Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series)

by S F Chapman

  If there was any sort of exploitable weakness in the firearm, Zmuda realized with a smile, it was surely the ultra high-powered energy source in the handgrip.

  • • •

  Good; Commander Frédéric Rameau thought to himself as he scrutinized the overnight commodities prices: Both titanium and aluminum futures were at an all-time high on the Warlord Syndicate Futures Market.

  As he read the reports, he idly fingered the nearly depleted weapon that Bowie had left behind on his desk.

  Frédéric snickered at the exorbitant numbers; his protracted efforts at intimidation were certainly paying off.

  27. Anxious preparations

  Ryo had spent the better part of the day hunched over one of the interface screens in the Records Room in the Inquisitor's Office basement. Most of the files that he had blearily examined contained raw data or information that was obtained through questionable means.

  Due to the complex and sensitive nature of the material, it could not be accessed elsewhere.

  Over many hours he had managed to track a single payoff made to Bertrum Hubert Schleim, apparently know to many as 'Slime,' back through several intermediaries to a slave merchant in Carthage Heights on the coast of North Africa.

  The trail had ended there, but the merchant had received several large payments in the last few months from a Tunisian named Fred Bough. Through a lucky chance, Ryo had just discovered that Mr. Bough was actually Frédéric Rameau, the Commander of Covert Operations at the EurAfrican Imperial Military Base in Tunis.

  Zmuda had confided earlier in the day that he had some still highly classified evidence that Commander Rameau was ultimately to blame for the many misdeeds of the Goons and that had been confirmed by Ryo’s latest findings.

  Ryo straightened up and flexed his aching muscles. He was well aware that there was a strong circumstantial link between the murders of Nate Briggs and the gang of Goons because of the use of the unique particle beam weapons, but he still lacked a motive for the slaughter.

  Commander Frédéric Rameau certainly seemed to be the key.

  Ryo stood stiffly and finally decided to go home for the night. He would try to resolve the final inconsistencies over the next few days.

  The Zmuda had been right about Rameau, Ryo realized as he turned off the lights, locked the door and shuffled down the dark hallway. The Lieutenant had assured him that the CRAMP was poised to somehow alleviate the Rameau problem.

  • • •

  “Welcome to the team,” Jasper smiled to Lev as they bumped along together in the back seat.

  “Thanks, I think.” The lanky young man stared with growing misgivings out of the creaky open-air off-road carriage at the dry and forbidding vastness of the southern Sahara Desert.

  From the driver's seat Mixion smirked at the novice spy.

  “Ryo talked me into it,” Lev mentioned to his new cohorts. “After he rescued my mother from the pirates, I'd do pretty much anything for him.”

  Mixion's head bobbed up and down in agreement. “It's really going to help us to put an end to the misdeeds of the EurAfrican racketeers and terrorists.”

  When Lev didn't seem to understand the unusually spiteful tone of the generally well-mannered woman, Jasper leaned over and whispered an explanation; “When she was only two, her mum was killed by thugs in Australia. It was really traumatic.”

  Lev nodded sympathetically, “I nearly lost my mom to the pirates.”

  Mixion silently studied the two men in the rear view mirror as she drove.

  “Originally, Zmuda was supposed to be the third member on this little road trip out to the desert ruins.” Jasper grinned at the woman and straightened up, “Since the Lieutenant was banged up a bit during the attack at the nightclub and we're still not entirely sure if the EurAfrican Military people really know who he is, Ryo recommended that you fill-in for the Lieutenant.”

  “Lucky me,” Lev cringed.

  • • •

  The slave stared in surprise at the tattered note tucked between two folded pairs of trousers in his tiny room at the Domestic Servitude Housing Block.

  He discreetly palmed the paper and casually checked the hallway and then the courtyard just beyond his window for others.

  No one seemed to be lurking about in the Housing Block.

  It had been agreed upon long ago that his CRAMP cohorts would only send him messages in the most dire of situations. Now he quivered with dread at actually receiving one. The contents could not be good.

