. The uncertainty frightened James more than the pain about to be inflicted upon him.

  The corridor ended at a windowless door. A soldier tapped his stream amp to Perrone’s voice. “Are they ready, Lieutenant?”

  “In position, sir.”

  “Escort them in. Ten meters and hold for my command.”

  The door disappeared, and one soldier led Valentin first. The peacekeeper who watched James strip down leaned in to whisper.

  “Your new brother deserves a good smack-around. If you can connect with one smart lick before he tears your head off, I will not be the only satisfied old soldier.”

  James had no response. Instead, he turned to Ignatius.

  “Why would he say that? Ever since I went on the run, all I’ve seen is Chancellors trying to take each other out. And these people run a galactic empire?”

  Ignatius smiled. “Their ancestors did the heavy lifting. These most recent generations are the spoiled remains. They crave solace for their wandering hearts. Now you come along … something new.”

  “I’m the entertainment.”

  “After a fashion, I suppose you are.”

  The stark chamber he entered seemed fit for just such a venue. All it lacked was a hungry audience thirsting for blood. Spotlights from a high ceiling cast narrow beams that intercepted each other, like a continuous Venn diagram. His guard ordered him to stop in a lit circle three shy of his brother, who turned and tightened his stance for battle. Legs extended, arms to his sides, fists balled.

  James called upon the moves Ignatius taught him, but he could not decide on an opening maneuver – let alone if it might leave even a bruise on Valentin. The longer they stood without orders to begin, the more James wondered whether the delay might dent his brother’s enthusiasm. They held captive in those spotlights for five minutes before a familiar voice cascaded from above.