by Jeff Taylor
The woman curtsied then pushed her cart of cleaning supplies toward the front door. Her thumb nearly pressed the control pad to leave when she paused a moment. “The poor miss is very frightened,” she said in her French accent. “I am sure she is glad to have you here.” Without waiting for his reply, she pressed the keypad and left the room.
“I’m sure she is,” Strinnger mumbled to himself. He followed her out, verified that a new security team was in place outside, then turned back to watch the events unfold on television.
Putting his hand in his pockets he shuffled into the living room. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the change of events. Were it not for Julia’s plea he would have been a heartbeat away from the man who would make one of the most important announcements in history. Now he was confined to a hen house watching over Nathaniel’s chicks. Take care of your little chicks. He recalled the woman’s taunting voice. She had known the women’s security call sign. What else did she know about their procedures?
He activated the panel for the television which then descended from the ceiling, a massive pane of glass at least four meters in width. He was about to sit on the oval couch when he became aware of something in his right pocket. He pulled out a small piece of coarse red fabric. The cloth was only about ten centimeters square, but it wasn’t something he remembered putting there. As he handled it, something suddenly scrawled across the center in white, luminescent letters. “Detective Strinnger, verified.” The letters then flashed, faded, and rearranged themselves into another message:
Race you to the podium.
He threw the fabric to the ground and sprinted for the door.
The maid!
She must have slipped the message into his pocket when he helped her get off the floor. He bolted out the front door, his head swiveling in every direction, but neither she nor her cart were anywhere to be seen.
“Where’d the maid go?” he shouted at the guards in the hallway.
Stunned by his urgency, the guard nearest him hesitated before answering.
“She took the elevator. Over there.” He pointed at the opaque doors at the end of the hall.
Strinnger sprinted toward the doors. The indicator above them showed the car was traveling toward the lobby.
“Treyklor! Treyklor!” he shouted into his comm. There was nothing but static. Exasperated, he turned toward the guards in the hall. “What happened to the comms?”
Each of them conducted their own test of the system then shrugged.
“Everything just went dead,” the unit leader replied. “All of our communications are down!”
Strinnger looked at the light indicating the floors. It had stopped at the lobby floor. The door to the emergency stairs nearly flew down the nine flights as Strinnger shoved them open then hurled himself from landing to landing until he reached the steel door at the bottom. He burst out into the lobby and quickly surveyed the host of faces now staring in his direction. There were many dark-haired women, but none of them was the one he was looking for. But he didn’t need to look further. He knew where she was going.
He found the main door and plowed his way toward it.
CHAPTER 29
IDES
The crowd’s unrestrained applause echoed off the city’s domed ceiling like the sound of cannon-fire. Both young and old from every nationality and facet of station life were represented in the skeletal half-dome of the Forum, eager to hear the words Nathaniel Kratin would soon pronounce. Their numbers pressed them together into a sea of faces, some hanging from the bare structural supports converging at the top of the web-like Forum, or standing on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. They had all come to witness the announcement that would change their lives one way or the other.
Naitus Brill, who had checked himself out of the hospital despite the physician’s ardent protests, had been determined to be there as well. Standing several feet behind and to the right of the CEO, he witnessed his former protégé bask in the praise from his adoring public. Nathaniel enjoyed every second of the attention as he laughed at some unheard joke, pointed at random people as if they were old friends, and applauded the crowd when they chanted his name. Nathaniel had only moments left to live, yet he pandered to the crowd as if he were immortal.
Brill looked nervously at his fellow conspirators: Ahkman, and Josephina Leniston. Dantral Brahlim stood to their far left, with Benunce Fridman standing tall beside him. None of his colleagues, other than Brahlim, seemed to be enjoying the festivities. Occasionally, they would force a smile and wave, but the for the most part they remained stoic. Would they go through with it? Brill had hoped to arrive soon enough to persuade them to give up their plan, but he hadn’t been released from the hospital in time. Eve’s warning had shattered his resolve to carry out the plan and made him fear who else might be aware of it.
