by S F Chapman
The slave spent several seconds examining the labeling on the box. Much of it was written in the odd and indecipherable new language called rEn sprak or People Speak that was spreading throughout AmerAsia.
He slowly smiled when he spotted the molecular formula near the bottom of the backside: CH5N3O4/(NH4)(NO3)/Filler:CaCO3/Trace:H2O.
This smelly, soapy powder and the yellowish liquid would make up the majority of what he would need.
• • •
Several hours later the slave had perfected the crude explosive in his tiny room in Housing Block 43.
As he had occasionally done in the past, he had taken several short walks out amongst the deserted landscape that made up this corner of the base. When he was certain that no one was around, he had set off tiny test explosions. Fortunately none were much louder than a single firecracker and of course they were barely noticeable compared to the incessant noise of the firing range a kilometer or so away.
Now he carefully cobbled together a small bomb.
The yellowish liquid caused the soapy powder to clump together into a grainy and oily blob. He estimated that he would need a quantity about the size of a small chicken egg.
Shortly he would add the final two key elements: A pea-sized piece of Y28 plastic explosive detonator that resembled a reddish-brown clump of chewing gum and a tiny glass bulb that contained two wires and a bead of mercury.
The bulb was called a Mercury Displacement Switch, although it reminded him of a single miniature Christmas tree light from his youth.
Both had been carefully hidden in his sandals many months ago by the CRAMP before he began his life as a slave in Mogadishu. He smiled a bit at the clever deception, stowing explosives in shoes had been commonplace during the twenty-first century but apparently no one had yet conceived of it in the mid twenty-fifth century.
The Mercury Displacement Switch was an absurdly simple device: Laid on its side, the silvery liquid metal was well away from the wire leads inside of the glass bulb. But if it was tipped upright, the Mercury connected the two wires together to complete the circuit. It would allow a spark to jump through the lump of detonator material and set off his homemade bomb.
The effort was not only likely to kill Rameau but also would destroy the unusual handgun.
He set aside his small cache of improvised explosives and retrieved the tiny radio transmitter hidden in the pair of pants that dangled from the clothesline.
The slave methodically tapped out a new message: ATMPTNG2KILDOG.
If the first effort to murder Rameau went either very well or terribly wrong, the slave ruminated, this could easily be his final message sent with the tiny transmitter.
He activated the device.
In about three hours he would endeavor to murder the Commander.
• • •
“There he is!” Lev reported from the driver's seat of the rusty off-road vehicle.
Jasper and Mixion strained to spot the Lieutenant as they were jostled about in the backseat.
Zmuda sat in the dappled shade provided by a few old palms next to a similar old vehicle with the motor access hatch propped open.
Lev pulled next to the apparently malfunctioning machine.
The Lieutenant trotted up to greet them, “How did it go?”
Mixion smiled and held up her well-wrapped arm. “It took longer than we expected and for a few minutes I thought that we might be shot in the back but we made it.”
“Good, good,” Zmuda helped the woman from the backseat. “Let's see what you picked up.”
For the next hour the Lieutenant repeatedly pealed back small sections of the wrap and painstakingly swabbed the freshly uncovered sections of the woman's hand and arm.
He would then pass the collected specimen to Jasper who would insert it into an Erie Instruments Chromosomal Comparator.
Lev stood guard on a low ridge about fifty meters away.
Six minutes after sliding the eleventh sample into the machine, a cheery 'ding' announced conclusive results.
Zmuda joined the big Australian and the two contemplated the message on the Comparator's display screen.
“Definitive Match. Margin of error > .001%,” lazily flashed on the display.
“Just as we suspected;” Zmuda noted, “the Desert Serfs come into regular contact with Daniel Kufuzu, the recently recloned and still very well hidden Warlord of EurAfrica.”
“Do you need anymore samples?” Mixion wondered.
“No; we've certainly found what we were looking for.”
The woman nodded and removed the long plastic strip from her arm.
Jasper stowed the Comparator, whistled loudly to Lev and beckoned him to join them.
When the three junior spies had gathered around the Lieutenant, he produced an ordinary looking bottle of what appeared to be conventional sun block lotion.
“This is a particularly potent toxin custom tailored to kill only Daniel Kufuzu.”
Lev stared at Zmuda in disbelief.
“The CRAMP has been working on variations of this for a few years now,” the Lieutenant lectured the young man. “Mixion used an earlier form to kill off Dimitri Verhovnyi at the Warlord's palace on Titan about a year ago.”
The woman recoiled at the mention of Verhovnyi; “I had to repeatedly stroke the bare flesh of that pig to get enough of the toxin onto him.”
Lev tipped his head in dismay, “How are we going to do that with Daniel Kufuzu? The Desert Serfs are certainly not going to reveal where he is.”
“No need;” snorted Jasper, “that earlier stuff was the x-pathogen.” He tapped on the bottle, “This is a much more virulent version called the y-pathogen.”
Zmuda nodded, “All that you have to is to put a small amount on your hands and especially your fingertips just before you meet up with the Desert Serfs again. Try to touch them or any of their possessions as much as possible.”
