The Crisis Masters

by Gerry Hart

"Transfer to what?"

  “Another mind? “ The doctor shrugged, thinking the answer obvious.

  "Doctor, how was Professor Ibdidgor being funded?"

  "I should be asking you, Crisis Master. The professor was commissioned by your agency, someone in the highest ranks. "

  Terrain and his Dahlia left the university and returned to headquarters. Terrain plopped a recording disc of the surveillance of Professor Ibdidgor's lab on his desk, flopped himself on his lean-to chair in front of his desk, and sighed while running his hands down in his face in effort to rub the fatigue out of his skin and eyes. He withdrew them when he realized two high ranking Crisis Masters standing before him.

  Ranking 996 Crisis Master Cranston Galveston was a heavy set man with short cropped steel hair, wide eyes, and drooping jowls. Ranking 994 Crisis Master Mumar Oman was of Arab descent and had a stern face, dark eyes, rigid body, and coiffure hair.

  “Administrator Travis Obee is missing. O.B.S.E.A.C.C. states you were the last one to see him the night before. He has simply vanished since then.”

  “OB !” Terrain shouted.

  “Responding.” O.B.S.E.A.C.C. replied.

  “How can you say Administrator Obee is missing? Can’t you track his light frequency?”

  “I regret to inform you, Crisis Master Terrain that his light frequency ceased to transmit shortly after your visit at 4am, an hour after meeting with you.”

  “Are you implying Crisis Master Terrain had something to do with Administrator Obee’s disappearance?” Galveston asked.

  “Recordings indicate Crisis Master Terrain was home at 4am but it doesn’t necessarily rule him out as a suspect of I may offer a supposition?”

  “Go on.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Terrain said in disbelief.

  Oman put a hand on Terrain’s shoulder.

  “Could Crisis Master Terrain have delivered a blow to Administrator Obee then left him for dead?”

  “Are you suggesting that the administrator remains alive for another hour then expires?” Oman asked then answered his own question. “OB, we sent CMs to Obee’s residence. They didn’t find him. How could the body be moved without you recording another light frequency?”

  “My supposition would be the light frequency was masked, Crisis Master Oman.” Obee replied.

  "Does something feel wrong to you, gentlemen?" Terrain asked his fellow Crisis Masters then asked the sentient computer. “OB, did you or did you not withhold information from me early this morning stating it was classified at the highest level being 1000?”

  O.B.S.E.A.C.C. paused before he stated:

  “Affirmative.”

  “Administrator Obee classified information relating to a murder investigation?” Galveston asked with irritation.

  “For the record, Crisis Master Galveston, Terrain was pursuing a different path in his investigation rather than pursuing the overall suspect, Phillip Tork.” O.B.S.E.A.C.C pointed out.

  “You mean fourteen overall suspects, OB?” Terrain asked sarcastically.

  “Affirmative.” O.B.S.E.A.C.C. responded dejectedly noting Terrain’s sarcasm.

  “Fourteen Phillip Torks? What do you mean?" Galveston asked.

  "A chameleon can adapt to its surroundings, but it is still there. Do any of us know what goes through its mind?" Terrain's Dahlia said.

  Galveston and Oman looked from the Dahlia back to Terrain.

  "Doc is saying that I've been gathering pieces to a puzzle that indicate a conspiracy within our agency." Terrain stated flatly.

  “Balderdash!!” Galveston blurted.

  “What is your evidence, Terrain?” Oman asked with a little more calm.

  “I have only speculation, gentleman.” Terrain sighed. “My insight stems from a murdered Dahlia’s connection to Administrator Obee, fourteen missing former Crisis Masters, and one of our top esteemed scientists, Professor Ibdidgor, and one more piece of information....

  “I believe O.B.S.E.A.C.C is guilty of subterfuge!”

  “I am incapable of lying.” O.B.S.E.A.C.C replied.

  “Wrong, you son of a bitch! Somebody has given you the ability to misdirect and deceive!”

  3

  Galveston and Oman glared at Terrain. If Terrain’s accusations were true, they could shake the Crisis Masters’ foundation to its very core!

  “We will investigate these claims. Both yours and O.B.S.E.A.C.C’s, Terrain” Oman said with regret. “However, until a resolution can be reached, two things must happen. O.B.S.E.A.C.C must be deactivated and you, Terrain, are off this case!” Terrain was about to protest, but Oman pointed a finger at him. “Be grateful you are not relieved of duty!”