  The chance discovery of the note by the perpetually suspicious EurAfrican Military personnel who poked around relentlessly at the Base would certainly result in his swift execution.

  For many minutes he busied himself brushing a thin accumulation of dust off of the wide windowsill. The man had never entirely satisfied himself that his room was free of surveillance devices. In the hyper-paranoid world of spies, one could never be too careful.

  He finally decided that he would curl up on his cot with the secret note and pretend to doze off.

  With great effort he began to count his heartbeats as he lay nearly motionless. At an estimated 70 beats per minutes his goal was to wait until he'd tallied 1,400 beats, which would take around twenty minutes.

  At 357 beats an old song from his past crept into his head. The task became much less monotonous with the ethereal musical accompaniment.

  Oh, Rhonda you look so fine and I know it wouldn't take much time

  For you to help me Rhonda, help me get her out of my heart...

  He ran through the old surfer's tune many times.

  When at last he'd reached 1,400 beats, he twisted around still feigning sleep and draped the hand that contained the now sweat-soaked message in front of his face.

  He opened his eyes just enough to read the message.

  Annoyingly, the note was upside-down but he was still able to make out the words.

  It was handwritten in an unusual euphemistic version of Street Spanish from the mid-Twenty-first century that he knew quite well from his childhood in Magdalena, New Mexico.

  He carefully reread it many times, parsing each word and memorizing the exact phrasing for later analysis.

  When he was satisfied that he would not forget any detail or nuance of the communiqué that had undoubtedly been delivered to him at great risk to the messenger, he slid his hand sleepily over his mouth and ingested the tattered paper.

  He rolled over and considered the words, translated into English it worked out to this: Your snarling dog bites too much! The cops want him put down!

  Before he'd left Free City, when he still had full use of his vocal cords, they'd discussed many scenarios and schemes in the CRAMP headquarters. This was one of the most daunting and dangerous directives that had been put forth. He knew that Zmuda would not have ordered it without compelling reasons.

  He was to kill Commander Rameau at any cost.

  • • •

  “There it is, boys!” Mixion called out from the driver's seat.

  Just ahead on a flat stone outcropping in the blazing midday heat was the ancient mud brick ruins of the Fort of Djaba. The long-ago desiccated remains of what had likely been a lush oasis surrounded the derelict outpost.

  “I don't see our Desert Serfs,” Jasper noted.

  Mixion parked the vehicle conspicuously in the middle of a wide, flat wash, “I'm sure they will find us soon enough.”

  Lev gathered the camera and clipboard.

  “Remember,” Mixion cautioned the men, “we’re just 'grad students' doing some research.” She sternly added, “We must all leave here alive within the next few hours.”

  Jasper nodded off-handedly but Lev cringed at the warning.

  For twenty minutes the trio kept up their ruse as they photographed and surveyed the long forsaken site.

  All three were certain that someone was watching them from the dense dry cover of the surrounding brush.

  “Alright; let's get a few pictures of the north side of the watcht
ower,” Mixion told the men.

  The unmistakable metallic click of rifle bolts being engaged echoed around the ruins.

  “YOU!”

  Two gun-toting Desert Serfs emerged from the parched vegetation.

  “No one is allowed here!”

  Both Lev and Jasper bowed subserviently to the white-robed guards.

  The diminutive Mixion stood her ground and stared with an ever-widening grin at the well-armed men, “Well; good morning!”

  The surly sentinels faltered a bit at the sight of the gregarious young woman.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded one of the Serfs.

  “We're from the School of Anthropology at Free City University,” Mixion produced a dog-eared certificate attesting to their identities. “We are doing a preliminary survey of historical sites in the northeastern District of Agadez. I have traveling papers signed by the District Minister himself.”

  She handed the documents to the man who was obviously in charge.

  “It's quite a lovely day,” the woman noted as the Serfs studied the credentials.

  Jasper nodded innocently along with the woman.

