The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  “Yeah, sorry. Came out wrong. But what if the Admiralty decides, ‘Hey, we can’t protect them from the terrorists, so maybe it’s time to show them we’re good for something?’”

  “If there was a threat, we would have heard. Either through my connections, through Finnegan Moss, or even through the equity movement. After all, Solomons are everywhere. Rikard said it himself: ‘Solomons are the true eyes and ears of our civilization.’ I’ll be fine, Michael.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “I know we vowed to fight together, but this is Chancellor diplomacy. Your presence might compromise both my Presidium’s alliances and the equity movement. Finnegan agrees. You did speak with him?”

  “I did.”

  “He’s a clever man – maybe too clever. But he’s also ex-Guard. He understands the mindset of the Admiralty.”

  “Too clever? What do you mean? You don’t trust Finnegan?”

  “I trust that he’s powerful, has countless contacts and influence. I don’t trust how he’s become so close to us and the movement so quickly. Chancellors are cautious people, at best. Finnegan Moss showed no public preference in the civil war or toward the Solomons until you saved his life. Now, he keeps us in the loop about everything.”

  Michael’s neck hairs stood. “I get your speed. Chancellors are nobody’s best friends.”

  “Look, sweetie, I’m sure he’s sincere about helping us, but he almost certainty has a personal agenda. Just keep it in mind.”

  “With Chancellors, nothing gets past me anymore.”

  He didn’t want her to go, but it wasn’t his call. Michael understood how pivotal this conference would be in moving the dial closer to Solomon equity. Sam’s intel suggested one of the world’s biggest hardliners planned to attend, which was either a remarkable coup or trouble riding in on long knives.

  The woman’s name was Celia Marsche, a Scandinavian who claimed descendancy all the way to the founding fathers of the Chancellory. Her money and influence towered over the Pynn and Moss names combined.

  “They say the regional Sanctum in the Scandinavia Consortium is a puppet show,” Sam said, “because Celia Marsche is the governing body. She never leaves the consortium, has never travelled to space, and is rarely seen in public. If there’s even a chance she’s had a change of heart after watching our system implode, we need her voice to be heard. They say no one has ever defied her.”

  Michael thought for a moment, looked for a punchline, but gave up. “Sounds like a narcissistic battle-ax. You be careful.”

  “I will. And remember, sweetie, I’ve set you up with a backchannel feed to your stack. After it’s over, you can unlock every word. I don’t think a Solomon has ever had so much access.”

  He appreciated the insider pass but also realized the risk she was taking. She wasn’t the first Chancellor to subvert protocol this way, but she was also the least influential to attend. If they caught her, there’d be hell to pay. Nonetheless, Finnegan insisted the backchannel program would avoid detection. He’d given the same tech to Rikard for improved surveillance.

  Sam refused to leave the compound without spending a few minutes with her newest guests. The twins – Rosalyn and Brayllen Helmut – arrived six days ago after completing their assimilation tests. Although they adjusted well to direct sunlight, gravity remained a stubborn enemy. They had enough energy to push through short bursts – perhaps three hours of normal activity – before exhaustion required medication and a nap. Their gravmod boots helped but also acted like training wheels on a bike – sooner or later, the twins would have to wean off them.

  Michael thought the children were well-adjusted considering all they’d been through. They kept their words cautious, to the point, but they smiled more often than not. Michael cracked a few jokes, but they reacted with confusion, not laughter. No one dared tell them about their parents’ likely fate.

  Sam and Michael found them in the observatory. The chief gardener – a Solomon who worked for the Pynns almost thirty years – was showing them examples of local flora. Rosalyn, as it turned out, loved working in the greenhouses on the Ark Carrier Newton, where they lived above the colony G’hladi.

  “I wish I had more time to spend out here,” Sam said as she interrupted their lesson. “I don’t appreciate all this like I should.”

  Niles Javert, the head gardener, winked. “You sound like your mother, Miss Pynn. I remember once, after I’d been employed here five years, Grace confessed she forgot my name. After that, she took a greater interest. But Chancellors are very busy people.”

