Foreign Devil (Unreal Universe Book 1)

by Lee Bond

  Securing the overlarge Stretch-gun in his waistband, Garth stowed the few ammo clips down his pant legs, and gave the walls a few more kicks for good measure before making his way downstairs.

  xxx

  Garth Nickels was rapidly becoming an itch Reywin couldn’t scratch, and her patience was wearing thin. Watching him come out of the elevator, a jaunty smile on his lips, Reywin ground her teeth in frustration at her team’s inability to find anything useful. Beyond some very dry physical statistics, a list of planets he’d visited, and a long list of documents more than ninety percent blacked out, Sa Garth Nickels was the proverbial invisible man. That he was a threat to systemic security was a given. You could tell just by looking at the short man that he was up to something. There was simply no way to prove it.

  Reywin was a woman torn. Her duty to her section chief, and beyond him, to OverSecretary Terrance, was clear. Crystalline, in fact. But so was the inner compulsion to do what was right for the people. Being ordered to maintain passive surveillance had been simple enough; with the growing number of Offworlders lazing about the Hotel environs day in and day out and the staggering amount of off-site insanity they were being herded out nonstop to do, assigning a single agent to a single visitor would’ve been a terrible waste of resources. Keeping an eye on hundreds of appallingly vicious Offworlders was an all-hands-on-deck affair if there had ever been one.

  Instead, she’d gone ahead and programmed some simple recognition avatars, setting them loose in the relay towers to track Nickels’ movements that way. There was nothing illegal -or even untoward- about using pre-existing machinery or cookie-cutter apps to do the job of a human being, but as before, a rescind order from the highest possible levels of officialdom had crashed down on her, obliterating the apps without any warning.

  If she didn’t know any better –and she didn’t-, it was like Garth was being protected from the OverSecretary himself. OverSecretary Terrance was many things, but a traitor was not one of them. There simply had to be a deeper game being played, one that relied on her and her team being kept in the abyssal dark. On top of waiting for Nickels to do something outrageous, she was convinced the man was also directly linked to the recent deaths of eight Portsiders since his arrival. Without being able to run half-assed surveillance, proving that guilt was a dream.

  There was clear cut evidence that someone involved in the latest string of deaths had been shot -and badly- but DNA testing had come back with conflicted results; blood evidence found at the scene lacked any of the standard genetic markers making the substance blood at all. As far as the vast array of machines and education was concerned, beyond a striking similarity to blood, the stuff found on the scene was just as easily a homemade concoction. It was red, it was liquid. It probably kept someone or something alive. That was as far as anyone was going to go.

  If Garth Nickels was responsible for the murders, how had he managed to get into trouble so quickly and thoroughly? He was only an Offworlder.

  Reywin was torn between duty and loyalty and didn’t like it. Should she follow OverSecretary Terrance’s orders and let Garth Nickels roam free or should she spy on him anyway? That inner itch was feverishly convinced the man’s death toll would only continue to rise, eventually claiming lives other than lowly Portsider thugs. Every citizen death would be on her and that was unconscionable.

  Reywin didn’t know the answer yet.

  Garth spotted Reywin lounging by a pile of metallic briefcases containing ‘diagnostic tools’. He smiled as he made his way over. When she realized what was happening, the agent looked desperately for a way to escape, but couldn’t; to one side Reywin was hemmed in by the tools of her trade, and on the other by a God soldier ordered to permanent station at the Hotel. Budging him would require a direct order from a Twoey.

  Garth smiled again, this time with more warmth. “You’re not an ERT specialist, are you?”

  Reywin frowned, portraying someone who couldn’t even imagine what he meant. “Sorry, sa?” Surreptitiously, the agent started cycling an alert on her prote; the rest of her on-site team -spread around the lower levels of the Hotel- was now on standby. They’d level the building to get to her.

  Garth grinned at Reywin’s craftiness; anyone not expecting the woman to do just what she’d done would have missed the motion entirely. A second later, though, his grin turned to one of mild confusion. A quick burst of static dots played up and down his prote-arm in an undeniably non-random way. He indicated the cluster of six metallic briefcases, the largest one big enough to hold a portable main. “There aren’t any ERT trucks outside anymore.”

