The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  Sam didn’t side-step the truth: This was an enormous relief.

  “I apologize to you both. My life has been chaotic since Vasily. After Michael fled, I haven’t focused on anything but rescuing him and preventing a war. I do wish we had more time together.”

  She tapped Brayllen’s shoulder. When he turned about, she saw rivers of tears. He fell into her.

  “Please don’t send us away.” He sobbed. “You have to stay here with us. Please, Samantha.”

  How could she explain? I’m no mother. We’re no family. I brought you here out of guilt. She wiped Brayllen’s tears and kissed him.

  “I want you to be happy again, Brayllen. In time, you will be. But not with me and Michael. You said you wanted to live on G’hladi one day. If you go to the right family, you’ll have enough credits to book passage wherever you wish.”

  She pulled away but did not hug Rosalyn, who resisted physical affection since her arrival. She seemed less interested in Sam’s outreach now. Instead, Sam started for the main house.

  “Merton has made the arrangements. An uplift with an agency representative should be here soon.”

  “No, Samantha,” Brayllen screamed. “This is a mistake. You are making a huge mistake. You can’t do this to us.”

  Sam didn’t turn back, even as Brayllen’s rage echoed through the compound. This isn’t betrayal, she told herself. This is necessary. They’ll understand some day.

  Sam hardened herself against self-recrimination. She made the best decision for the twins.

  “I’ll give it all away,” she told Merton minutes later in his office. “Every last credit. Whatever guarantees my future with Michael.”

  “I fear nothing will buy guarantees in these unstable times,” Merton said, offering a kerchief for her tears. “If even half of what you plan to do succeeds, you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Chancellors have infinite memories.”

  “That’s OK. If I have allies, at least they’ll be in my boat. If I don’t, then I won’t be around long enough for it to matter.”

  Merton leaned back on his desk. “These choices will have consequences far beyond your estate.”

  “Hasn’t that been my story since I crossed the fold? I can’t bring back the dead, Merton, but I can minimize the tragedy. It’s why I’m sending away the twins. And it’s why we need to part ways before I leave the compound with those mercenaries.”

  He bounced up. “What? You wish to dissolve our contract?”

  “For your sake, Merton. For your family.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “If we separate before I commit hostile action against the Chancellory, your name stays clean. You have other properties.”

  “All of which are far less interesting than yours. Besides, anyone wishing to discredit me could do so, even if I walk out the front door this minute. I stuck my neck into far too many dark corners to find those mercs. I am, as they say, a known quantity.”

  She never appreciated Merton until these last few weeks. He was always the accountant, the financial manager, the household director. An executive who did his work outside her daily orbit while Patricia Wylehan provided a shield. Merton was ten years older than her father at his death, the type of man Walter would have considered expendable.

  Yet now, as she saw fear replace the confident twinkle in his eye, Sam understood at last.

  He cared. Deeply.

  Like a father.

  “Are you certain about this, Merton?”

  “My only certainty is in numbers because I can make them balance. Life, on the other hand, is a colorful intersection between wildcards and infinite probabilities. Fuzzy math, at best.”

  She was speechless. He displayed more courage than her “allies” who went dark after the disastrous meeting at the GPM.

  They hugged. “I have to do this, Merton. If I don’t go with them, I’ll be afraid the rest of my life.”

  “Hmmph.” He kissed her cheek. “We can’t have that.”

  “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Anything, Samantha.”

  “Make sure the twins pack and are ready to go. I’ll say goodbye when it’s time, but I have too much to do.”

  They separated. “Of course. When do you expect to leave?”

  “I think right before sunset. You’re sure the intel from the Moss compound is up to date?”

  “To the hour. Our informant dropped the latest details on my stack ten minutes ago. No changes in status.”

  “And no confirmed sighting of Finnegan Moss?”

  “No. Still the same vague reports about Scandinavia.”

  “It doesn’t mean he’s betrayed us.”