  September 6, 4072, 8:00 p.m.

  “I’m on detached duty! I can’t touch the Dahlia’s murder case!” Terrain vented to his friend and fellow Crisis Master, Greg Marsh, a bulky man in his early fifties. He had grey hair around the ears and back of the head which connected to a beard but no hair lingered on top.

  Marsh ran the hub of Crisis Master Central Headquarters 001. He referred to himself as a glorified traffic manager. He acted as liaison between Crisis Masters, handing out assignments, providing intel and updates. He was the Crisis Masters’ nerve center. Marsh admitted he wanted this type of role because of his choice of role models was unique. He admired Cecilia Dontano, part of the legendary S.E.C.U.R.E. agents from Old Earth. She was an intel master too.

  “I think you’re looking at this the wrong way.” Marsh said. “I think Oman did you a favor putting you on detached duty.”

  “And how’s that, oh sage one?” Terrain asked.

  “Detached duty basically puts you in an observer position. Observers can also provide input.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “And you’re the detective.” Marsh sighed, still getting Terrain’s blank stare. “You can’t touch this case, but I can hook you up with the CMs and automatons that can. All you have to do is... observe,”

  Terrain smiled then grimaced.

  “What about O.B.S.E.A.C.C?” He asked.

  “I received a dispatch that OB’s been ordered to download all information he’s acquired in the past week then shutdown.” Marsh replied. “However, it seems OB’s stalling so they’re sending up a CM tech and CM bodyguard up to his satellite to take care of matters manually.

  “Now, fourteen sightings of Phillip Tork?”

  “Yep. You are thinking to investigate the sightings on Techno-World? Crisis Master Marsh, it is in my purview to act as ‘observer’.”

  “Aye, sir. Let’s see who we can assist you...”

  September 6, 4072, 8:00 p.m.

  Crisis Master Tech Gerad Debrowski and Crisis Master Bodyguard Ed Natcher approached O.B.S.E.A.C.C’s orbital satellite.

  Debrowski was a timid man, 5’7”, coiffure red hair, with a slim body. Natcher was a stereotypical jock, 6’5”, stone face, and stone body.

  “I’d rather be doing this from my desk terminal.” Debrowski muttered.

  “You did.” Natcher added. “OB wouldn’t let you in. You concluded Ob’s data would have to be downloaded manually from his main computer console aboard his satellite. Your boss volunteered you, so here we are. Third and last time, I hope to here you complain.”

  “No sir, Yes sir, sorry sir.” Debrowski saluted with sarcasm.

  “Keep it up and see who watches your ass.” It was Natcher’s turn to mutter but then he spoke into his microphone. “Prepare for docking, OB.”

  “Welcome, Crisis Master Natcher, Crisis Master Debrowski.” O.B.S.E.A.C.C. greeted.

  “OB, you do know why we’re here?” Debrowski asked.

  “Yes, Crisis Master. I was informed by Crisis Master Oman who seems to be in charge due to Administrator Obee’s absence. Opening landing bay doors.”

  “You think it would have been Galveston in charge.” Natcher commented aloud.

  “Negative, Crisis Master Natcher.” Obee started to correct the CM’s statement. Crisis Master Galveston ha
s always gone on record stating he is most valuable on the bridge of a starship. It is a strong possibility that, even though he is the highest ranking official, he deferred the decision making to Crisis Master Oman.”

  “I stand corrected, OB.” Natcher admitted. “Commencing docking procedures.”

  Natcher landed the shuttle effortlessly according to procedure. Sensors indicated life support was active. Debrowski and Natcher disembarked from the shuttle.

  “Now, OB, can you direct us to your main console?” Debrowski asked.

  “No.” O.B.S.E.A.C.C. simply responded.

  “I beg your pardon?” Debrowski stated with surprise. “OB, you were given a command by the highest authority, Crisis Master Oman.”

  “That is incorrect, Crisis Master Debrowski. I am not obliged to follow Crisis Master Oman’s commands.”

  Two lasers shot out and disintegrated Debrowski and Natcher. There was no trace they were ever there,

  O.B.S.E.A.C.C. gained access to the shuttle’s computer and shut down all power including the shuttle’s emergency beacon and transponder. The shuttle would be undetected.