The steps of their plan replayed in Brill’s mind over and over as he considered the determined looks on his comrades’ faces. Ahkman was the triggerman. When he flipped the switch concealed beneath his scarlet robe, the neuron bomb Josephina would place on the back of Nathaniel’s neck would overload his nervous system with a paralyzing surge of energy. Nathaniel’s death would be quick but painful, making it extremely dramatic for the watching crowd.
With time to ponder in his hospital bed, Brill had devised his own plan which he would not share with the others. He had no idea what Eve intended to do. For all he knew she may have turned him into the unknowing triggerman. Heeding her warning, when the time came to attack, he would hold back, purposefully distancing himself from the podium so that he was the furthest board member from Nathaniel. He would abstain from acting with Ahkman and feign ignorance when the mob seized his accomplices.
At last, Nathaniel signaled for silence. Gradually, the crowd’s cheers subsided until he was left with relative silence. Nathaniel gripped the edges of the podium with both hands firmly. He did not speak right away, but paused to let the enormity of what he would say linger just a little longer. Brill had seen Nathaniel do this on several occasions. For all his faults, Nathaniel knew how to play to a crowd. When the CEO finally spoke, his words were calm and measured.
“My dear friends,” Nathaniel began, “this truly is a day that will be retold for generations to come. All of you will be able to say you were here when the fate of a people was determined by their own free will. Either it will be a day when you decide to continue your groundbreaking work, bringing scientific achievement to the brink of new discoveries under the umbrella of the Carsus companies . . .” He paused while a few boos rose from the crowd. “. . . or it will be the day when you decided to cast off the surly bonds of Mother Earth and spread your wings in the breeze of a new kind of freedom; a freedom that will literally open the universe to you where nothing can ever hold you back. Once I unveil the results on this pad. . .”
He held up the letter-sized datapad. Wild applause erupted and again it was several moments before he could continue speaking.
“Once I reveal the vote tallies, everything will be different. But before I do, let me remind you,” he cautioned, “we are a family here. We respect and honor one another above all others. Let us not turn on our Carsun brothers or sisters simply because they had a different vision of our future. I would encourage each of you to look within yourself and accept the decision of the majority with grace and humility.”
Brill looked at the sober faces of those in the crowd near the foot of the stage. All nodded their agreement to the wise words of the CEO. Nathaniel has them eating out of his hand, Brill thought. His misgivings about assaulting Nathaniel were beginning to bear fruit.
Nathaniel raised the datapad once more. “And now,” he said, placing the pad back on the podium, “I will reveal the outcome of your collective voices.”
“Before you do, Mr. Kratin, I would like to say a few words.”
The unexpected voice of Pilan Ahkman genuinely startled Nathaniel as he was about to activate the datapad. In stunned silence,
the crowd watched the former CFO and current Carsus board member approach the podium.
“What is he doing?” Brill wondered.
Nathaniel could only stare as the thin, black man strode up next to him and asked, “If you don’t mind.” Ahkman gestured for Nathaniel to step to the side, which he did, a look of utter confusion on his face. Ahkman took his place behind the microphone and looked out proudly over the congregation.
Daeman Strinnger raced toward the Forum, pushing his way through the crowd with little concern for those in his way, even going as far as climbing over one uncooperative couple to get through. Nothing else mattered. He had to get to Nathaniel.
“Can anyone hear me?” he called into his comm unit as he knocked an unsuspecting Asian man to the ground. He looked back. The crowd noise that had been so overwhelming minutes before now calmed and Strinnger heard the voice of Nathaniel belt out over the loudspeakers. The sense of urgency inside him spurred him forward with even greater fervor. Time was running out.
