Transilience

by Kevin Bragg

  About the Author

  Kevin Bragg is a native of Detroit, who met a girl in Scotland, and now resides in the arboreal splendor of the Swedish hinterlands. He has been a great many things in his life; none of which relate to his academic pursuit of the Visigoths.

  In Kevin’s free time, he enjoys cooking, brewing beer, playing video games and standing in the garden pretending to be helpful.

  Transilience is his debut novel.

  Transilience

  Kevin Bragg

  This edition first published in 2017

  Unbound

  6th Floor Mutual House, 70 Conduit Street, London W1S 2GF

  www.unbound.com

  All rights reserved

  © Kevin Bragg, 2017

  The right of Kevin Bragg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-911586-20-3

  ISBN (Paperback):978-1-911586-19-7

  Design by Mecob

  Cover image:

  © Shutterstock.com

  © iStockphoto.com

  This book was produced using Pressbooks.com.

  For Jenny, my muse.

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound.

  Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

  If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type HELMQVIST in the promo code box when you check out.

  Thank you for your support,

  Dan, Justin and John

  Founders, Unbound

  Super Patrons

  Jason Bradley

  Jenny Bragg

  Elizabeth Bragg

  Richard W H Bray

  Natia Breedlove

  Mr Buttons

  Michael Carpenter

  Steven Davies

  Gareth Fernie

  Barry Flaga

  Göthe & Maria Götesson

  Paul Holbrook

  Marty Lowell Keeter

  Dan Kieran

  Erika Lindsay

  Ted Milliner

  John Mitchinson

  Gun-Britt & Morgan Öhman

  Bengt Oskarsson

  Kerstin Oskarsson

  Marissa Parkin

  David & Karen Pinkston

  Justin Pollard

  Scott Reid

  Kevin Sullivan

  David G Tubby

  Tom Woodgate

  With grateful thanks to David and Karen Pinkston

  Author’s Note

  A personal dedication in the front of the novel was one of the reward levels offered during the funding campaign for Transilience. Only one dedication was offered and you can imagine my delight when my parents scooped it up at the first opportunity.

  This novel could not have happened without them. They possess the best qualities a child would wish in their parents. They have given me unconditional support. They believe in my work and me. And they have the highest of hopes that I will succeed in any, and all, of my endeavours. I am very lucky to have them in my life.

  So, Mom and Dad, thank you. Thank you for helping me to realise a dream. Thank you for helping me on my journey to become a published author. And thank you for being such great parents.

  Your son,

  Kevin

  Transilience

  (Noun) An abrupt change or variation; (adjective) leaping or passing from one thing or state to another. Etymology: Latin transiliens, present participle of transilire, to leap across or over.

  Contents

  About the Author

  [Dedication]

  Dear Reader Letter

  Super Patrons

  [Frontispiece]

  Author’s Note

  Transilience

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

  28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Patrons List

  1

  New London, Mars

  The 3rd Street Lounge is a swanky bar in the city’s hellhole: the Industrial/Manufacturing District. The owner, Curtis, transformed an abandoned cube of a building into a classy gin joint with a stage for swinging bands, a dance floor for the uninhibited, an island bar in the centre of the room for the thirsty, small tables near the stage for the enthusiastic and cosy booths along the wall for the intimate. Imported wood and Art Deco comprise the majority of the decor. Why Curt chose the IM, and how he paid for the place (or the renovations for that matter), is beyond me. I’ve never asked because I don’t care.

  Anywhere else in New London, the 3rd Street Lounge would be packed every weekday night and have a line around the block on weekends. Anywhere else in this city, bands would be begging to get a gig. Instead, the stage has never seen a live act and the only people lining up are the factory workers who go to the bar instead of home at the end of their shifts.

  *

  I had my usual booth along the wall near the dance floor, and was kept company by the remnants of a gin and tonic. Baseball highlights streamed on my MIX12. If I hadn’t been so oblivious to the world around me, I’d have seen her walk in, looking as out of place in this joint as a herd of elephants on the Elysium Planitia.

  I only glanced up when I heard my name and caught a glimpse of the one person who could send me through the wormhole. At that moment, flight became impossible. Instead, I sat, rooted in my booth, and gaped like a foo
l at a woman who’d have made the Judgement of Paris infinitely harder.

  Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those poor saps instantly smitten by any dame that crosses my path. There are plenty of good-looking women in New London. But not like her. She possessed the kind of class only the truly beautiful enjoy, the very image of a New Look model complete with an Arden-styled jacket. The deep forest-green tones of the fabric matched the shade of her eyes. A blonde pixie cut framed a determined jaw, angular cheekbones and a perfectly shaped nose.

  As the mystery woman glided towards me, her expression radiated contempt. I guess I couldn’t blame her. Instead of sitting in my office, I was entrenched in a booth in New London’s very own industrial nightmare, watching sport highlights and clutching a near-empty highball glass.

  Despite what I might say on the subject, first impressions matter. The thought of being viewed as some common wino stung like a punch to the gut.

  I extracted myself from my spot and rose to greet her. She checked me out again – this time head to toe. Fortunately, my pressed wool suit and tidy haircut stood in contrast to the other patrons of the bar. Add to that my 185 centimetres of fighting fitness, and I almost made inroads. A slight smile implied a minor success.

  ‘You are Daniel Helmqvist?’ she asked with a girlish voice that betrayed the smooth, silvery tone I had already conjured in my mind.

  ‘I am. Would you care to sit and may I take your coat?’

  She arched a pencil thin eyebrow. ‘Take my coat?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, help you out of it and hang it up?’

  She turned her back to me.

  ‘A guy who takes a lady’s coat. What century did you step out of?’

  She couldn’t see my shrug or my lop-sided grin. ‘I descend from a long line of Helmqvists who put a premium on politeness.’

  ‘Polite? What a rarity these days,’ she replied as I slid off her cashmere trench coat to reveal shapely shoulders and arms of flawless alabaster. A coat hanger attached to the booth gave me the option to do more than just toss it on the bench seat.

  Unexpectedly she sat down in the exact spot I had vacated only seconds ago. The confusion killed the moment of witty banter I had been enjoying with this stranger.

  ‘Can, umm, can I get you anything?’

  ‘A soda water with a twist of lemon.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  A few minutes later, I slid around to the bend of the U-shaped booth with her drink in my left hand and a G&T in my right.

  ‘Now, Miss—’

  ‘Rennick.’

  ‘To what do I owe this visit?’ I asked as I pulled my MIX12 and trilby to my side of the table.

  ‘I wish to hire your services on a very delicate matter.’

  ‘I have an office where I usually meet prospective clients.’

  ‘Your assistant directed me to this place when I called your business number.’

  Of course she did… ‘Wonderful. Okay, well you’re here now. What’s the job?’

  Her emerald eyes flicked towards the door before settling on mine. She seemed far too distracted and worried for my comfort. I fought an overwhelming urge to glance in that same direction.

  ‘Does the name Paul Fischer ring a bell?’

  I went for the obvious answer: ‘The guy convicted and sent up the river for blowing up the UN building, most of East Side Manhattan and tens of thousands of people? What about him?’

  ‘What if I told you that he had been set up? That he unwittingly took the fall for the crime?’

  I shrugged. ‘The Attorney General made a good case against him and the twelve people sitting in the jury box agreed with his argument. But let’s skip the hypothetical. You think someone else did it, right?’

  ‘No, I know someone else did it.’ Her gaze flashed past me once again.

  ‘Are you expecting someone, Miss Rennick?’

  ‘I have taken a considerable risk coming here.’

  I turned my head and stared at the entrance as if a couple of hard boys would come crashing through right at that moment. No one did. The Quantic remix of Skalpel’s ‘1958’ filled the brief lull in our conversation.

  I took a long pull at my highball and sat the half-empty glass down. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Someone else planned the attack and planted a trail of evidence that led straight to Paul Fischer.’

  ‘You sound pretty confident.’

  She sipped her club soda. ‘I am.’

  ‘Despite the fact that they had overwhelming proof of his involvement in the bombing – eyewitness accounts, video corroboration and a laptop with a recovered copy of the manifesto sent out afterwards on it?’

