The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  When the shield fell, he unleashed a barrage on one orb while his counterpart attacked the other. Each blast rifle died after ejecting less than three flash pegs. Simultaneously, a cannon shot erupted from the right flank and blew apart the front wall of the flat. The concussion threw James and the team into a wall that itself was crumbling.

  Bullets and tracers emerged from the smoke and rubble, a shrill symphony exploding from weapons not impacted by an EMP. James gathered himself, threw rubble aside and took his position. Bullets bounced off his bodysuit. He deduced their strategy: They couldn’t penetrate the suits with these weapons, but they didn’t need to. Provide a strong enough onslaught to keep the peacekeepers on the defensive, take heavy losses, then move closer in for the kill, and attack with long blades made of a metal capable of penetrating the bodysuit.

  When the smoke cleared, he fired. The rhythmic vibrations of the blast rifle energized his soul and heated his blood. He saw the suicidal madness in the eyes of his enemy: a realization they could not win but intent to claim many prizes before defeat. James would not let that happen. He aimed and fired with abandon, bodies contorting as his flash pegs exploded within them. He stepped across rubble into their territory, and they turned on him.

  Again and again he fired. Again and again they fell. They swung blades to the end, within range of James, coming from behind. He used the rifle to repel a blade before it cut him beneath the ribs. It was a madness with limits, for soon there were no more enemies. Only silence amid the smoke and rubble.

  “End.”

  He heard Valentin’s voice, and just as quickly the simulation closed down. But the adrenalin remained, as did the perspiration inside that suit and the echoes of a blast rifle in full combat mode tweaking the muscles in his right forearm.

  They stood in the center of the silent chamber. Valentin tapped his helmet, which folded back over his head. James followed suit.

  “Good choice,” Valentin said. “The claustrophobic engagements, those are the ones where you have the highest chance of casualties. We lost the other team leader. His helmet disruption allowed a tracer through. The man I folded in for was also hurt but he only needed a week in rehab then returned to duty. So, what do you think, brother?”

  “Damnation.” He studied the console. “You say there’s three hundred years of battles in here?”

  “From thirty-four colonies.”

  “How much time did they give us?”

  “Chamber belongs to us for as many hours as we need.”

  “Music to my ears. Let’s play.”

  And they did—for more than six hours, eighteen engagements, eleven different worlds. They faced open warfare in the desert, invaded insurgent camps deep inside tropical jungles, conducted Scorch campaigns that left no survivors, rescued hostages aboard a ship on stormy seas, assassinated political opponents threatening to topple a Sanctum-supported government, escorted refugees from a battle zone while taking sniper fire, and killed illegal arms manufacturers. As they danced from world to world and generation to generation, Valentin showed James the range of peacekeeper responsibilities. They were a mishmash of warriors, butchers, rescuers, hitmen, and guardians. Between engagements and looking behind that mental curtain, James asked:

  “Do peacekeepers fight other people’s wars?”

  “Yes. We usually settle local disputes. There have been some attempts to defy the UG directly, but the indigos can’t win those battles, so they don’t try. At least not until recently. It’s our mandate in The Foundation Treaty. Colonial governments have limited military powers, so we swoop in and take care of their ugliest business. In exchange, we remain stationed on Ark Carriers around every colony, and the Chancellory takes a healthy stake on profits involving planetary natural resources.”

  “So, a cut of their economy for killing the bad guys.”

  Valentin nodded. “The indigos couldn’t protect themselves without us. We’ve killed millions over the centuries. We keep them in line, and they respect the power of the Chancellory.”

  “But you said some have tried to take you on.”

  “Fools. Radicals. They think we’ve weakened since… well, since the fall of Hiebimini. Since we lost brontinium production, these indigo bastards think the Chancellory will stop producing soldiers. They’re positioning themselves for a future they’ll never claim.”

  James selected Hiebimini from among the planet options, but no tactical engagements appeared.

