Fractured Futures
Page 1
Fractured Futures
Copyright © 2013 by S.Y. Thompson
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
More SY Thompson Titles
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Fractured Futures
by
S.Y. Thompson
Silver Dragon Books by Regal Crest
Copyright © 2013 by S.Y. Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-61929-123-2 (eBook)
eBook Conversion September 2013
First Printing 2013
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Donna Pawlowski
Published by:
Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC
229 Sheridan Loop
Belton, TX 76513
Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz
Published in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
Writing is a passion. It has to be or we wouldn’t spend hours in solitude working on such a lonely, albeit satisfying, craft. However, as much time as we spend alone creating characters and worlds, no one creates a novel alone. I’d like to acknowledge the many readers over the years who’ve induced me to become a better writer and to publish. Gun Brooke and Kathryn Yates were particularly instrumental in setting me on this path. Thanks to Laura Zielinsky for always being ready with a word of encouragement. Linda North, what can I possibly say to someone who is available at any time that I need help brainstorming? No one is a better beta or friend. Finally, I’d like to thank the people at Regal Crest, especially Cathy Bryerose, Donna Pawlowski for her cover work, and Heather Flournoy, who is the best editor ever.
Dedication
For Dad. Also for my little pup, Jazz, who always makes me smile.
Chapter One
RONAN LEE’S EYES burned and she stifled the urge to yawn. She felt like she could sleep for a week and now that this nightmarish case had ended, maybe her commanding officer would actually allow it. She had enough leave time accumulated. Glancing around at the other exhausted faces in the bullpen, she quickly reconsidered. She wasn’t the only one who could do with some time off. Leaning against the file cabinet, Ronan stared off into space, her thoughts preoccupied by what the city had endured.
It all started with a Status One emergency call and ended several months later with the arrest of a serial killer. On his hands were the murders of four women, the attempted killing of another and a city of terrified millions.
The Berlin Police force focused completely on the singular case, concentrating exclusively on the brutal slayings unless another urgent case popped up. When it did, as few detectives as possible worked the new crime to its conclusion. Once resolved, they returned to the major case that the rest of their sworn brethren worked on so hard. Yet, nothing they did drew them any closer to finding the animal that roamed the litter-infested streets.
Ronan remembered the pride she felt when she caught the case. In her eyes, it was about time the autocracy turned the file over to the Elite Detective Unit. Given a wide berth by top brass, she needed to find the perpetrator before panic spread throughout the city. Nevertheless, even with the case finally solved, it produced lasting repercussions for her if not Berlin. Now she had a problem that should have resolved with the case.
She had deduced early into the case that the killer was copycatting the murder of a well-known actress from the 21st century, Sidney Weaver. The original killing had occurred on a night in November 2012. Ironically, she was already familiar with the tragedy. Ronan heard about the death of the actress as a teenager. Her interest in that travesty led to a career in law enforcement. Unfortunately, it left her well-to-do family slightly unhappy. As part of the elite society of Berlin, her grandfather considered her choice an effrontery. When forced to acknowledge her decision, he frequently referred to her mixed heritage as the cause.
Ronan’s father had been an American, but he’d died while she was still a teenager. Her mother passed away not long after, leaving the young woman’s grandparents the task of raising her. However, she hadn’t gone into law enforcement because she needed a job. She did it because she enjoyed the work and the sense of satisfaction it brought. Often accused of having too large a heart for this kind of work, she didn’t see the victims she helped as just another case. They were real people who suffered real pain, and she found bringing their tormentors to justice extremely rewarding.
Soon she began to perceive the flow, the pattern of the work itself. From the beginning of the commission of a crime, through the sifting of clues, ending with the perpetrator nabbed and brought to justice, she sensed the rhythm that existed regardless of the type of case. Ronan found that flow strangely comforting and knew when she was on the wrong track because the rhythm didn’t feel right.
After recognizing the similarities to the older case, her team solved things very quickly. Ronan anticipated that “The Butcher,” as the media dubbed him, would not kill his latest victim immediately. With the help of her partner, she devised a plan to stop him before that could happen.
“Hey, Lee, you okay?”
Ronan looked at her partner, Boris Kinsky, without really seeing him. “Fine.”
Though Ronan was caught up in mentally rehashing the nightmare, her lackluster response seemed to satisfy the other detective. Going over solved cases at their conclusion, she looked for any weakness in procedure they could avoid in the future. However, what stayed with her most was the bloodiness of the crime scenes.