  She nodded. ‘Doesn’t that sound a little too convenient? At best, all it means is the culprit gave the investigators just enough information to string them along until Fischer became the one obvious suspect.’

  I finished my drink. ‘Why not go to the police, or contact the FBI, or the Attorney General’s Office in New York?’

  ‘They would never believe me and I would be exposed to the very person I am trying to hide this from.’ She paused and let out a measured sigh. ‘You see, it involves someone far too important for the police to even consider them capable of mass murder.’

  I glanced down at my highball glass, wishing it hadn’t run dry. ‘Who is this person?’ I managed at last.

  She looked up and our eyes met: ‘Mara Kitterman.’

  ‘The same Mara Kitterman who put our city on the galactic map!?’

  Charlotte looked around to ensure no one had heard.

  ‘You can see why I cannot go to the authorities, right? They would never believe me.’

  ‘Lady, I’m not even sure I believe you. Mass murder is pretty far down the list of things I think Mara Kitterman would do. What proof do you have?’

  ‘A datapad exists that contains all of the information required to prosecute her.’ A hint of defiance tinted the edge of Rennick’s voice.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where it is, do you? For that matter, how do you even know it exists?’

  ‘If I knew its location, I wouldn’t need you. As far as how I know, let’s just say that I have overheard things that give weight to my belief in her guilt.’

  The conversation lapsed again. I glanced at her while she picked at a beer coaster. Mara Kitterman, a killer. A ridiculous notion. But intriguing nonetheless.

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What if I paid you to look into it anyway?’ Her attention was back on me now.

  ‘I’d feel bad taking your money.’

  ‘It’s my money. I’ll spend it as I like.’

  ‘Fine, but let me ask you this: if she did do it, why go after her now?’

  ‘It is a secret I have borne for too long,’ she whispered, so quietly that I almost missed it.

  I leaned in closer to her, thrown off by the gravity of her response.

  She nodded her head towards Curtis. ‘Besides, I’m certain you have a healthy bar tab to pay off. Look into it and see what you uncover. If, at the end of two weeks, you haven’t discovered anything, we settle up and go our separate ways. If, however, you do discover something to support my claims, we see this through to the end. Is that a deal?’

  I gave the question the customary amount of thinking. ‘I’ll give you two solid weeks of investigation. If, by some wild stretch of the imagination, your allegation has a kernel of truth, then I’ll be your man to the end.’

  Her pert lips formed an imperceptible smile.

  ‘My rate is five hundred credits a day plus expenses.’

  ‘Perfectly reasonable. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go before I am missed at work.’

  She scooted out of the booth and I scrambled to follow. Once standing, we exchanged business cards. She grabbed her coat and made for the door. I glanced down at her details:

  Charlotte Rennick

  Applied Science Division

  MARA
Corporation,

  1 Corporation South, Research District 1

  Tel: (1601) 21274962

  Email: charlotte.rennick@maracorp.mrs

  ‘I will call you in a few days to see how you are progressing,’ she called out before stepping into the strong Martian daylight.

  And, like that, she vanished. I stood there, long after the door had closed, lost in thought. Curt’s voice shook me from my reverie.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’

  I sidled up to the bar. ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  A grin on his face.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Another gin and tonic, then?’

  My attention drifted back to the door. ‘Make it a double, I’ve got some serious thinking to do.’

  2

  With my drink in hand, I didn’t even make it back to my booth before my MAX smartwatch began to vibrate. I checked the display. It read, ‘Unknown’.

  ‘Daniel Helmqvist,’ I answered after fishing my earpiece out of my front trouser pocket with my free hand and tapping a green button on the watch face.

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is Samuel Porter of HTS Intergalactic.’ His plummy upper-crust British accent nearly caused me to choke on the sip of gin I had just taken.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wonder if you could come down to my office and discuss a business proposition?’

  ‘I usually meet potential clients in my office, Mr Porter. It’s one of the reasons I pay the rent on the place.’

  ‘Naturally,’ he replied after another short pause. ‘However, your assistant informed me you were out of your office and not likely to return for the day.’ I detected a theme in the interruption of my afternoon. ‘And in any event,’ he continued, ‘I had hoped you would make an exception. There is something that I need to show you, but I dare not do so in any place other than my office.’