“Like ants returning to the colony with poisoned bait,” Jasper continued, “the Serfs will bring the toxin to Kufuzu.”
“In short order he will die of what appears to be a lethal bout of pneumonia.”
Lev stroked his chin in thought for several seconds, “What if they just reclone him again?”
“It won't help,” Mixion grinned. “Since the Serfs will become unwitting carriers for life, they will spread the Kufuzu-specific y-pathogen wherever they go. It will lay dormant for centuries. If another clone is produced, he too will die within days.”
“Mmm;” Lev stared at the bottle, “hopefully no one ever cooks up a Lev Fesai variation.”
• • •
In the middle of his desk, an oil-stained note was laid haphazardly on top of the small particle beam weapon.
Rameau glared at the message, 'Fred, Why was this side arm left on your desk? Lock it up at once! Major Gen SJLeBoc.'
“Friggin' bastard!” Fredric growled. He did not appreciate his direct superior meddling in his matters.
Rameau set the note aside.
A sharp, acidy urine-like smell caught his attention.
Yellow liquid had formed a tiny pool just below the handle of the irreplaceable weapon.
Perhaps, Rameau reasoned, Bowie or one of the other Goons had damaged one of the internal components.
He gingerly gripped the barrel and lifted the gun.
Rameau tipped the weapon to peek at the underside.
Just inside the handgrip the inexorable chain of events took only a fraction of a second to run its course.
The change in orientation caused the miniscule bead of mercury to flow over the two bare wires completing the circuit. A 90-volt spark arced through a pea-sized lump of Y28 plastic explosive detonator producing a small pop and a great deal of heat. The flammable mixture containing naphtha molded around the detonator instantly ignited. Fanned by the oxygen-rich powdered nitrates, the oily glob exploded.
The small explosion shattered the antimatter power cell that had supplied the initial charge in the handle of the
weapon.
The infinitesimal clump of several dozen iron antimatter atoms safely suspended by magnets in the center of the vacuum-tight power cell was abruptly hurled against the conventional matter casing.
Antimatter unforgivingly annihilates matter and the result was a nuclear explosion in miniature.
Before he was even aware of the horrid chain of events, Commandeer Frédéric Rameau received a fatal dose of ultra high-energy gamma rays.
Two microseconds later the blast tore him apart.
29. Escape!
Even though he'd been expecting the explosion, the slave flinched when it finally happened.
The sturdy office building creaked and swayed for several seconds.
Smoke and dust was everywhere.
He'd been waiting patiently for hours in the Janitor's closet at the far end of the hallway. Seven minutes ago the Commander had returned to his office.
Now the slave had to suppress the urge to rush towards the office to assure himself of the man's death. He took a deep breath and began to slowly count down from thirty. Being overly eager to check on the results of the explosion would likely sprinkle him with a lethal dose of lingering radiation.
Alarms sounded.
A horrified corporal dashed into the mangled office.
The young soldier screeched in agony.
Was it the carnage or searing residual radiation that had caused the outburst?
The corporal reappeared with horrible bloody lesions on his ruddy red face.
“HE'S DEAD!” the man shrieked.
The slave nodded slightly from the comparative safety of the Janitor's closet door, he had his answer.
Now he must escape.
• • •
Clutching a ragged floor mop, mainly as prop to highlight his apparent innocence, the slave staggered out of Building 17 at the EurAfrican Imperial Military Base.
Firefighters and well-armed Base sentries pushed their way past him.
He stumbled around theatrically for several seconds, even pointing dumbly at the building before dropping his mop and teetering off toward the Housing Block. Beyond that goal, he had no idea of where he would go.
Several hundred meters away, between Buildings 3 and 4, a white-clad bakery Serf caught his arm.
The slave stared in wide-eyed fear at the stout man.
“Come with me,” the baker whispered, “Zmuda will want to hear of this.”
Hours later the mute former slave was standing circumspectly at the bow of the midmorning ferry boat dressed as a nondescript businessman making the crossing from Tunis to Sicily. His savior, the baker, was similarly attired and kept a close eye on the smattering of other travelers.
The spy turned slave turned spy again watched the watery tumult caused by the bow as it sliced through the bluish-gray water of the Mediterranean Sea. Angry white waves roiled away from the ship and slowly flattened out into long receding ribbons of pearly foam.
He finally grinned at his startling success; hopefully his CRAMP cohorts were enjoying similarly good luck.
30. News Item: Incident at Military Base
Dateline: 29th of September, 2446; Tunis, EurAfrica, Earth
Stubborn rumors persist regarding some sort of accident inside the sprawling EurAfrican Imperial Military Base in Tunis late yesterday. Accounts vary widely amongst sources both semi-official and otherwise but all indicate that at least one high-ranking officer and perhaps several enlisted personnel perished after a blast destroyed an office.
Public Relations Officer Captain Rumford Johnson acknowledged only that a handgun apparently misfired and caused some unexpected damage. The official press release this morning indicated that an “unexplained anomaly” had occurred in Building 17.
Several unnamed Serfs working in adjoining buildings revealed that significant radiation was released requiring many bystanders to endure decontamination following the incident.