The appellation given the killer by the press was accurate. The Butcher apparently preferred a very sharp knife to make it easier to dismember his victims, like a Ginsu through a banana. Each of the scenes appeared more and more liberally smattered with blood, evidence that the maniac reveled in the “wet” work. The city felt like a powder keg, ready to explode and Ronan’s job became all the more difficult. She was even more determined to stop him.
During those four months, Ronan learned more about Sidney Weaver’s life than she’d ever thought possible. The elegant actress boasted a reputation for being a no-nonsense businesswoman who nevertheless charmed the people around her while she controlled them completely without their awareness. She had been married to a very important man named Roger Gentry, who’d been instrumental in the rise of the Neue Konservative Regime, but Sidney divorced him a few months prior to her death. Ronan secretly believed the
ex-husband had something to do with her untimely demise.
Gentry held sensitive government information in his wife’s briefcase, Ronan presumed, out of the fear that the competition had targeted him for elimination. Later, his attempt to retrieve that material was unsuccessful. He must have assumed Sidney read the data contained on the computer disc and probably felt he had no other choice but to set her up for termination.
The fact that this most recent series of brutal murders mimicked the case that led her to joining the Elite Detective Unit seemed pure coincidence. However, solving this newest crime left her with an obsession. She couldn’t get Sidney Weaver out of her head.
Somewhere along the way, she’d fallen in love with the long-dead woman, haunted by the gray eyes and the husky laugh as she watched old holo-videos night after night. As she immersed herself in Sidney’s charisma, Ronan came to believe that if Sidney had lived it was very likely that the totalitarian rule of the Neue Konservative Regime would never have risen to power. This world of curfews and personal rights violations might never have come to be. The Konservatives could trace their origin directly to Gentry. Sidney Weaver must have known something that could have prevented their birth.
Ronan stood in the rear of the briefing room in front of an open file cabinet door, thinking how the government and the woman were interconnected. Although filing reports having to do with the recently closed case, she remembered other things brought to light that she had stumbled on. These things had little to do with the kidnapping but more about how the Regime did business. Ronan looked up, staring out the window wondering if the government could possibly be as corrupt as she’d begun to believe. Did people really just disappear if they outwardly disagreed with the neo-fascist party?
Vaguely, she noticed Lieutenant Gustav Sloan walk out of his office and stop in the center of the bullpen, staring at her as she stood in the corner. Ronan knew her hair looked slightly disarrayed and wisps stood out from her normally severe bun. Dark circles resided under her blue eyes and made her skin look even paler than usual. Ronan had witnessed the details herself when she looked into the mirror while getting ready for work. Sloan was sharp enough to pick up on the signs of exhaustion.
Sloan wasn’t a bleeding heart. He was a man of the Regime and did what the government asked of him without question. He was also, however, a good leader. He recognized the talent each of his people had, easily seeing their strengths and weaknesses. She knew he considered her one of his greatest assets. She could almost hear him say that if she didn’t take care of herself she would keel over from exhaustion and deprive the Regime of a useful resource.
“Lee, you’re on vacation. Immediately,” he added when it looked like she would resist. “I’m not asking. Just look at you. You can barely stand up. When was the last time you slept?”
Ronan didn’t answer and he took her silence as confirmation.
“Two weeks. Kinsky can pick up the slack.”
She knew her inability to concentrate affected her current work routine, but she hadn’t expected her supervisor to send her home on temporary leave. Even if he believed she was overworked, she felt uncomfortable giving such an impression. Suddenly, she realized this might be an opportunity.
However unwittingly, Sloan opened the door for Ronan to do something about her obsession and she decided not to argue with him. An hour later, she sat in her favorite armchair with her feet up, a snifter of Rémy Martin in her hand and a Sidney Weaver holo-vid on the monitor when a call came. Her computer beeped an incoming communication and a frown flitted briefly across the Nordic features. For a moment, she considered ignoring it but with her luck, it would be Boris and she’d never hear the end of it if she blew him off. Heaving a resigned sigh, she stood and walked over to the interface, still holding her glass.
“Activate,” she said simply and watched as the grizzled features of Professor Albus Horton appeared on the huge screen.
A grin tugged reluctantly at the corners of her full-lipped mouth and honest affection for the old man touched her heart. Frizzy white hair stuck up randomly from the balding pate and a rumpled lab-coat hung off his thin frame. The man might be a mess, but he was utterly brilliant and possessed a heart of gold. Ronan considered him the grandfather of her heart, rather than the stern, disapproving man who truly occupied the position.