  The subordinate guard whispered something about killing the intruders. His companion scowled and shook his head.

  “Can we get a photo of you two in front of the Fort?” the woman coaxed. “I'd love show the District Minister that a couple of strapping locals are protecting the site.”

  Lev finally relaxed, Mixion's irresistible charm seemed to be slowly winning over the gun-toting Serfs.

  “One picture only,” the headman handed the paperwork back to her with a salacious grin. “I must insist that you leave straight away afterwards.”

  “Certainly,” Mixion purred.

  With near perfect showmanship, she directed the two men to pose with their ancient long rifles in front of the dilapidated Fort.

  Jasper snapped a single photo as Lev diligently scribbled a few notes on the clipboard.

  Mixion grinned at the sentinels, “Thank you so much, gentlemen. We should be heading back this way in a day or so, perhaps we will stop by and visit again.” She innocently offered her hand to the headman.

  After several seconds of uncertainty, he finally clasped it with no small amount of lasciviousness.

  “I look forward to your return.”

  Mixion, Lev and Jasper ambled back to their vehicle, all quite aware that a volley of gunfire might yet dispatch them.

  “You drive;” Mixion whispered to Lev, “slow and friendly. We don't want to blow it in the last few minutes.”

  Lev climbed in to the driver's seat. Jasper stowed the camera and clipboard and he and Mixion slid into to the back seat with exaggerated caution.

  Jasper waved amiably to the two Serfs as they puttered away.

  The off-road vehicle stopped nearly a kilometer from the Fort.

  Lev nervously glanced back and forth between the surrounding desert and his two companions in the backseat.

  Mixion had been holding her right arm awkwardly upward, well away from anything else since just after they'd left the ruins.

  Jasper retrieved a pair of green surgical gloves and a roll of clingy plastic wrap from under the seat.

  “Hurry, Jasp!” the woman uncharacteristically barked.

  The big Australian deftly encased her now trembling hand and arm in several protective layers of the flimsy material.

  When the wrapping was secured in place with several strips of white adhesive tape she finally relaxed a bit.

  “I really didn't think that we'd be able to pull off that charade,” she sighed with visible relief.

  Jasper kissed her on the cheek. “You were great, sweetheart.”

  “So were you two,” a huge grin erupted on her face.

  Jasper nodded, “Let's get the hell out of here.”

  • • •

  Undoubtedly his cohorts back at the CRAMP headquarters had uncovered some compelling reason to justify the nearly impossible task. It certainly wasn't going to be easy; the slave ruminated as he scrubbed down the sweat-stained seat cushions in Commander Rameau's office.

  Somehow he was going have to kill the EurAfrican Commander of Covert Operations, apparently the sooner the better. This was a military base filled with well-armed soldiers and suspicious intelligence officers and he was merely a General Facilities slave, which was about as harmless and expendable as they come.

  Still, the man fretted, there had to be some way to dispatch the Commander without casting blame onto himself.

  He was particularly interested in surviving the effort to murder Rameau.

  Before he'd left Free City, Lieutenant Zmuda had assured him that several schemes were afoot to safely extract him from the Base in Tunis when his mission was completed.

  He dearly hoped that he'd be extracted alive.

  Earlier in the day, he'd considered poisoning Rameau's morning coffee but that seemed far too amateurish. In short order someone would likely trace the tainted beverage back to him. His execution would undoubtedly follow.

  Similarly, strangling or stabbing the Commander, while effective, would inexorably result in his own death.

  There had to be a better way.

  The slave finished up his cleaning task and slid the chair into place neatly behind the desk. He stiffly straightened up and gathered his supplies.

  And there it was on the desk.

  He slowly dabbed his forehead and yawned to cover his growing fascination with the gray, steely object.

  It was a weapon, he decided, the twenty-fifth century equivalent of a handgun.

  The slave's fixation on the sidearm that was only one of many objects that cluttered Rameau's desk was cut short when he heard the short-tempered Commander clattering down the hallway.

  He clutched his supplies and hastily left.