Sirens could be erratically heard for hours at the base following the explosion. Local residents just outside the main gates were briefly warned to stay inside. The order was lifted thirty minutes later without explanation.
Base investigators continue to search through the wreckage.
31. The games people play
It had taken them nearly two days to return to the ruins of the Fort of Djaba, Jasper noted as he wearily studied the long-forsaken site.
Lev and Mixion were using an antique transit and elevation rod to map the site. Jasper was halfheartedly scribing their measurements into an old logbook.
Days earlier Lieutenant Zmuda had hastily left them at the desert rendezvous site just after they had discovered that Mixion had picked up traces of Daniel Kufuzu's DNA from the Desert Serfs guarding the ruins.
A late afternoon sand storm had precluded their own departure and the threesome decided to put off the return to the Fort until conditions improved.
He, Mixion and Lev Fesai were now exhausted.
Last night they had endured a nearly unbearable 'camp out' in the open desert. The trio had scarcely prepared for that scenario beforehand and had not packed suitable provisions for the day and a half that they hunkered together in a tiny backpacker's tent.
The three junior spies were now low on water and their creaky old vehicle currently contained a disturbing amount of wind-blown sand.
All were hungry, dirty and disheveled.
They had received a cryptic message from Zmuda earlier in the morning indicating that he was back at Free City University teaching his classes and studying the small particle beam weapon that he had purloined from the nightclub in New Rome.
The bone-weary spies had arrived at the ruins three hours ago and each had applied a generous amount of the fake sun block lotion containing the y-pathogen to their hands and arms. They hoped it would dispatch the clone of Daniel Kufuzu that the Desert Serfs had hidden somewhere nearby.
Mixion had decided that they would stay at the site for days if necessary until the Serfs returned. The effort to kill Kufuzu was so important that they could not depart until the guards had been contaminated with the toxin.
She morbidly pointed out that even if the men killed them, the Serfs would likely become infected after meddling with their corpses.
Lev had been visibly shocked by that assertion.
• • •
A rustling of dry foliage caused Mixion to swivel around from the surveyor's transit.
“And so you are back,” the Desert Serf bowed as he emerged from cover of the surrounding brush.
This time, she noted, the head Serf was alone and his long rifle was strapped harmlessly across his back.
She smiled at him and returned his bow. “Yes; we were waylaid many kilometers to the northwest by a rather drawn out sandstorm.”
He studied her for several seconds; “You look rather the worst for it, my little dove.”
“I'm afraid so,” she sighed.
Jasper ambled to her side.
Mixion noticed that the Serf seemed annoyed at the intrusion of the big Australian. Perhaps she could use his obvious interest in her to their advantage.
“Jasper,” she started, “what do we have in the old clunker that we could possibly trade for some water?” She stared with great intensity at him until he finally realized that she was attempting to manipulate the situation.
“Oh; let me see,” he thought for a moment, “we've got a spare flashlight, a two week old edition of the Nairobi Times and three stale chocolate bars.”
She turned back to the Desert Serf, “What would it take to get a canteen filled with good drinking water, my friend?”
“Please call me Tariq,” he grinned at the effort to bargain with him. “I believe that I will require all of these things that you speak of for merely half a canteen drawn from the more brackish of our two wells.”
Mixion nodded in earnest, “I suppose we will replenish our water in Séguedine.” She pivoted toward the vehicle.
“Wait;” Tariq caught her arm.
>
Mixion smiled at her luck; the man had unwittingly picked up at least a modest amount of the y-pathogen from the lotion on her skin. She turned to face him again.
He stared at her with deep simmering brown eyes.
“Perhaps I have asked too much to help a lovely young maiden such as you.” The man struggled to contain his desire for the woman. “If you will stay for a time, I will exchange some good water for your chocolate.”
Mixion studied him beguilingly. “I believe we have a deal,” she offered her hand to seal the agreement.
Tariq eagerly clasped the woman's hand and she readily squeezed it to transfer still more of the pathogen onto him.
“If you will give me your canteen, I shall fill it for you. When I return we will have a feast of chocolate and a dozen or so figs that I have collected in the last few months.”
“Certainly,” she replied cheerily.
• • •
Seamus was obviously enjoying himself.
They'd been playing halfpenny ante poker for hours with a sack of the antique English coins that Luis had unearthed years earlier while repairing some storm damage in the New Grytviken cemetery.
The two men had become fast friends since Keira had delivered Seamus to the far-flung island. They spent most of their waking hours chatting about their lives or tending to minor duties at the facility. Seamus had even grown fond of Moresby, Luis's stalwart old cat.
Luis grinned at his lucky hand of cards and slid a fat copper coin across the table, “I'll see your bet and raise you a half, old man.”
“Hah, mighty brave for a lad who's been on a long losing streak,” Seamus teased. He added a half pence of his own to the mound. “What do you have, sonny boy?”
Luis could barely contain himself, “Sevens and twos in a lovely full house.”
“Yikes; you've got me!” Seamus spread his cards on the table, “Three Jacks.”
Luis raked his winning into a small pile.
The old man took a sip of the lemonade that they had reconstituted just for the occasion from the decades-old provisions left behind by the previous caretaker.
