The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Enough. I’m so damn sorry. I just needed you to talk about it. This is what we have to do. No holding back, or it’s going to eat right through us.”

  She sniffled. “Of course, you’re right. I need air. We both do.”

  She grabbed her wine glass and bottle and marched outside the suite. Michael threw on a shirt with the tri-crest and followed.

  In pursuit, he passed Solomon staff along the way, offering an awkward smile as if nothing were wrong. He saw genuine concern, not the rumor-mongering glares that long ago accompanied the knowledge he was sleeping with a Chancellor.

  As he expected, Sam led him to the garden gazebo off the southern veranda. She loved this spot – surrounded by immaculate beds of blooming annuals in rainbow stripes.

  “Look, babe,” he said when he reached her side. “I told myself to keep things simple today. I didn’t want you to go through it again.”

  She waved him off. “No, Michael. It’s fine. Really. I’ll have nightmares the rest of my life, whether we talk about it or not. But something you said was true: We have to clear the air. And that means it’s time for you to come clean about what’s eating you up.”

  The pit in his stomach grew threefold. “About?”

  “Entilles Club. I heard every word on the Scram – including what you and Finnegan Moss didn’t say. I still don’t know exactly how you and Rikard saved his life.”

  He thought these details would sleep until another day.

  “I … um … see, what happened was …”

  “Please, Michael. You’re the love of my life, but I’m not blind. And I have contacts. You’ve been more deeply involved in the equity movement than you’ve let on. Right?”

  He felt like a kid caught with a cookie in each hand. He wasn’t going to betray what they had.

  “Yeah. Um. I’ve been an agent for them. Trained.”

  “Trained in what?”

  “I … I’ve killed people. Look, Sam, it’s just that …”

  She cut him off. “How many did you kill at Entilles?”

  “Three.”

  “And they all had to die?”

  “It was me or them. Only way I come out alive.”

  She poured another glass and sipped. “Good.”

  “Just … good?”

  “Michael, the only thing I hated was you not telling me. I suspected, but I also understood why. Sweetie, you’re a stronger man than you were two years ago. I’m glad you’re killing our enemies. The only way you and I survive and grow old together is to fight. And sometimes, that means people die.”

  “I wish I could’ve talked to you, but I just got in so deep. I don’t regret any of it. Not a single one of them fuckers.”

  “Are you sure? Is that why you drink so much?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I just …”

  “It’s OK. It’s not like I don’t walk around with a perpetual buzz. Our lives don’t make sense. Look at this place. Are you kidding me? We should be on the top of the world.”

  “Sometimes, I think I’m gonna wake up in my bed in Albion. Sam, I didn’t tell you because I figured you’d think less of me.”

  “No. My Daddy trained me to kill when I was young because he knew I had to be ruthless to survive here. All this,” she pointed in every direction across the estate, “made me soft. Made me think I could use my wealth and allies to solve my problems. But you took action. I’m proud of you. Daddy used to say, ‘Don’t wait to kill your enemy until after all else fails because by then, you’ll be dead.’ It took James about a day to understand that lesson, and he hasn’t let up. Neither should we.”

  Her bloodthirsty tone shocked Michael. This was the GI Jane he saw bring down a helicopter with an M16 and blow away an armed mercenary rather than negotiate.

  “Listen, babe, I got no problem taking out my enemy. Ever. But I can’t be like him. I’m never gonna be a killer.”

  “No, you won’t be. You have too big a heart. But all this,” she glanced again at the estate, “won’t mean anything until we finish our business – here and out there. It’s time to fight.”

  “Sounds like a plan. The soldiering life for Michael and Sam.”

  They shared a long, quiet kiss, and Michael dreamed of the bed in the master suite. Patience, dude. Patience.

  He lost the mood two hours later when Finnegan Moss joined them for dinner and delivered terrifying news.