  “Not too busy to appreciate true beauty.” She focused on the girl. “Rosalyn, how does it feel to know you can take these plants outside and stick them in the ground under the sun?”

  “It’s still very hard to take in,” the girl said, looking up through the glass dome. “I can’t get used to all the space. We’re used to walls everywhere.”

  “It’s the smells.” Brayllen piped up. “Everything smells different, even the same plants we grew on Newton. I keep sneezing and our nurse keeps handing me wipes. It’s crazy, Samantha. Your place is certifiably nutsacks.”

  Sam laughed as she winked. “Nutsacks, huh? You’ve been listening to Michael?”

  “Hey, you know,” Michael said. “Got to get the kids up to speed with the latest hip.”

  He raised an open palm, and Brayllen high-fived. Rosalyn rolled her eyes. She hadn’t taken to Michael. That she referred to him as a proto-African within two hours of their arrival did not set their relationship on the proper footing. He thought of responding with snark, asking “just how white are the Ark Carriers?” He knew she would appreciate neither the subtlety nor the irony. Brayllen, on the other hand, was like kids he used to know in middle school: Hand always raised high, questions leading to more questions. Aggravating then, endearing now.

  Both children were tall, stretching a couple inches above six feet, but they bore none of the tell-tale signs of Chancellors on the brink of adulthood. Neither was muscular, their faces were cherubic – to Michael’s eyes, about right for seventh grade. Their voices lacked the deep, guttural rhythm of older Chancellor children. He suspected they represented what Chancellory hardliners feared most about generations post-brontinium extract: They were ordinary.

  “Listen, you two,” Sam said. “I have to be off. I won’t be gone but a day. I promise. The staff will take great care of you, and Michael, well …” She held back a snicker. “I’m sure he won’t fill your head with too much nonsense.” Michael punched her. “But seriously, he’s a good guy and I love him. You’ll have a great time together.”

  Rosalyn dimmed her smile. “Is there any news about our parents?”

  Sam didn’t break stride. “No, sweetie. I wish there was. James Bouchet is very hard to find, but we are looking. Thousands of people are looking. We’ll save your parents. I promise.”

  Michael was impressed. Sam showed her best Chancellor face: A naked lie delivered with a reassuring smile.

  “They’re going to hate you when they know the truth,” he told Sam a day after the kids arrived.

  “Yes, they will,” she said before dropping the subject.

  Michael tried to talk her out of this move, insisting the children were not their responsibility and she was housing them out of guilt. She agreed but had no intention of changing her mind.

  “And what happens when they’re officially orphans?” He asked. “They can’t go back to G’hladi. You’re not thinking about adoption.”

  “No. Their descendancy is bound to have distant relatives on Earth or another Carrier. We contact the necessary agencies.”

  He saw a familiar crease form above her brow, suggesting she didn’t believe her own words.

  Soon after Sam left for the GPM in her personal Scram, Michael plunged into the role of babysitter. He wasn’t much into planting anything, so he had a novel suggestion.

  “Ice cream. How about ice cream out on the veranda? Cool?”

  Rosalyn crinkled
her lips, insisting she was fine in the observatory, but Brayllen was all for it.

  “Cool. You can teach me more words like nutsacks.”

  Michael smiled, but he wanted a drink.

  20

  Intercollectorate Presidium of the Unification Guard

  Great Plains Metroplex, NAC

  S AM ENTERED BATTLE ONE-HANDED. The first three times she visited the cavernous, opulent GPM, Pat was her tour guide. Pat introduced her to vital contacts, whispered in her ear when Sam needed encouragement, and made sure to arrange policy documents and intel in Sam’s admin stack for easy retrieval. They built a system, found a chemistry which guaranteed Sam would never look like the biggest fool in the room. Communicating with these people through holocube was simple enough; breathing the same air was a game meant for steel spines.

  They assembled on Level 25, a conference room with a long, rectangular table looking out onto a spectacular view of the Atrium Aeterna, which sparkled with the forged crystals of every Collectorate world as it scaled the building’s height. Drifting holocards indicated each guest’s seat. Wines, liquors and a cornucopia of fruits, vegetables, and hors d'oeuvres lined either side of the room.