  “True. But you need to pressure the Americus Presidium. Ezekiel Mollett and Lucinda Blanche must stand with you on this move. They are your keys to the Vancouver and Coronado Presidiums. My sources say they are still flexible, but they are frightened. Worse yet, they are pragmatists. They will not move easily.”

  “They think Celia Marsche is in a league by herself.”

  Merton scratched his nose. “She is. For now. Best to form your own competitive league, and hurry along about it.”

  Which is exactly what Sam did. In the following hours, she met with her mercenary team and its newly appointed leadership to hash out attack plans. She oversaw the arrival of her final supplies, including a late-model Scramjet equipped with three Recon tubes. She came face-to-face with nervous Lucinda Blanche on a holocube.

  Sam lost herself in preparations and negotiations and realized, too late, what she forgot. The twins were headed to a new home.

  Tossing guilt aside, Sam suited up as the soldier her father trained her to be.

  41

  Appalachian Mountains

  M ICHAEL DIPPED INTO THE COLD, stoic portion of his soul. Like every other time, the transition to assassin felt alarmingly natural. The weapons completed him: Ingmar Pulse Gun, standard-issue laser pistol, Mark 8 blast rifle. This time, at Maya Fontaine’s recommendation, he brought along a knife with a serrated, six-inch blade. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of hand-to-hand, preferring firepower to finish the task.

  What task – or how bloody – he couldn’t be sure. To double down the tension, he found himself running point on a scout team of fellow Solomon assassins. He had no training in this role and relied on memories of war films to guide his choice of hand signals and body language. He reasoned they were universal. Yet Michael carried no illusions. He was neither Stallone nor Schwarzenegger; he lacked the face paint, the muscles, and the cigar. Worse even, he’d never been in the field with three of his four compatriots.

  Carlos Rivera, a potential wildcard, he kept closest. Maya, the lurker who nobody would see coming, he kept at his farthest flank. The others – Xi Lan Pao, Herschel Bramowitz, and Nell Kusugak – maintained a steady, discrete pace behind him. He knew scant details about those three, but they volunteered with enthusiasm. Rikard assured him the trio were emotional rocks, with a perfect record of contract kills in the civil war.

  Michael double-blinked, triggering his amp’s internal comm nodes. He whispered to Rikard.

  “Any change in our target?”

  “None. He’s fifty yards away.”

  The forest laid a thick canopy above the team, any sunlight mangled as it tried to encroach. A grove of birches strutted out of moss-encrusted ground on a steady twenty-degree slope. Michael threw open a holocube and triggered a forward sweep of signals based on body heat. He saw only one, a picture unchanged. Yet Michael couldn’t dismiss the potential for a cloaking baffle. What if the single target were actually five? Ten? The best Chancellor assassins on the market? They’d tear him and his team to shreds.

  “What about the other targets?” He asked Rikard.

  “Same. East-northeast on a parallel course. A search pattern.”

  “Searching for us.”

  “Retreat if there’s any chance you’re walking into a trap.”

  “You didn�
�t give me that option inside Entilles.”

  “I thought we were in control. I was a dumbass. But I’m serious, Michael. Pull your team back if this looks too big to handle.”

  “Don’t worry about nothing, dude. I got my flanks covered.”

  No retreat, no goddamn surrender.

  He couldn’t remember where he first heard those words, but they made perfect sense. Carlos was right. It was about time they took on these cudfruckers directly.

  Michael held up his left hand, signaling his team to halt. He glanced about, pleased to see they were paying attention. He unleashed the Ingmar from its side pouch, leaving the blast rifle slung over his shoulder. The others followed suit with their weapon of choice. Michael waved them forward.

  At once, he stepped on a twig, snapping it. Pay attention, asshole.

  He steadied his breathing and pushed onward.