  “They went to bring more equipment.” Reywin said blandly. How had she blown her cover?

  “Why’re these packed up to go if you need more?” Garth asked, apprehensively eyeing the young God soldier. His good-natured prying was making the woman nervous. All it’d take was a small scream of panic to turn the immobile gargantuan into a walking avalanche.

  “Wrong kind.” It didn’t take a genius to see the suspicion, but nothing in the playbook said what to do if a target tried to strike up a conversation.

  “Oh.” Garth knocked the side of his head. “Sorry.”

  “No need.” Reywin relaxed inwardly. What with the pressures in dealing with a Hotel full of raving Offworlders and her continual fear of being recognized, Reywin conceded she might have misread Garth’s intentions. It was possible he was just curious about Latelian tech. After all, he had gone out and purchased a proteus… Nevertheless, moving forward she was going to have to work three times as hard to ensure they never came within eyeshot of one another again. Especially if she decided to watch him without proper authorization.

  Garth’s proteus chimed softly, abruptly ending the chat. “My limo’s here. Gotta go.”

  “Limousine?” Reywin asked, raising her voice as Garth moved away from her.

  Garth shouted over his shoulder on his way out the door. “Yeah, I’m a citizen now. Can’t stay in this craphole anymore. See you around, ‘ERT lady’.”

  How’d she missed that? Reywin cursed furiously and summoned her team. The decision was made. They were going dark. That was all there was to it.

  No one hit the ground running on Hospitalis, least of all a foreign devil.

  Chadsik al-Taryin … Master Assassin and Lunatic

  Satisfied his needs would be met, Jordan Bishop terminated the meeting with the systemic BishopCo heads. Inwardly, he was pleased the talks were finally over; midway through the lengthy discussion, fifteen vice-presidents had needed termination for failure to meet promised goals. Thankfully, the graphic display of violence -specifically tailored to exploit the fears and secret terrors of the remaining members- had been adequate to point everyone in the right direction. Jordan was secure in the knowledge that his business maxims would be followed with rigorous- if not religious- fervor for at least a solar year, following which the whole process would be played out again. It was a vicious cycle that propagated itself throughout his mighty empire. So long as the results were positive, it was acceptable.

  The Conglomerate CEO finished some relevant paperwork, then simply sat there, enjoying the spectacle of making Spur wait.

  The android AI claimed not to feel emotion, but Jordan knew better; one of the Emperor’s greater claims was that Spur’s design would allow the android to one day achieve true awareness, transforming him into the first non-organic, sentient entity. With Trinity’s rules imprisoning Spur inside BishopCo’s Headquarters for more than two thousand years, there was a wealth of hidden information tracking the android’s growth across the millennia. That ancient android bore only superficial semblance to the one who irritated him on an hourly basis. So when Jordan sought to frustrate the unwanted robot, he damn well knew Spur was bothered, immaculate EuroJapanese façade or not.

  Jordan grew tired of the android’s immobile patience –the thing was still artificial, after all- and motioned it forward. “What is it?”

  “Sire, I have receiv
ed word from Yellow Dog.”

  Jordan permitted himself a smile of satisfaction. Under normal circumstances, dealing with the Yellow Dogs wasn’t the wisest course. Much like their namesake, the EuroJapanese mafia nipped restlessly at his heels, killing employees and worse, stealing cargo. By agreeing to work for him, it showed that perhaps the so-called Elders were beginning to show signs of true wisdom as opposed to that ancient, dynastic belief system to which they clung. “Tell them their assistance in this matter will not go unappreciated.”

  “Sire.” Spur did not bow, which turned Jordan’s smile into a frown. “They have not heard from Injiri Katainn since delivering the assignment.”