  “You won’t find our history with the Hiebim,” Valentin said. “It’s long and bloody, but the admiralty removed it before I was born.”

  “Why? Hiebimini is painful to the Chancellors, but why remove everything?”

  “The official line? There’s no point. After Hiebimini fell, the planet died. We evacuated almost every civilian. Other than a few radicals, nobody lives there anymore. There have been rumors. Some say the planet was terraformed. Others say it’s a barren rock. No matter. The system has been under UG blockade for twenty-five years. No one gets within five hundred thousand kilometers of the planet.”

  This did not jibe with the history James cobbled together from Lydia the Mentor, Perrone, his newfound database, or the Jewel inside him calling itself Ignatius Horne. Or greater importance, he remembered his last conversation with Deputy Ignatius Horne, minutes before the observers killed him in Albion:

  “I was named after a great man whose courage and ultimate sacrifice changed the course of human history,” the deputy said moments before he was killed. “I have tried to carry myself with the same honor and dedication to a selfless cause, and I hope that will be my legacy.”

  The Jewel also praised the original man, claiming that “he and I, together” brought down the Chancellors. “He was a good man who found redemption at the end.”

  James searched his database and found no cross-references to Ignatius Horne and Hiebimini. What the hell?

  “Where I came from,” James told his brother, “people would hear about a blockade like that and ask, ‘What are they trying to hide?’ What have you heard?”

  “My generation grew up after the blockade. We’ve never cared.”

  James wanted to say, “Maybe you should,” but he held off. They were having fun, and he was learning too much about soldiering to focus on a puzzle he couldn’t yet solve. Instead, he asked:

  “Where next?”

  Valentin chose a new world; their simulated battles continued.

  Yet with every new engagement, as hard as James focused, he felt an itch called Hiebimini. Patience, he told himself. Bigger damn fish to fry right now.

  After eight hours in the simulators, they put away their weapons and entered the ReCon tubes, where they re-uniformed into comfort wear. James did not mind exhaustion, having grown ten pounds and a half-inch taller. The more he taxed his body, the more his Jewel energy built and reshaped him. He expected to be seven feet tall before the morning.

  They made plans to eat, but circumstances interfered. When they stepped outside the chamber, Rear Admiral Perrone and Maj. Marshall greeted them, but neither smiled. The officers exchanged the traditional side-nod, and James followed suit. He stood still, shoulders firm, beside his brother.

  “Gentlemen,” Perrone said. “I trust you have had a productive day. It is only just beginning. Suit up. The real world is calling.”

  31

  New Stockholm City

  T HE LAST TIME MICHAEL WAS MAGNETIZED to a still-seat, he slept for two hours. He refused to make that mistake again.

  “I got to be ready for anything,” he told Sammie. “They need to know I can hold my own.”

  An hour before they boarded the shuttle for destination unknown, they sat alone in Rikard’s bedroom. Sammie handed him the same pistol she took off him after the battle at the IDF. The same one he never fired even as their lives neared the brink.

  “You have nine rounds,” she said. “If this goes bad, keep count. Make every shot matter. If you use them all, we’re in huge trouble.”


  He sucked in his pride and asked for a refresher on how to hold and fire the weapon. Sammie also demonstrated the safety.

  “I appreciate how you feel about killing.” She leaned against him. “But if we’re going on this quest with Jamie, we can’t avoid it. There’s as many Chancellors who want the Jewels dead as alive.”

  “Hell, I knew that before I crossed the Albion County line. I get it, Sammie. We’re in a war. Guns, bombs, nukes. Whatever suits.”

  “I believe in you, Michael. You saved my life when you killed Christian. You can hold your own.”

  Michael did not mind her sounding like the older, wiser mentor.

  “Sammie, there’s something I ain’t been able to put into words yet, but I need to say.” He grabbed her hand. “First few times I met you, I figured you for a cold fish. One of these smug little Daddy’s girls. The type who figure other kids got to bow down…”

  She smirked. “A bitch, you mean?”

