Ep.#7 - Who Takes No Risk (The Frontiers Saga - Part 2: Rogue Castes)

by Ryk Brown

  “Highboy Four, check in,” the encrypted comms box, on the nightstand next to the spotter, squawked.

  “Highboy Four, all clear,” the spotter replied. “How much time before Delta Sierra?”

  “Why? You need to piss, or something?”

  “Food’s here.”

  “Ten minutes,” the voice on the comms box replied. “Eat quick.”

  “Will there be anything else?” Krispin asked.

  “We’re good, thanks,” the spotter replied without taking his eyes off the crowd.

  Krispin took one last look around the room, as well as a peek out the window. The shooter had a perfect shot at the stage, from high right, giving him a one-quarter profile of the target. For Krispin, it would be an easy shot, as long as the president’s shields were disabled as promised. The big question would be how to escape, once the target was eliminated.

  * * *

  As with every Founders’ Day celebration before, tonight’s was under a clear, star-filled summer’s night. The air was crisp, with a slight breeze which caused the decorations to sway seductively as the orchestra played a mixture of selections designed to cater to all ages.

  When the current selection finished, the orchestra began the presidential anthem and the spotlights snapped to life, focused on the stairs leading from the Scott house to the south lawn where the partygoers were assembled. President Scott stepped out of the doors at the very moment the overture ended, and the first verse began to play. He was met with the usual respectful applause given to the elected leader of the Union, the world, and the Alliance. The intensity of the applause increased as the president walked down the steps, waving as he made his way to the main stage where his daughters and their husbands all stood waiting, applauding their father, as well.

  The president moved across the stage, shaking the hands of the dignitaries chosen to share it with him this night. He paused by his four daughters, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek.

  Finally, he arrived at the podium where he spent several minutes waving to the crowd, even after the music had stopped, waiting for the applause to die down before beginning the most important speech of his career.

  “Thank you!” he said, repeating himself several times while he waited for their cheers to fade. “Happy Founders’ Day!” he yelled, whipping them back into a thunderous applause. He continued waving at the crowd another full minute before their cheers finally died down enough for him to be heard, once again.

  “I’m happy you’re all enjoying yourselves. It’s an important day in the history of our world, and it should be celebrated.” The president looked around the crowd as the last of the applause fell silent. “In fact, it’s an important day for the entire core. Without the founders of the Ark Institute, the Earth and her core worlds would not be enjoying the very freedoms we celebrate this night.”

  The crowd erupted in applause, once again, forcing the president to wait before launching into the main body of his speech.

  * * *

  Krispin sat patiently on the settee in the hallway outside the southeast bedroom, the tray in his lap, waiting for some signal to enter the room. The operative who gave him the tray of food had offered little in the way of instructions, however, at the time, there were plenty of people within earshot.

  The entire exchange still bothered him. Were he the operative, Krispin would have taken the time to ensure that proper instructions were given to the asset. Poor communication can kill the best-laid plans…he was taught that in basic. Yet, the assignment details had been unclear from day one. From his handler to this operative, Krispin had been left guessing more than necessary.

  Something suddenly occurred to him. The tray on his lap seemed heavy in comparison to those he had carried all evening. Not by much, but definitely heavier. He had originally attributed it to the tray likely being of a different maker. Perhaps the metal was thicker, or the tray was slightly larger. But upon closer examination, neither was true. The tray was exactly the same, except for one thing. It was not made of metal. At least, the face of it was not. That’s when he noticed something else. The face of the tray was removable.

  After checking to ensure that no cameras were trained on him, Krispin removed the white glove from his right hand, worked his fingernail under the edge of the tray face, and lifted it up. The tray face was light, probably made of some type of carbon fiber or nano-tube structure. After putting his glove back on, he lifted the face, peeking underneath. The space between the tray face and the tray bottom was filled with a lightweight material, with a small cutout on one side. Krispin recognized the material as the same type used to protect comms gear from detection or electronic countermeasures. Within the cutout was a small electronic device.

  Krispin removed the device, immediately recognizing it as a comms jammer. Its miniature size meant its range and battery life were likely limited. Furthermore, its very presence was troubling.

  Why didn’t the operative tell me about this?

  Krispin quickly analyzed the situation. Things weren’t adding up, and the only reasons he could come up with bothered him. But it was too late now. He was in too deep. He had to act.

  Krispin activated the comms jammer and put it in his pocket. He then rose and knocked on the door. When it opened, the guard before him looked confused. Not confused by Krispin’s knocking, but rather, by his own wooziness and inability to focus.

  “What do you want?” the guard asked.

  “You don’t look so good,” Krispin said, easing the man back a few steps so he could enter the room and close the door behind him.

  “Mike,” the guard called to his cohort.

  Krispin glanced at the shooter who was slumped over his weapon.