  15

  E VERY EXPERT AGREES,” FINNEGAN SAID halfway through the entree. “The terrorist escape ship arrived at Vasily by wormhole. The spatial distortion you witnessed, Sam, is identical to the field created when a ship leaves the Fulcrum through a local Nexus. The consensus opinion: Bouchet’s group can program and navigate wormholes on demand. In theory, they can arrive anywhere, anytime, with no way to detect them in advance.”

  Nothing on the table appeared appetizing after his news. The four of them – Finnegan brought along his Chief of Staff – sat in silence until the first wave of shock dissolved.

  “OK, it’s like this,” Michael said, holding Sam’s hand. “I ain’t a science guy. That Tier 2 education – all the business about relativity, quantum mechanics, you name it – I get headaches trying to sort through it. But I’ve seen enough Star Trek to know what you just said is a royal no-go. You can’t just design a wormhole.”

  Finnegan grimaced. “What is Star Trek?”

  “TV, dude. I was making a joke. Remember, I’m a bad comic. Seriously, how is what you’re saying even possible?”

  “It shouldn’t be. In a thousand years of trying, the Chancellory has never been able to manufacture a stable wormhole, let alone one with a malleable path. We’ve always failed when trying to establish a transverse field. In simple terms, the exit window.”

  “How do you know so much about this subject?” Sam asked.

  “During my first Guard tour, I became fascinated with Fulcrum history. Here was this network of wormholes – clearly constructed by an intelligence far beyond our own – connecting forty systems, each with at least one habitable planet. Virgin worlds, all of them. No evidence of a previous civilization. As if they were waiting for us. We spent more than a century learning how to navigate the Fulcrum, install transit beacons, and explore the systems at each Nexus point. The colonial migration began a few generations later.”

  Sam knew little of this history, but she had a horrible feeling the answers she dreaded were fast approaching.

  “Has anyone theorized about who built the Fulcrum?”

  “Nothing for the official record. Only in the last few decades, since we discovered the Jewels of Eternity, have there been any sound theories. None for public disclosure, of course. The most prominent: Whatever race created the Jewels, likely built the Fulcrum. The radiation signatures in the Jewel bonding syntax are similar to the natural radiation inside the wormholes.”

  She didn’t want to hear it, but everything made sense.

  “Is it possible the Jewels hold the knowledge of their creators?”

  Finnegan flexed a brow in recognition. “More likely than not.”

  “So, if a hybrid were to absorb all his Jewel’s intelligence …?”

  “Whoa, babe,” Michael tapped a fork against his plate. “I’m barely keeping up, but I see where you’re headed. No. No way.” He turned to their guests. “Two years ago, Jamie Sheridan was skateboarding through a shithole town in the middle of nowhere, Alabama, was nearabout failing out of school, and robbed a general store for runaway loot. You cannot be serious to think he designed something the whole damn Chancellory couldn’t figure out in a thousand years of trying. No goddamn way.”

  Finnegan leaned back. “That boy you knew left his humanity behind a long time ago. To your point, Michael, no one is suggesting Bouchet alone designed this weapon. And make no mistake: It is a weapon. Remember, there are nine other hybrids. Additionally, they have recruited an unknown number of Chancellor scientists. Recruited, kidnapped. Hard to say. Remember, the as
sassins on Vasily were engineers by trade.”

  “Which means,” Sam said, “the hybrids could generate the designs, but others build the tech.”

  Michael wasn’t buying it. “What about the ships? They can’t build those in secret, can they? Somebody has to know what’s up.”

  “Actually, yes, they can,” said Moss’s Chief of Staff, David Ellstrom, breaking his silence. “With apologies, Finnegan. Michael, the Fulcrum contains more than two hundred Nexus points. Most enter into dead space, but dozens lead to uninhabited systems – including some the Chancellory has left uncharted. My background gave me personal knowledge of at least six undocumented facilities in those systems, all designed for off-book projects. It is rumored the first experiments involving the Jewels were conducted on one of those facilities. We have reason to believe the Jewels that transformed Hiebimini decades ago were stolen from just such a location.”