  Jordan had long since become a master at filling Spur’s inordinately sparse delivery with bad news. “What are you saying, Spur? That Injiri Katainn, a Yellow Dog Elder, failed to execute a caveman?” Jordan couldn’t believe his ears. The brute’s removal had come at a steep -non-refundable- price. If the Elder Katainn was indeed dead, there was every likelihood the Yellow Dog leaders would consider their contractual agreements of non-violence towards BishopCo people and properties void.

  Spur dipped his head. “It would seem this is the case, though the gentleman I spoke with remains hopeful that Injiri is simply not in a position to make contact.”

  “What are the odds of that?” Jordan snapped angrily. The entire affair was spiraling out of control. Thanks to the caveman, trillions of credits were already gone and he was losing more every day as dozens of planets leaped at the chance to be protected by ‘gravnetic shielding’. To make matters infinitely worse, it appeared as though the Trinity AI was going out of its way to put him in the poor house by making the transition to the new technology smooth and painless. By expending enormous personal resources to speed things along, Trinity was hurtling entire systems under this new protection!

  Every nano that Garth remained alive was a reminder that the entire Universe was against him.

  “If we were to contact the OverSecretary, we could easily know the truth; anything else I posited would be nothing more than sheer guesswork.”

  It was an option, but not one to take idly. Jordan didn’t want to rely on Terrance for anything, not even the killing of a single man. He liked their relationship just the way it was; he paid Terrance a ‘small’ stipend and in return, he received advance lists of the best and brightest Latelian programmers. There was little doubt the OverSecretary would hasten to do his bidding, but then he’d have a toehold. Jordan didn’t want to risk being blackmailed by a backwater politician who was afraid of everything Trinity had to offer but not so afraid to contact the AI for a reward.

  Jordan closed his eyes for a moment. “Contact … contact Agent Reywin duFresne. I believe she still works for OverSecretary Terrance. She is the sort of person who would welcome some additional funds, I think. The profile I obtained during my last trip to Hospitalis indicates a strong dislike towards Offworlders and a ridiculously entrenched patriotic loyalty to her country. If Garth Nickels hasn’t already done so by his own actions, it would take very little effort to convince a woman like Reywin that he is an extreme threat. If she agrees, make his dossier available.”

  Spur bowed. As a machine with perfect recall and a limitless storage capacity, Jordan’s ability to recall the names, allegiances, penchants and weaknesses of thousands –if not hundreds of thousands- of people was a source of continual amazement to the android. In all their years together, Spur did not think his master had forgotten the name of a single person. Genetic breeding was a true miracle. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “It would also be in my best interests if you were to begin a search for another assassin. Preferably, someone unassociated with mercenary or criminal organizations. Dealing with them is like dealing with politicians; interminably dull and needlessly risky.”

  “Are there any specifics you would like me to focus on, sire?”

  “Yes.” Jordan said after a moment. “It would also be simpler if the assassin owns his or her own ship. It strikes me that a sort of cottage industry is springing up in the form of people sitting around Q-Tunnels watching who goes in and out, and it would do me no good to have my name attached to an assassin. Beyond that, I want someone who’s capable, Spur. I want this situation resolved, and the sooner the better. Cost is almost irrelevant at this point. Every second this caveman lives is torment. Go.”

  Spur bowed again, leaving. Jordan could not know it, but the requirements laid down by him pointed to a single assassin. Spur needed to be one hundred percent certain of the man’s reliability before approaching Bishop with the information, but it was nearly moot; Chadsik-al-Taryin was a notoriously successful master assassin, known in a hundred systems, but he was extremely volatile, fundamentally deranged, and on his way down and out. Giving the FrancoBritish assassin a job of such noteworthy attention could bring the failing murderer out of the darkness, but Spur would not risk it if Chad seemed even the tiniest bit flaky.

  xxx

  It was a truism that Chadsik-al-Taryin was a master assassin. Most would argue that were it not for his unstable personality, the heavily modified cyborg would be the assassin. The circles through which Chadsik moved all agreed that the FrancoBrit’s skills were unparalleled, perhaps even legendary, in scope; had he not designed a cannon so devious, so powerful, that his target died an entire planet away, the bullet itself taking three long weeks to make it into the man’s skull? Had he not also dared to break into the most guarded Holy Sanctuary of Markoss Frieze, killing a thousand dedicated warrior fanatics to get to the leader himself, only to infect the religious despot with a hideously deforming genetic disease rendering him immune to all medical treatment? The answer to those questions and others was invariably ‘yes’. Chadsik’s list of accomplishments in the assassination game was long and varied, carrying with each the hallmark of a Master working his craft; the cyborg was an artiste who designed a unique death for each and every one of his targets.