  Somehow, he now knew, the weird weapon would figure in Rameau's impending death.

  28. Checkmate

  The Desert Serfs watched the old vehicle with the Free City Grad students rumble away.

  Qadir turned to Tariq, “We should have killed them, my friend.”

  Tariq's dark eyes narrowed at the comment by his workmate, “They are harmless. One should not swat at every gnat that the wind happens to blow by.”

  Qadir persisted, “With luck, the foul-tempered Warlord whom we have hidden so well in the caves will merely lash us for insubordination and not behead us for this grave disobedience.”

  The vehicle receded from view.

  Tariq slipped the ancient leather strap of the rifle over his shoulder, “You worry too much. We will not bother the Warlord with this minor anomaly.”

  Qadir stood taciturn for several seconds considering the words of his workmate; the man seemed to know the Warlord far better than anyone. Perhaps he was right.

  He trotted after his companion as they resumed their sentry duty around the ruins.

  The two men walked for many minutes in silence through the dried oasis and out into the narrow stretch of open desert that led to the caves.

  Finally Tariq spoke, “She is a beautiful woman.”

  Qadir nodded.

  “This last year spent only with men has caused me to forget how enchanting the fair blossoms can be.”

  Tariq stopped suddenly and grinned, “If she returns, perhaps I will woo her.”

  Qadir laughed at his workmate, “A grimy EurAfrican Serf like you and a pretty little Free City maiden? I think that you would have better luck with the mangy old streetwalkers in Tunis.”

  “Ah;” Tariq smiled pleasantly, “it never hurts to try.”

  • • •

  Far to the south, during a brief respite from the incessant icy wind that howls across South Georgia Island, Keira hugged Seamus just in front of the little white cottage perched above the harbor at New Grytviken.

  He kissed her cheek with his cold, thin lips, “Thank you, my dear for delivering an old coot to his new home.”

  Keira's eyes were misty, “Take ca
re of yourself, Seamus.”

  As he watched from the porch, Luis smiled at the two while they said their goodbyes. They seemed almost like a revered grandfather and adored granddaughter, he realized.

  She sniffled a bit and finally turned to trudge down the hill towards the landing pad.

  Seamus’s shoulders slumped as he stood stiffly against the wind and watched the woman board the patrol craft.

  Luis was quite certain that the old man would live out his final days in New Grytviken.

  With a steadily building roar, the patrol craft lifted off and dashed away.

  Seamus waved halfheartedly to the receding ship and then hobbled back up the steps. He stared pleadingly at Luis, “For the second time in my life, I've lost everything. After I retired from work as the Chief Engineer on the Billikin, I had no one. I moved to Free City and eventually met a few nice folks.” His shoulders slumped, “Now that's gone too.”

  “Come on inside,” Luis smiled to the downtrodden old man, “you'll always have me and Moresby on South Georgia Island.”

  • • •

  There had been some mention of an unusual new gun by Zmuda just before he'd left Free City, the slave recalled. 'A strange new type of particle beam weapon,' the Lieutenant had said. The Spy Master had shown him some drawings and a few fuzzy snapshots of the mysterious gun.

  The slave dug around in the janitor's closet for supplies.

  Officially he was seeking some floor cleaner so that he'd be able to mop the long hallway, but in reality he hoped to find something that would aid in his efforts to kill the Commander.

  He spotted a clear jug that contained a thin yellowish liquid. The slave glanced down the hallway before he opened the receptacle. The contents exuded a sharp, acidy stink. Petroleum distillates of some sort, he decided, perhaps naphtha or paraffin oil. Both had been used for centuries to remove tar and grease stains.

  He capped the jug and set it aside.

  Most of the rest of the cleaners and disinfectants in the closet were water-based and therefore useless for what he had in mind.

  Near the back of the closet was a small and tattered box that was labeled with a fat red exclamation point to warn off the illiterate. It contained small soft white granules that resembled laundry detergent. He detected a distinct odor of ammonia and urea.