  O.B.S.E.A.C.C. powered down all his systems, letting himself drift in orbital space.

  September 6, 4072, 10:00 p.m.

  Rave Henderson was out of place in the Upper Spires of Techno-World.

  The Upper Spires were for the Elite, the ultra-rich. No one else except employees was permitted, not even elected officials. It was the habit of the masses to elect Moderate to Middle Class candidates. Everyone hated the ultra-rich. In turn, the Elite let no one who did not meet their standards access to the Upper Spires. There was only one requirement to gain access- a net worth of, at least, a quarter of a billion dollars.

  When the colonies were formed, it was understood everyone would have a shot at wealth and opportunity. Equal opportunity would begat equality and harmony while eliminating poverty and strife. It never happened. Individuals cornered markets. Markets formed corporations. If you were not a part of a corporation, if you tried to make it on your own, you had to live off the "table scraps". If you could not make it on your own and could not leave Techno-World, you were at the bottom living the Natural Law -Survival of the Fittest.

  Trickledown economics survived in 4050 with a vengeance: Elite, Moderate, Middle Class, and The Cast Offs. No one knows or can't prove how the original policy changed. There are theories. Former elected officials who served at the beginning, who formed government policy, were now members of the Elite. The Baaldurans, the saviors of humanity, favored certain individuals with technology and support in order for the aliens to carve a niche in the colonies. The rest of the theories are hearsay.

  There was an alternative to serving a corporation. A person could become a part of organized crime. All the Old Earth crimes like prostitution, protection, loan sharking, and arms dealing were still alive. Drugs were declared legal and only available through a prescription. However, doctors could be bribed. Organized crime was still profitable and crime lords were always amongst the Elite. Crime lords were always taken by the allure of the Elite.

  The allure is the reason the position of mob boss is like a running joke. A mob boss is like a revolving door because he's always revolving. If a mobster was so bold as to take residence among the Elite, he left himself open to the scrutiny of the Crisis Masters. The Crisis Masters usually make a solid case when linking a member of the Elite to organized crime. Bringing down a mob boss keeps Techno-World's crime rate down.

  The current Crisis Master amongst the Elite was Rave Henderson.

  Rave loved her job. She was Middle Class because a Crisis Master official can only achieve Moderate status and only Administrators were paid to Moderate scale. The primary reason for becoming a Crisis Master is for the action and excitement. It is also the reason most Crisis Masters remain Middle Class. For Rave, being Middle Class had an actual benefit. As a Crisis Master, she had total autonomy to go wherever she had to in the Upper Spires. She grated on the ultra-rich and she loved it.

  Rave and her Dahlia, Chloe, stood atop the landing roof of the Apalla restaurant. Rave stood at 6'5 and 140 lbs with a hard body accentuating her bosom, buttocks and legs. She was in her late forties but retained the look and health of a twenty year old. She had long, dark, curly hair, crystal blue eyes, creamy face, and passionate lips. She held a Winns and Minister Ultimo light plasma rifle. At its highest setting, the rifle had a charge to blow any roof or door, but its force was only enough to incapacitate rather than kill a human being. Rave didn't mind dealing pain, but she would spare a life if she could.

  Terrain and Doc landed on the roof. Terrain disembarked and met Rave, shaking her hand.

  "Wait here, Chloe." Rave ordered the Dahlia. “Keep your fellow Dahlia company.”

  "Frogs are asexual yet some refer to them as ‘ he’. " The Dahlia stated.

  Rave turned to the Dahlia. "You compare yourself to a frog, Chloe."

  The Dahlia glared at Rave.

  "I'm sorry. Just teasing. However, who says Chloe can't be a male name? I like it. You know the unwritten rule. Got to name you something."

  The Dahlia sighed and shook its head.

  Rave smiled and motioned Terrain to follow her as she preceded downstairs to the dining room.

  " Sacre` Clemente ! " The Maitre De gasped.

  "Hello, Andre!" Rave said. She handed the host a swipe card as she continued toward the dining room. "This will pay for the damages."

  Rave headed to one of the corner back tables. She was greeted by two thugs. She delivered an uppercut to the first thug's jaw using her rifle then swung the rifle in a downward arc catching the second thug in the privates.