  “Mike!” the guard repeated. He grabbed his comm-box from the table, calling into it. “Control! Highboy Four! My shooter is down, and something is wrong with me!” the guard looked at Krispin. “You. What did you do?” Just as he began to put two and two together, Krispin’s food tray smacked him in the face, knocking him backward onto the bed. Krispin pulled the man’s sidearm and placed it into his belt, under his white jacket, then checked the guard’s pulse. The man was alive. Whatever had been put into the food had obviously been designed to incapacitate but not kill. Although Krispin did not care to kill a fellow marine, this too seemed suspicious. A hit as monumental as this called for extreme measures. The effect of incapacitating drugs could not be accurately predicted. An instantly lethal poison would have made more sense.

  If Galiardi is willing to kill the president, surely he’s willing to sacrifice a few marines along the way.

  Krispin had no time to debate the issue. He had one chance at freedom for himself and his beloved Sara, and that chance was slipping away with each passing second. The president was already halfway through his speech, and once completed, he would be on the move, surrounded by guests, making a decent shot improbable.

  Krispin checked the shooter next. He too had a pulse. Krispin pulled him away from the window, taking the soldier’s sniper rifle in his left hand as he shoved the unconscious shooter onto the floor and out of his way. While he moved into position, he reached into his pocket and deactivated the comms jammer. If anybody called for Highboy Four, he would have to answer, or the guard at the third-floor elevator would come busting through the door a minute later.

  Krispin raised the sniper rifle and took aim, immediately focusing on the president at the podium. A touch of the sensor display control pad, on the side of the weapon, told him that Mister Dakota had kept his promise. The president’s weapons shield, although active, was at minimal power and would not stop a high-powered needle-beam from his sniper rifle.

  As he took aim and prepared to fire, he noticed movement on the stage to the right of the president. A woman had moved to the side, as if attempting to exit the stage for some re
ason.

  Krispin breathed in and out, slow and steady. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and could hear the air moving through his nostrils. He was about to kill the leader of the Earth and of the Alliance. He was about to go down in history in a way that no sane man would ever want.

  He was doing it for Sara.

  Krispin’s finger moved smoothly from the trigger guard to the trigger itself. But as he tensed his finger, something happened.

  A blinding flash of light filled his targeting scope, and a loud boom shook the windows and the building itself. Krispin’s eyes widened. He lowered his sniper rifle to look at the stage below with naked eyes, but it was gone. More accurately, it was veiled behind a wall of smoke.

  What the fuck? A bomb? Someone set off a bomb?

  Krispin suddenly realized he wasn’t the only asset in play. In fact, he might even be the decoy.

  “Shit!” Krispin exclaimed in frustration. The comms box was ablaze with comms traffic. Screams of panic from the crowd below filled the air. Krispin raised his weapon again, using his target scope to scan the area where the stage had been. As the evening breeze pushed the smoke aside, he began to catch small glimpses of the scene. The stage was a mess. Most of it had collapsed, and there was a smoking hole where the president had been a moment ago. To the right were the mutilated bodies of the president’s daughters and their husbands. To the left, what little remained of those dignitaries unlucky enough to have been invited to share the stage with the president that night. Rescue personnel and presidential security were already swarming over the bodies, trying to determine if the president…if anyone…was still alive.

  The door burst open behind him. Krispin spun around and opened fire as the guard from the elevator fired on him. Three bolts of energy streaked by Krispin’s head, slamming into the wall behind him. Krispin rolled to his left, coming to his feet and swinging his rifle at the guard, whose body armor had protected him from Krispin’s return fire. The butt of Krispin’s sniper rifle found the guards head, knocking him to one side. In one smooth motion, Krispin let go of his sniper rifle and pulled the sidearm from under his jacket, firing multiple times. His shots walked across the tumbling guard’s chest and would have caused no injury at all, had the guard not lost his balance and fallen into the path of the energy blasts. The last two blasts caught the guard in the face, killing him instantly.

  Krispin tossed the gun aside and picked up his tray, wasting no time departing the area. He had no idea why the guard had come to their room. No shots had been fired, and he had heard no unanswered calls for Highboy Four over the comms box.

  Once inside the elevator, Krispin quickly placed the comms jammer back into its hiding place under the tray face, then left the tray on the floor of the elevator.

  The plainclothes guard at the first-floor elevator doors turned to face the doors as they opened and was met with a man’s fist. He then disappeared, pulled into the elevator itself by his attacker, after which the doors closed. A minute later, the doors opened, and Krispin stepped out, moving quickly back to the catering area where he knew he would be expected to report during a crisis. All he had to do was keep his cool and play his part. There would be interrogations. He, and everyone who had worked or attended the party, would likely be detained well into the night. But there was no evidence that Krispin, or Martin Reynolds, which was the name on his ID badge, had any involvement in the tragic event. He had not seen any cameras inside the house, nor the third-floor hallway, and he had worn gloves the entire time. Luckily, although a little wrinkled and dirty, his white server’s jacket showed no signs of his scuffle with the elevator guard.