  “That’s the one. Damned if I understood why J hung out with you. You turned out to be all right, and I don’t mean cause of the Wonder Woman shit. You got a big damn heart, and you ain’t in it just for yourself. You could take easy street right now. You heard Ophelia’s offer. All that money and power and…” He choked up. “I figured you’d drop us in a heartbeat when you made the Chancellor big time. But you’re putting every-damn-thing on the line.”

  He squirmed. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. As he pulled back, he hesitated. Maybe it was the lighting, or maybe he was a fool. Something in her eyes? Either way, he couldn’t help himself.

  “Last time I kissed a girl… proper kiss, on the lips… I got slapped. You, uh, you remember Wynona Smirnett?”

  Sammie grimaced. “Wynona? You kissed her?”

  “Yeah. Seemed like a good idea till it weren’t. Anyway, what I was thinking was, if I died today and that was my last kiss… well, hell, that don’t seem the proper way to go. If you get my speed.”

  She did.

  They met at the lips. Tender, quiet, long enough to cherish.

  When they parted and shared lingering smiles, she said:

  “Just for the record. The first few times I met you, I thought you were an idiot.”

  “You thought right.”

  Now, as he stood next to her in a still-seat, Michael appreciated the moment they shared, especially if it was the last.

  When the shuttle landed at the staging area, Patricia told everyone to hold tight. She left the shuttle, insisting she’d return in less than five minutes. No one onboard said a word, which only tightened Michael’s nerves. If Ophelia was right, either Patricia, Rikard or Brey was a traitor. He wondered if and when they planned to spring a deadly surprise. The pistol felt reassuring in the side pouch attached to his Solomon bodysuit.

  After ten minutes passed, Rikard broke the silence.

  “Something is off about this. The Chief said she had this locked.”

  “Patience,” Ophelia said. “These are mercs. After our last fiasco, she’s making sure not to bring another infiltrator onboard.”

  When she finished, the bay door opened. Patricia entered, followed by six equally tall but less muscular men and women. They looked like the civilians Michael saw on the streets of New Stockholm—business suits and saris. Patricia wore a loose-fitting, three-piece ensemble.

  A weapons bank opened; the mercenaries helped themselves to thump guns and small, revolver-sized weapons. Michael thought the latter resembled hose-end sprayers but assumed they were much deadlier. The mercenaries formed a lineup, and Ophelia motioned everyone else forward. The shuttle door closed.

  “First,” she said, “I’ll need everyone except the pilot to nullify their amp.” She tapped her forehead and blinked thrice in quick succession, as did Patricia, Brey, and the mercenaries. “Rikard, run an internal scan for bleeders, active amps, or any propriety UG tech.” When he gave the all-clear, she resumed.

  “Thank you,” she told the mercs. “I hope this mission will be nothing more than security detail. But if force is needed, the Chief assures me you are well-suited. Needless to say, your compensation will be exceptional.” To the pilot: “Open the schematics.”

  Rikard reached for displays within the pilot’s cylindrical well and tossed out a holocube. Ophelia caught, positioned, and resized it for everyone. Michael spotted familiar geographical patterns: The Eastern Seaboard of the United States, not that either name meant anything here. The coastline seemed less jagged, as if shaved along the loose edges. Ophelia touched a spot which Michael guessed would have put them somewhere in Virginia. Then she drew a line east off the coast and hundreds of miles distant to a lonely island.

  “Is that?” He whispered.

  Sammie nodded. “Bermuda.”

  “Our destination,” Ophelia said, “is the Isle of Seneca. Most Chancellors are unfamiliar with it.” She pointed to the southeast corner. “The entire population of one thousand is located here, the Heinlein Outpost. A beautiful facility with a spectacular view. These are primarily scientists, bioart designers, and a few rogue Chancellors who left urban living behind.”

  “Who are we posing as?” Brey asked.