  Sam gravitated toward her closest allies: Ezekiel Mollett and Lucinda Blanche of the Pynn-established Americus Presidium; Evan Augustine of the Vancouver Presidium; and Malcolm Rainier of the Coronado Presidium. While she knew many others, none seemed to appreciate Sam like these four. Lucinda and Evan were each eighty-two, holding outward trappings of old-world Chancellory prestige but new-world views. Malcolm and Ezekiel were only a few years older than Sam. All five allies shared a common thread: Loss.

  Lucinda lost both her daughters in SkyTower, while Evan’s oldest son was a rare peacekeeper combat fatality many years ago. Both younger men inherited leadership of their descendancies when their parents vanished. Malcolm’s disappeared over the Pacific when their Scram exploded in a presumed assassination. Ezekiel and Sam shared a close tie: His parents never returned from the disastrous mission to protect Jewel hybrid Rayna Tsukanova on another Earth’s Ukraine.

  The conference table sat fifty comfortably, and no chair would be empty today. Representatives arrived from all over the world – a broad mix of Presidium leadership and second-tier proxies along with three members of the UG’s Admiralty.

  “I heard Celia Marsche might be attending,” Sam told her group, closely huddled as they drank wine.

  Lucinda wagged her forefinger. “I heard the same outrageous rumor. No truth, I’m afraid. I strolled the room to survey the holocards. Unless she’s arriving under assumed name … knowing that disgusting woman, she probably turned them down when she wasn’t guaranteed a spot at the head of the table.”

  Evan laughed. “I met Celia decades ago at a symposium in Oslo. She was second-generation in her descendancy, not even the oldest child. But I needed ten minutes with the woman to know she’d remedy those impediments in short order.”

  “So, you believe the rumors?” Lucinda asked.

  “No one reaches her status on the backs of living humans.”

  “Now see, that’s what we have to change.” Malcolm, a former peacekeeper severely downsized after recursion therapy, spilled drops of wine as he became animated. “This murderous arrogance will be the death of us all. We’ve been living on the productivity of indigos and Solomons for so long, we think of it as our eternal right.” He faced Sam. “You said something in our circastream last week – a word I’d never heard before. Leech. I forgot the exact context of the word, but you described a leech as a tiny creature on your first Earth that attaches itself to people and draws blood. I haven’t gotten it out of my mind. The Chancellory, we’re like leeches. When Hiebimini fell, we lost our number one source of blood. When the last reserves of the extract are consumed, what then? We’re not doing anything to prepare, and this bloody damn arrogance is leading us nowhere but to an early fire.”

  The first time Sam heard the term “early fire,” it mystified her. Pat clued her in: It referenced incineration – the only way Chancellors dealt with corpses. Graveyards littered the colonies, but only the tombstones uncovered by pre-history archeologists existed on Earth.

  “You should speak today, Malcolm,” she said. “There are going to be hardliners here. They need to hear you.”

  “Indeed,” Lucinda said, and the five clinked their glasses. “I must say, Samantha, I am surprised our new ally is not here. Finnegan Moss. I would have expected …”

  “Finnegan and I agreed we already have enough representation from the NAC’s eastern quadrant. We believe stacking the deck right now would be seen by the hardliners as intimidation. We don’t want to back these people into a corner.”

  “Very wise,” Evan said.

  “He’s making plans overseas. When I know more, so will you.”

  After another round of wine and snacks – Sam was surprised to see a Solomon-free room of Chancellors helping themselves – three admirals arrived and call the meeting to order. Rear Admiral Bastian Grandover and Step Admiral Angela Poussard took the end framed by the Atrium Aeterna. Supreme Admiral Stephan Tolliver stayed closest to the entrance and remained on his feet as everyone took their seats. He swung his hands together behind his back. Sam thought his features were grim and pale.