  “To the more immediate point,” Finnegan added, “this wormhole tech might only require retrofits. The ship outside Vasily was a century-old model. The terrorists could easily acquire parts through white or black markets then disappear into a cocoon dozens of light-years from the nearest colony.”

  Sam felt an overwhelming sense of futility. “The Collectorate’s expanse reaches nine hundred light-years. Even if every system-capable ship could travel the stars …”

  Finnegan reached for his wine. “We would need a miraculous stroke of luck to stumble upon them. Yes. That’s always been the problem with space. Too big for mortals. Without the Fulcrum, I’m not sure we’d have ever left our own system.”

  “FTL?” Michael’s acronym drew gazes. “You know. Faster than light? Warp speed, and all that jazz. You don’t have FTL?”

  Finnegan deferred to his Chief, the “expert historian” on self-sufficient interstellar travel.

  “Michael, we tried to crack the speed of light for centuries, even before the Fulcrum,” Ellstrom said. “Best effort reached thirty-two percent of light. We were preparing the first generation ships to travel at that speed to the nearest systems, when we discovered the Fulcrum. After realizing we could travel hundreds of light-years in a standard week, the demand for FTL, as you call it, all but died. I fear what the terrorists have developed is more radical than any FTL.”

  Michael threw back jubriska. “Yeah, well, I fear we’re fucked.”

  “Not yet,” Sam said. “Finnegan, is there any good news?”

  “There’s always good news.” He smiled. “You should know Chancellors well enough by now. The deeper my teams investigate, the more ground we cover on the colonies, the Ark Carriers, inside the Guard, the more intel we build. We have clues, leads. Some of my allies have agents who have infiltrated sympathizers. It’s dangerous work.” He turned to Ellstrom. “I ask a great deal of them. One breakthrough will turn the tide our way.”

  “Again, I don’t wish to speak out of turn,” Ellstrom said. “But as dire as this one conflict might be, the fact remains we are facing enemies on multiple fronts. Until we find headway regarding the terrorists, the Solomon equity battle must move forward. My own informants believe a growing number of Chancellors no longer have an appetite for the restrictions in the Solomon treaty. They believe a resolution lies on the horizon. Many dangerous steps ahead, of course, but if we achieve new legislation, we might also facilitate an end to the Chancellor civil war.”

  Sam nodded. “Unified Earth. Exciting concept. Right, sweetie?”

  “Concept is the right word, babe. There’s gonna be a shitload of bodies on the ground before it becomes reality. Am I right, Finn?”

  “The hardliners will not go down without a fight.”

  “You’ll back whatever we have to do?”

  “Michael, I owe you my life. As does David. I’d say that puts you in a position of considerable leverage. Yes?”

  “I don’t want leverage, Finn. I just want to be happy, and I want to marry Sam.”

  Sam held his hand tight, and her cheeks reddened. He’d just gotten her back from another near-death catastrophe. How much longer before luck betrayed them?

  Michael didn’t know where the next words came from, but they swept him away. All they’d been through, all the dark days still ahead, and instinct decided this was the moment.

  Michael took Sam by both hands and heard the words before he thought them.

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Michael … of course, sweetie. I thought we talked about …”

  “Yeah. Kinda, sorta. But I never got around to making it official. Probably should’ve gotten down on my knees. And I don’t have a ring.” He turned to Finnegan. “Y’all do rings?”

  Finnegan laughed. “Amulets with the crests of the unified descendancies. Solomons and indigos use rings.”

  Tripping over his thoughts, Michael waved off the idea.

  “We’ll sort that shit out later. So, what’s it gonna be, Samantha Pynn? Ready to marry a lowly Solomon like me? Don’t worry – I’ll still carry the luggage.” He winked.

  “You know I will,” she said, tears raining. “To the end.”

  His sudden delirium crushed the dispiriting mood of the evening – a turn wholly unexpected. Michael felt a buoyancy unlike any since the day he realized he was in love. He wanted to keep his tears.

  They forgot about dinner and soon said farewell to Finnegan and David. All agreed to intensify their communications, spread their network of allies, and fortify their security apparatus for the coming threats. In short order, an unexpected hope returned.