Professor Horton usually contacted her when he needed more funding with one of his research projects and she always granted him the money. Her faith in his abilities proved justified over the years and led to major breakthroughs in the holo-technologies that were so widely used, as well as ion propulsion that allowed starships to travel 200,000 miles per second through the galaxies to meet any new alien cultures. His latest project was in theoretical time travel. When he began the research over two years ago, Ronan hadn’t believed it would go anywhere, but with his track record she was prepared to take a few things on faith.
“Professor,” she said with a grin as she noticed the food-spotted lab coat he wore. “You’re looking well.”
“Pish posh,” the man said with a smile, and then waved a hand in the air. “Don’t get smart with me, young lady.”
The commonplace banter between the two caused her smile to grow and she didn’t take offense when he got right down to business.
“I’m calling you because I’m ready to move into the testing phase of our gate and I thought you might want to be present. After all, it is your dime.”
“The time travel project?”
She jerked in surprise and whiskey sloshed over the rim of her glass. A million thoughts ran through her head at once as the potentials of such a device hit her. They were staggering. Even in the brief seconds she had to absorb the information, Ronan understood at least a glimpse of the magnitude. Events that appeared carved in stone didn’t seem so irrefutable anymore. Wars could be undone.
She had to fight the sensation of traveling down into a deep well of alarm at the horrors that the wrong people could perpetrate if they got hold of such a device. Ronan swallowed hard and squashed the urge to down the rest of her drink in a single gulp.
“You mean you actually got it to work?”
Horton frowned as though severely offended. “What? Did you think I used the money to pay for my elaborate lifestyle?”
Ronan regrouped quickly with a shake of her head. “Of course not, I apologize. You just caught me off guard. I didn’t expect you to have it ready so quickly. You’ve only been researching the project for two years, but of course, I would like to be there when you test your hypothesis. I assume this means you’ll need more...funding?”
“Ha,” the old man barked. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped the spotty specs with an equally dirty handkerchief. “I always said you were the smart one in the family. Come over in about an hour and I’ll show you what I have.”
He quickly terminated the communiqué. Ronan chuckled as she set the glass on a side table and prepared to leave the penthouse apartment. As an employee of the Detective Unit, Ronan would have lived in a decent place while the rest of the city lived in squalor, but it wouldn’t pay for this. However, her family’s personal finances let her live in relative luxury.
She walked down to her parking space in the underground garage while keeping her eyes firmly in front, trying to ignore the homeless, unwashed masses that milled about aimlessly in the underground shadows.
Ronan thought the totalitarian regime was responsible for a great deal of this reality, but she wasn’t sure what one person could do.
An hour later, she pulled up into Professor Horton’s driveway on her black BMW Avantgarde. The motorcycle was brand new and outfitted with all of the latest modern technology. Ronan had added a few modifications of her own to the 1200Z and the machine throbbed powerfully between her muscled legs. The ride over to Horton’s residence was relatively short, but took slightly longer than it should since she did her best to avoid the random military checkpoints.
Switching off the bike, sh
e removed the black helmet and looked at the man’s house for a moment. Horton joked about his extravagant lifestyle but his home was quite the opposite. Ronan thought it had been new in the previous century.
Brick, two-story with simple yet elegant lines, it boasted enough ornate scrollwork along the eves and support columns to decorate a gingerbread house. Nevertheless, years of neglect left the house with
a missing stone here and there. One of the downstairs windowpanes had cracked and been poorly repaired, leaving it with a permanently rippled appearance, while cobwebs adorned every corner and eave. The driveway had fractured repeatedly from the weather over the years and lay buckled and broken in places.
Was she that self-centered or was she just always in such a hurry that she never bothered to look? Well, she noticed now and tomorrow she would arrange for the repairs. Professor Horton would complain, of course, but Ronan felt it was the least she could do to repay him for the inventions that made life a little easier for everyone.
Finally, she got off the motorcycle and walked up to the front door. She waited several minutes after knocking and realized that Doctor Horton had probably already forgotten about her in the pursuit of some interesting new bit of technology. Just when she was about to give up, the front door grudgingly opened and he impatiently ushered her inside.
“Come in, come in. Why didn’t you just come in? You knew I was waiting for you.”
Ronan grimaced as she passed his set of archaic weapons proudly displayed on the wall by the entrance, again baffled why such a scholarly gentleman insisted on collecting such artifacts. Long, wickedly curved blades, ornately carved swords, and bayonets adorned the walls. He even owned a suit of armor that stood silent sentry in a corner.