He was still a hundred yards away and not making any progress. He looked up to the podium in time to see Nathaniel take a step back and allow Ahkman to replace on the stage. Ahkman began to speak but Strinnger did not pay attention to his words. Regardless of who was speaking, Strinnger was determined to get up there.
“My fellow Carsus employees,” Ahkman began. “I hope you’ll forgive the interruption, but I wanted to make one last plea to all of you. I beg you to see reason. This vote is a folly that cannot be undone lightly. Many of you are still subject to your governments and by casting your vote you have committed treason. Please reconsider this horrible mistake.”
The audience reacted angrily. Cries of “No!” and “Get off the stage!” echoed from every direction.
Strinnger’s eyes darted over the backs of the crowd. He stood on the precipice of the recessed seating inclining down into the bowl beneath the web-like Forum half-dome. Where is she? He scanned the masses as he jogged down the aisles, looking in every direction. The crowd was reacting to something Ahkman had said but he ignored it. His eyes searched the first few rows. And then he saw her, only five meters from the podium on the opposite side of the amphitheater heading to a small door in the corner. Her shimmering black hair cascaded down the same pale green uniform she had worn in the executive suite.
His pace quickened, forcing through the row toward her. The people in his way mistook his aggression as a response to their outcries against Ahkman’s words and began throwing whatever they had available at him, showering him with rocks and water bottles. Realizing he wouldn’t reach the woman in time, he yelled to the blue-suited security officers standing along the base of the stage.
“Stop her!” he shouted, pointing at the would-be assassin.
The outburst caused everyone around him to turn in his direction, including the woman in green. Her cool, blue eyes momentarily locked onto his. She shoved the gawking crowd out of her way, forcing herself in the opposite direction.
“Don’t let her get away!” Strinnger screamed, trying his best to follow her through the sea of onlookers.
The commotion roused the attention of those on stage. Ahkman stepped away from the podium, curiously yet fearfully watching the pursuit. Arla and Tom, merely an arms-length away from Nathaniel, followed the direction Strinnger pointed with their eyes. In unison, they bolted across the stage toward the black-haired woman.
“Stop or we’ll shoot,” Strinnger commanded. The crowd was too immense for her to escape, but she wouldn’t stop trying. At Strinnger’s warning, several people dropped to their knees, ducking out of the crossfire as he raised his pistol to bear on the cold-blooded killer. With no remorse, he watched as Arla and Tom opened fire on the woman who then collapsed in the far aisle.
On a rooftop several blocks away, a woman with jet-black hair and brilliant sky-blue eyes watched the chaos in the Forum unfold on the palm-sized monitor she’d perched on the building’s ledge. Her olive-green maid uniform had been discarded in favor of a charcoal-black bodysuit which she now wore beneath a black tank top and baggy cargo pants. A pistol constructed from spare materials she’d found throughout the station was tucked tightly into the back of her belt. The pulse rifle strapped over her shoulder was courtesy of the two dead Carsus security guards stacked atop one another in the maintenance shed behind her.
She smiled as the dark-haired woman on the screen, pursued by the security teams, fell after a pair of gunshots echoed off the ceiling dome.
“One down,” she smirked.
She removed a small, dark cube from the duffle at her feet and set it on the stone, careful not to jostle its contents. Her long fingers worked the locking mechanisms, which shone brightly at her touch.
“DNA confirmed,” a male voice sounded and the locks released.
Inside, embedded in dark, gray foam, was a thin cylinder with a rubber hand grip on one side. Cautiously she reached into the case and removed the item, wrapping her rough hands around the grip then gently laying her index finger over a tiny black button on its head. Her eyes wandered down to the monitor once more, waiting for the right timing. Heavy footsteps approached from her behind, but they did not distract her from concentrating on the screen. They did cause her to smile, however.
“Regina does a fairly good impersonation of me, doesn’t she?” she asked with no effort to mask her pleasure at her rival’s demise.