  “For the record, we represent a bioengineering consortium based on Xavier’s Garden. We are developing an immuno-resistant strain of BM44. It’s for an insect-borne epidemic they’ve been experiencing in their southern jungles. Seneca’s flora may provide answers.”

  “Decent cover,” Brey said, “but why the narrative? We’re only there to pick up the Ukrainian and move on.”

  “Good question. This facility is compact, although its resources are considerable. New arrivals are carefully noted. We do not want to draw undo attention, which is why you,” she pointed to the mercs, “are not dressed for battle. We will arrive one hour before the Ukrainian, assuming no obstacles on either side. If all goes well, we will be gone inside two hours. Good? I will turn over the tactical details to Patricia.”

  The Chief took over, talking only to the mercenaries, laying out a series of maneuvers and positions they should take upon exiting at the transport bay and at the time of transferring the Ukrainian. Michael lost interest in the details when a horrifying thought crossed his mind. He led Sammie aft.

  “I know you don’t figure the Chief for a traitor, after what happened to her team,” he whispered. “But what if this has been a setup?” She frowned, but he didn’t give up. “No, seriously. Perrone knew everything about Patricia. Where she was stationed, her war record. All of it. Then he had the last of her team executed. What if… it’s crazy… but what if he did that to maintain her cover? Make us think there’s no way she’d ever work for the admiral.”

  “Sounds like you watched too many Tom Cruise movies,” Sammie said. “But we’ve been through ten kinds of hell the last few days. If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “Fair enough.” He looked forward, where Ophelia consulted with Brey and Rikard as Patricia continued discussing tactical ops. “She’s talking as if we’re gonna cruise in, cruise out. Name me one thing we’ve done so far that didn’t damn near get us killed.”

  “It would be nice to have something go our way for a change.”

  Michael rubbed the pouch holding his gun but took no comfort.

  32

  M ICHAEL SAW THROUGH OPHELIA TOMELIN, and the picture he was forming terrified him. She seemed smart enough, wealthy enough, and claimed to have powerful allies. Yet as Michael reviewed the full picture, he decided nothing added up.

  As a leader, her track record appeared dismal. She led her team into a massacre at the fold after allowing a spy inside then seemed helpless when Perrone arrived and began barking orders. She didn’t expect the attack on Rikard’s shuttle and didn’t think to check for bleeders until after the fact. She learned of another spy in her presence but decided not to act. Who does that? One concern led to another. Who is she getting her information from? Is that person on her sid
e? Is she just making this shit up as she goes?

  While the shuttle made its way for the island, Michael used the quiet moments as opportunity to build his own backup plan if Ophelia’s failed. He called up more of the information he learned in the Tier 1 Educate amp. He looked for knowledge connected to terms he heard thrown around since he arrived. Some, such as presidium or sanctum, offered more details than he wanted, while terms related to weaponry, ships, Unification Guard, or anything related to stream amps came with a common disclaimer:

  “The information you have requested will be facilitated in Stage B of this Tier. The required implantation of a Communications Amplifier to your synaptic cortex will take place in year six according to Chancellory bylaws. Please consult your educational consortium.”

  “Great,” Michael whispered. “I’m a five-year-old.”

  He addressed Ophelia, who stood in the still-seat to his left.

  “So,” he said, under his breath, “You probably got a lot buzzing around in your gray matter right about now. Making sure you got the bases covered. But I could I trouble you with a couple questions?”

  She didn’t look at him. “If it’s about the plan…”

  “No. Got nothing to do with the plan.”

  “Then perhaps they are best saved for later?”

  “Now seems as good a time as any. How long before the island?”

  “Twenty-seven minutes.”

  “Perfect.” He recognized her tiny smile, the curt one many of his teachers employed while tolerating his silliness. “See, I don’t want to be a nuisance. I’m not the kid in the back seat always asking if we’re there yet. But I figure if I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in this universe, I need to get the inside dope.”

  She eyed him with the now-familiar grimace of Chancellors who didn’t understand his references. But he had Ophelia’s attention.