  She stood in front of the table, using her rifle as a lean-to. "Hello, Risulli."

  "Rave." greeted the man behind the table. Risulli was a sickly thin man in his late forties. He had a big head which seemed to droop down into languid cheekbones and a small chin. The head was covered with greasy, thinning hair. "Still checking up on me, hmmm? Who’s your friend?"

  “Crisis Master Mender Terrain, Detective division.”

  “Bringing a big wig to the party now. Am I getting that important, Rave?”

  "It's just a matter of time, Ris. We can't touch you for the drugs it seems but we'll find out where your money trail goes sooner or later. "

  "It goes into my pocket, Rave. How do you think I can afford all this? "

  "Your taxes show you run a pharmaceutical company that has a dozen or so highly paid doctors prescribing drugs to their ‘patients’. We can't touch you for that. However, costs- to- run should only place you at Moderate level, yet somehow you manage a net worth of over a billion a year. "

  "Some would call it proper investments."

  "It's a facade."

  "So you're still digging, Rave. Why are you harassing me without something to back you up? It isn't your style. "

  Rave was silent. She looked to Terrain who nodded in consent. She wasn't happy about her next move. "I'm here to make a truce."

  Risuli's eyes lit up then took a serpent's look. "Why do I need a truce with, you?"

  "You've gotten greedy, Ris. A crime lord who makes it to the Elite has his days numbered. I'm offering you an extension. You can use the time to get off Techno-World, solidify your hold (such as it is or will be).....

  “ …. Maybe influence your welfare, Rave ? “

  "You do have a way of masking your threats, Ris. They still don't matter to me"

  Risuli glowered. "So what do I have to do for this truce?"

  "I'm looking for a man named Phillip Tork."

  Risuli scoffed. "Is that all? Two months." Rave was caught off guard. Risuli emphasized. "I want you to back off of me for two months."

  Rave looked at Mender, hesitated, then said: "Done."

  "Tork used to be a Crisis Master, right?"

  "Yes. One of the first and the best." Terrain answered.

  "Rumor has it a rogue Crisis Master is in talks with the Duchess Cami
lle.” Rissuli confessed. “He's looking for funding. "

  "Funding? For what?"

  "Dunno, but I can tell you why the Duchess is taking these talks seriously. She wants absolute power. "

  Rave looked perplexed. "More than she's got now?"

  "Apparently so."

  “How can a member of the Elite find more power? “

  "Well, that's the strange part. The people I talk to say she offers only one explanation. "

  "Which is?"

  "By becoming a queen."

  September 6, 4072, 11:00 p.m.

  It was late in the evening. The three automatons were recalled to Crisis Master Headquarters 598. They were addressed by Crisis Master Marsh. He sat at a computer console used for downloading orders into automatons. Crisis Master Terrain stood by his side.

  Zach, Derek, and Shane were the latest in automaton technology. Automatons differed from androids in several ways. An automaton's appearance is generic except for the facial features. The rest of the body is colored silver and formed as a male gender. The facial features are different to tell the automatons apart. Automatons have limited self awareness. They are programmed with a sense of right and wrong, certain directives as indicated by Asimov's rules, and an unwavering sense of duty to any task they are assigned to. Automatons compromise half of the Crisis Master's Monitor division of Techno-World. They are tireless, perfect for substitutions, and can work without the supervision of a Dahlia.

  Zach, Derek, and Shane were the latest technology because the three had developed what no automaton had ever possessed before. All three possessed emotional responses. Derek, exclusively, was a hopeless romantic. The trio was nicknamed "the Stooges". Their antics provided for interesting stories. However, their antics usually amassed property damage although no accidental fatalities. Their high arrest rate prevented the trio from being reprogrammed. Administration crossed their fingers in the hopes that constant admonishments from superiors would have them toe the line.

  "Crisis Master Terrain has accompanied me to CM Headquarters 598 to assist me in an ongoing investigation. I'm downloading an image of fugitive Phillip Tork." Marsh began. "The former Crisis Master has gone rogue. There have been fourteen sightings of the fugitive. Two of the sightings have him targeting patrol automatons in the area between Sectors 2000 and 3000 of Techno-World. You three autos are to canvas the area either providing a target or quickly responding to an automaton hit. "