  This made Chadsik … unreliable.

  Chadsik al-Taryin might be a master assassin, but he was also mad as a hatter. Had been since the first days he’d crawled out of Arcade City’s festering guts, but following his ‘accident’, things had been much, much worse. No doubt driven mad by a life under the necrotic rule of the Goth King Blake, the slayer had shown up in the underbelly of the world after a long absence, sporting verifiably non-terrestrial cybernetic implants and an insane asylum’s ‘Worst of’ list of mental illnesses. He heard voices, he’d been abducted –by Offworlders, no less-, he had more than one brain … the list was endless, speculative, madness.

  Whatever illnesses filled the FrancoBrit, they’d twisted his already high-strung temperament into something new, something as … untrustworthy … as it was fascinating to watch.

  Plagued with the megalomaniacal insistences of a hot-tempered artist, Chad could no more follow the instructions laid down to him by an employer than he could simply shoot someone with a sniper rifle. He’d decided death by his hand was a noble thing, and if he were going to be the hand that killed someone, their death would mean something. Time and again, the assassin burned bridges, eroding his masterclass reputation to the thinnest layer and not caring one way or the other. He became the man to call only when there was no concern over how the person died, or where, or when. But … if you bought his services, you got what you wanted. Sooner or later, no matter who, no matter where, that person died.

  Chad didn’t mind. People who didn’t want to appreciate his art could go fuck themselves with a plasma torch. He was an artist whose Great Work was still on the horizon. Everything else was filler.

  Though he’d been born on the tortured prison island dubbed Arcade City by its feckless inhabitants, Chad had long since adopted the underbelly of Zanzibar’s pristine Universe as his new home. After his … after his triumphant return, there was nowhere else as safe. The largest of all the landmass-sized city/states, Zanzibar straddled much of what had once upon a long time ago been North America.
Though nuclear war, biochemical attacks, and the destructive force of the Dark Ages had poisoned much of the old earth, there was a single stretch of land directly beneath the center of that glorious city that remained relatively untouched.

  Ground Zero.

  Most didn’t even know it existed. Planetary officials denied it was there, local officers did everything in their power to prevent people from looking for it and so on down the line until, if you looked hard enough you could find it. The siren call was too much for some people to ignore. Zanzibar Above was a place where the rich and powerful could enjoy whatever sybaritic pleasures their minds could imagine, but the flesh dens, smoke parlors, torture chambers and everything else the ‘nobility’ took for granted up above had their humble beginnings three miles down and entire strata of civilization away. Ground Zero was where people fell when they thought they could fall no further. Ground Zero was a world beneath a world, a place where Trinity did not –some said could not- exist. It was a breeding ground of madness, despair and loathing. It was a fiefdom run by lunatics, sponsored by madmen and madwomen.

  Ground Zero.

  Chadsik-al-Taryin loved every grime-soaked centimeter, every scabrous whore, every drug, every ounce of human misery leaking from the pores of the doomed and the damned.

  Minus the smell, it was almost like Arcade City.

  Chad sat idly on his hovertrike, smoking his hundred and thirteenth cigarette in a row, concentrating fiercely on a display screen set into the bike’s control panel.

  Forty meters away, one of the more ‘upscale’ clubs boomed and rocked and thumped with music loud enough to wake the dead. Some of those dead –hardcore drug addled peasants a fraction above single-celled organisms- milled around outside, their minds so far gone that they could barely remember to breathe, let alone their own names.