The footsteps continued forward, finally stopping just to her right. The man’s breathing was labored. Obviously, he had run up the stairs, attempting to avoid the lobby security. Eventually, she raised her head to greet him.
Nelsonn, wearing his favorite tan overcoat, could hardly contain his disdain as he looked at her. “Regina was supposed to be the trigger at the podium,” he growled, “not the decoy for security to take down.” He glared at the detonator she held prominently before his eyes. “Mbenago disrupted the officer’s communications and video surveillance, Kim planted the explosives, you disabled the security locks on the main gate, and I arranged our passage off this rock. In no version of this plan did Regina get shot!”
With no concern for his displeasure, Eve removed the dark wig from her head and tossed it at his feet. She blinked twice in rapid succession and the false irises of her ocular implants faded back to their natural bright green.
“My way was more fun,” she said, playfully, “and will work just as well. We didn’t need her.
She rolled the detonator in her hand, ruminating on the power she now wielded. With the slightest flinch, she could terminate the fate of the entire Carsus leadership, destroying the hope of a fledgling nation at the same time. Certainly, she had killed groups of men and women before, both rich and poor, government and private, but never while making a political statement. When she had killed, it had been all about the money. Each hit was just a job, where in the end someone died and she got paid. This job was no different. People would die and she would get paid. Only this time, she would help Nelsonn make his statement then get paid enough to buy her own Martian colony.
While she thought on this she looked out over the massive crowd spilling into the streets and hanging out of buildings. These people truly believed in something. They dared to dream for a better life, a greater hope than they had ever seen. And with a flick of her finger she could take it all away. At this thought, her long fingers eased off the trigger, caressing it as if she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Nelsonn must have sensed her hesitation. “Eve,” he said, concerned. “Remember, your freedom relies on this. Without my money, you will never be able to disappear the way you want to.”
He was right. No, this job was about her. Yes, the money was an important part of it, but she wanted to disappear, leave this world of blood and violence behind. The only way to do that was to press the button. So, she did.
Strinnger was the first to reach the woman. Her shuddering body was sprawled on the concrete steps, convulsing from the matching gunshot wounds to her back.
“Back up!” he ordered to the stunned crowd.
He bent down, placing his forefingers on her neck. She had only seconds more to live unless he got her treated now.
“They got her,” Brill crowed in disbelief. Everyone on the stage tore their stunned gaze from the surprising scene to stare at him. Treyklor’s team had liberated him with pulls of a trigger. He didn’t need to fear that shadowy figure haunting him anymore. She was the only one who could’ve connected him to Schulaz’ murder and now she too was dying. He felt alleviated and renewed, as if his guilty conscience was finally at peace. He looked at each of his colleagues with an unnerving sense of glee. Ahkman especially caught his eye. The lanky black man nodded, mistaking Brill’s excitement for a signal and reached inside his robe.
In his periphery, Brill glimpsed the bodyguard, Strinnger.
Strinnger also catch sight of Ahkman as he made a step toward Nathaniel. His hand was in his robe, which didn’t disturb Strinnger as much as the murderous expression he had seen so many times before. He’s going to take out Nathaniel! With one swift motion, he raised his own gun and fired at the former CFO. The bullet ripped the air between Strinnger and Ahkman, narrowly sailing over Nathaniel’s right shoulder and striking Ahkman just below the collarbone. Ahkman spun wildly from the impact, the neuron detonator escaping his hold and flailing erratically through the air. His face contorted in pain and he dropped to his knees as the detonator hit the ground with a thud near Brill.
His face was away from Brill for the seconds he remained on the ground, but it was plain to see, even from behind, that Ahkman progressed from shock to rage in an instant. With a great cry of revenge, Ahkman leaped at Nathaniel, a Roman dagger poised to strike at the CEO’s chest. Ahkman’s blade came down in a furious flash of hate, but before he could find his mark a deafening crack echoed off the city’s dome, not once, but twice. Ahkman slumped to the stage floor, never to move again.