  For Michael, none of his life made sense. Living in a grand estate with a staff of twenty. Enough money to buy allies and assassinate enemies. A proto-African turning a middle finger toward the Chancellory’s old guard. Death waiting outside the gates and light-years across the galaxy. A former friend – now a raging psychopath – setting his eye on the woman of Michael’s dreams.

  You’ll never have her, you motherfucker.

  That night, Michael gave all his heart to Sam, going to places he had kept locked away as he grew from reckless teen to man. He loved her in the most creative positions he knew, determined tonight would not be forgotten in the dangerous struggle ahead. She vowed often to be with him “to the end,” something that always seemed perilously close.

  There were worse ways to go, Michael assured himself.

  16

  Equatorial settlement Peshawan

  Colony: Brahma

  177 light-years from Earth

  R IKHI SYED LOVED TO CHASE THE SEA on a rare clear day, but nothing topped those moments when the planet’s rings went into eclipse to create a breathtaking light show. The sun’s rays flickered in and out while trying to peek through breaks in the rings. Noonday fluctuated with dawn and dusk. Rikhi skip-jumped along the Omanpuri Shelf by himself, seeing how close he might come to the edge of the slippery granite cliffs. The turbulent Sea of Awan thundered as it smashed against walls as old as the planet.

  Rikhi never wanted to go back home. If he fell, would anyone notice? When – if ever – would the cry go out for a missing boy? His one attempt at running away failed when he stumbled upon a Unification Guard training outpost ten kilometers from Peshawan. The peacekeepers asked no questions; instead they dumped him at the settlement’s gates in the middle of the night. Don’t try it again, they warned. You will be target practice next time, indigo.

  As if he weren’t already that in Peshawan.

  Rikhi didn’t understand where he went wrong. He mastered the local Farheesi dialect in addition to the universally required Tier 2 Engleshe within two years after his parents adopted him. Smartest boy in his class, by far. Yes, there was jealousy but few threats or outright bullying. His peers always seemed eager to befriend him before falling silent and distant within days. Their eyes turned down, and they spoke to him in muted tones. His parents, Muhar and Neela, dismissed his concerns and insisted he keep trying to find friends.

  Rikhi disappeared into the shadows and opened his ears. He hid around dar
k corners, behind walls, under beds, and inside closets. He discovered an uncharted reality and saw why he offended so many.

  Very simply, he wasn’t one of them. His skin wasn’t brown enough, his hair not dark enough, his eyes too much the color of the sea. He was a few inches taller than other children his age. Muhar and Neela refused to speak of his adoption except to insist Rikhi was Brahman by birth. Few believed them, though they were among the most influential business owners in Peshawan.

  Now, six years after he arrived, Rikhi felt the undercurrent shifting strongly against the Syeds and his four brothers and sisters. The drought turned everyone sour; the poisoning of the fields destroyed community goodwill. Peshawan was dying, and no one from the Guard or the Chancellor Sanctums offered assistance.

  When Rikhi ended his jump-skip along the cliffs, he returned to the town and found a clamor in the central square.

  “Their fault, their fault,” protestors chanted, surrounded on all sides of the square by a chaotic array of street bazaars. In unison, they pointed north toward the Indira Reclamation plant, which sat on a high plateau five kilometers away. They blamed its runoff from innezium mineral processing on their barren fields, which failed to produce despite their functioning irrigation systems.

  “Chancellors do not care about us,” said the most vocal protestor, Timur Haqqani, from the base of a monument to the settlement’s founder. “They only care about innezium for the cooling systems on their Ark Carriers.” Rikhi kept his distance as he listened, but he’d become familiar with the message.

  Timur asked the angry crowd: “Remember the stories of what happened on Hiebimini many years ago? No? That is because the Chancellors put out the fire before it spread to every colony. They do not wish us to speak of brontinium or their great secret. They wish us to believe they are the same divinities of old. But they have lost their way, and we must organize for the sake of all Brahmans.”