  “I wish to begin this conference with a confession,” Tolliver said, his shoulders firm and his uniform glimmering with the finery of rank. “I intended to retire from the Guard two years ago. My wife and I planned to tour the colonies, something we never did at our many postings. I thought, foolishly, my replacement was well prepared. Unfortunately, SkyTower fell and Rear Admiral Augustus Perrone’s treachery was exposed. I never cared for the man, but apparently, I also underestimated his ambition. I vowed to see this new conflict through until I served justice.

  “After two years of failing to apprehend these terrorists, I have concluded that I have betrayed not just the Chancellory, but all humanity. Our job as peacekeepers is to protect the vital interests of the Chancellory and secure peace and stability on the colonies. However, under my watch, a small band of savages have killed two hundred and sixty-three thousand humans.

  “Hours ago, we received visual confirmation of their latest attack. This time, they transmitted it themselves – on Guard frequencies. While our ground teams have only begun to assess, we believe more than four hundred Brahmans in an equatorial settlement and a nearby mineral facility were slaughtered – including a UG garrison training in the region – plus, a small number of indigos were taken away by force. We have to yet to receive a full accounting of survivors.”

  He tapped his amp and threw open a window which he split three times then tossed into central positions for all to view.

  The vids were aerial shots above villages along the coastline of the Sea of Awan. The shots were choppy and varied, but they narrowed in on one settlement in particular. A few moments became clear. A line of people burst into flame and turned to ash. Though the visuals came from above, Sam knew what she was seeing. Specifically, who. She turned cold.

  “The terrorists arrived in this region without warning and remained for less than thirty minutes,” the admiral said. “The commanders of all eleven Ark Carriers in orbit launched battalions, but only two Scramjets arrived in time – and they were blown from the sky by a terrorist vessel emerging from a wormhole.”

  The room died; jaws dropped. Wine stirred nervous stomachs.

  “Ten minutes before I arrived, I received reports with ground interviews. They are disturbing, but not for the reasons you might expect.” He tapped into his holocube and pulled up a vid of a bearded man sparsely dressed but with a twinkle in his eye.

  “He chose us,” the man said, wonderment in his voice. “Can you imagine? Of all the villages on all the colonies, he chose us. He cast out the cancer and gave a bounty to the believers.”

  A peacekeeper sergeant asked, “Explain yourself, indigo. Now.”

  “Your time is over, peacekeeper. You�
�ll be gone soon. The real protector will watch after us.”

  “What protector?”

  “Our savior. Brother James. We have our first true god.”

  “A god? Are you fevered, sir?”

  The man pointed off-frame. “Go and see for yourself. He turns a desert into a bounty. No Chancellor can do this!”

  Others ran behind the man, who soon joined them. The vid stopped. Silence took hold of the conference room. Many eyes flickered toward Sam, who couldn’t process what she saw.

  “This must be propaganda,” Lucinda said. “The man was clearly deranged, as if he’d been hypnotized.”

  Admiral Tolliver lowered his head. “If only.” He fingered his holocube. “This is aerial surveillance taken when battalions arrived. What you are seeing are five square kilometers of vibrant crops, bearing fruit.” He swiped to another image. “This is the same aerial six hours earlier.” The ground was an endless swath of brown. “This region has experienced months of drought combined with poisonous runoff from an innezium production facility. What happened here is not scientifically possible. And that facility? Destroyed.”

  “What are you saying, Admiral?” Lucinda asked.

  “What I am saying is we face a threat beyond anything our best strategists imagined. It is my opinion we must no longer consider this a fight against humans. I will submit a formal recommendation declaring the Collectorate as being in a state of war with an alien intelligence. I have argued for this designation for months. An alien race created the Jewels of Eternity. They now control these terrorists in mind and body.

  “After I submit my recommendation, I will resign.” Gasps dominated the room. Sam caught a glance of the other admirals; they were stoic. “We need new leadership, new vision. Ladies and gentlemen, you represent many of the most powerful Presidiums on Earth. You also represent different factions in our civil war and in Solomon policy. I encourage you to put aside these differences. Find common ground. I believe this alien threat may be existential.”