  Miraculously, Krispin actually had a chance of escaping.

  * * *

  Admiral Galiardi was whisked away by a squad of marines who plowed their way through the panicked crowd, breaking through to the east, toward the temporary airfield where the admiral’s shuttle was already spun up and ready for liftoff. Within three minutes of detonation, the admiral was being shoved into his shuttle.

  “Reports are coming in from all over Alliance space,” the duty officer told the admiral as the shuttle began to lift off. “Kohara, Sorenson, Kent, Copora, Pylius, Weldon…there have been assassination attempts on nearly every industrialized world within the Sol Alliance.”

  “How many are dead?” Admiral Galiardi asked as the shuttle jumped to orbit.

  “Nothing is confirmed yet, but so far, reports indicate twelve out of twenty alliance world leaders have been assassinated. Sir, we’re also getting intel that indicates this may be a coordinated attack by Jung deep-cover operatives…possibly sleeper agents. General, I strongly recommend…”

  “Put all forces on maximum alert,” Admiral Galiardi ordered.

  “Already done, sir.”

  “What about President Scott?” the admiral asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I’m afraid everyone on the stage was killed, sir,” the officer replied. “Nothing is confirmed…it’s chaos down there.”

  “Sir,” the pilot called back. “We’re getting reports that four persons from the stage are being airlifted to the hospital.”

  “Are any of them the president?” the admiral asked.

  “Unknown, sir.”

  “Well, fucking find out,” the admiral barked. “Colonel,” he said, speaking directly to the duty officer again. “I’m declaring global martial law.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And send word to all Alliance worlds; I am taking control of Earth until further notice.”

  “Admiral, there is a chain of succession…”

  “There were at least a dozen members of that chain of succession on the stage when it blew the fuck up, Colonel!” the admiral yelled. “For all we know, someone further down that chain of succession is in collusion with the Jung. Did you ever think of that, Colonel?”

  “No, sir… I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Make it happen, Colonel,” the admiral concluded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  “I did everything short of threatening his life, Captain,” Ito Yokimah explained to Nathan over the vid-comm link displayed on the view screen on the wall of the captain’s ready room. “He is determined to prevent Rakuen from joining the Karuzari Alliance. He is a staunch traditionalist, blind to the demands of changing times.”

  “How much influence does he have over the population?” Nathan wondered.

  “Enough to hold the line for some time, I’m afraid. I must say, though, that your recent defense of Rakuen will likely convince some of his constituents that Rakuen should join. It might have had even more impact if you had dispatched the second frigate yourself, instead of allowing the Gunyoki to do so.”

  “The Gunyoki needed to taste victory, even a small one.”

  “I understand,” Ito said. “I’m afraid that it may take longer than anticipated to change Minister Sebaron’s mind.”

  “Is there any way to force the issue to be voted on by the people of Rakuen?” Nathan asked.

  “That would be extremely unlikely,” Ito explained. “Rakuens only vote once every ten years to elect our government officials. We trust those officials to make such decisions on our behalf. Calling for a people’s vote on such a thing would require the support of an overwhelming majority of the Rakuen Congress. That’s at least eighty-seven votes, and that’s just to initiate a popular vote on the matter.”

  “You make it sound difficult.”

  “That’s because it is,” Ito assured him. “I have only seen it happen once before, and that was when I pushed to turn the Gunyoki training flights into a competition for profit.”

  “Then, you at least know how it’s done,” Nathan realized.

  “I do. But it i
s not something I care to repeat.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice, Mister Yokimah,” Nathan reminded him.

  Ito sighed, obviously displeased by the hold Nathan now had on him. “I will attempt to get the process started, Captain. But I warn you, it will take time.”

  “Are we talking months or years?”

  “As this is a matter of importance, I would guess months.”

  “How long did it take you to get the vote on turning the Gunyoki into a competition?” Nathan wondered.

  “Three and a half years, I’m afraid.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t take that long,” Nathan replied. “Good luck, Mister Yokimah.” Nathan pressed the button to deactivate the vid-com link. He looked at Jessica, sitting on the couch under the view screen. “You know, it would help if you didn’t make faces at me while I’m on a call.”

  “A girl’s got to have some fun,” Jessica defended.

  “Did you get the damage reports on the Ranni plant?”

  “Yup,” she replied, sitting upright again. “The power plant is toast. They’re running on portable reactors on loan from one of Yokimah’s plants. But it’s going to slow them down somewhat. The bastards knew where to hit them, which means they had good intel.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Me either. Fortunately, they had just shipped a load of emitters and jump field generators to the race platform, only two hours before the Dusahn attacked.”