  Michael didn’t message Sam’s admin stack before the mission. He wasn’t sure what to say and couldn’t bear to burden her with unnecessary worry. But if this might be the end …

  No. He refused to walk that path. If they couldn’t kill him when they had point-blank shots, they weren’t going to waste him today. I’ve got the high ground.

  He proceeded with confidence, striding carefully through the thick brush until dappled light turned into a brighter clarity. A tiny stream lead into a small clearing. Michael stopped his team shy.

  Are you kidding me?

  He saw the target. Middle-aged man, salt-and-pepper beard, canvas shirt and cargo-style shorts, hiking boots, backpack. A large floppy hat. The target drank from a flask and wiped his brow then leaped gingerly across the stream.

  Michael rose, Ingmar aimed, and entered the clearing.

  “Not another damn step,” he said. The target jerked, one foot sliding back into the rippling water.

  “Wha …? Who … are you?”

  The Engleshe was broken, the accent shrill.

  “Take off the pack and toss it over,” Michael ordered.

  “Please, yes,” the man said. “I mean to say … please, no. I mean no harm.”

  “The pack. Now. Swear to God, I’ll burn a hole through you.”

  The target followed orders, and the pack landed near Michael’s feet. It was a design he didn’t recognize. Closer to what he’d find on the backs of teenagers at Albion High School than the sleek, efficient satchels appended to Chancellor bodysuits. He signaled for his team to reveal itself.

  “Why are you here?” He asked.

  “Please, no.” The man trembled, as if ready to pee himself. “I am long exobiologist. I am with others. We come from Kartuffe.”

  Carlos piped up. “The colony?”

  “Yes, yes. We come from Kartuffe. We spend many credits to learn. We have … how do say it? We have sponsor. We study mountains of Earth.”

  “Unbelievable,” Carlos lowered his weapon. “Pissing our pants over cudfrucking indigos.”

  Michael maintained a steady aim. “Maybe. Dude, run a scan on his pack.” He spoke to the target. “Raise your hands and turn around.” The man did so, nodding with feverish subservience.

  Satisfied, Michael continued. “How many are with you?”

  The man held up four fingers. “Please. We study mountains. We mean you no harm.”

  “Famous last words, dude.” He turned to Carlos, who fingered a holocube and analyzed the data. “Anything?”

  “Survey equipment, food packs, a change of clothes. Nothing.”

  He heard Rikard’s voice. “This could explain the parallel tracks they’re taking. Ask him about their destination.”

  Michael nodded. “Where are you headed?”

  “Is not far. Three kilometers. We set base camp there for night. Tomorrow, we study and collect samples.”

  “Why are you walking so far apart from each other?”

  The man frowned, as if he thought the question stupid.

  “Is protocol. We build data set to study at camp. Need much ground to cover. You understand?”

  Every instinct but one told Michael they lucked out. He clung to the one that refused to shake its paranoia.

  “How far have you been walking?”

  “I must check data. I must …” He reached for a sensor that perched from his left ear like a Bluetooth receiver.

  “Keep your hands up. Did a ship bring you in? Where did it land?”

  “I am not man in charge. You must talk to Alvi. He will show …”

  “Shut the fuck up, dude.”

  Carlos leaned in, his voice atypically calm. “Michael, I think we’re good here. This guy is not a damn assassin.”

  Michael couldn’t let go of the Entilles Club, of the double-cross that led him into a deadly trap. He took too long to sniff out the truth then; he wasn’t about to accept a convenient story now.

  He chased through everything he’d learned while training for the equity movement, steeling his courage and trigger finger to become a hired killer, and researching the tactics of mercenaries and assassins throughout the Collectorate. He wanted to be wrong about this.

  The puzzle took form. Michael signaled to his second tier of Lan Pao, Herschel, and Nell, demanding they push ahead.

  “Surround him.” Over his shoulder, Maya held back with the care he expected. Her eyes spoke to him: She was ready for a surprise.

  “Carlos. Dude. This don’t feel right. Hang tight and keep him in your sights.”

  Michael pivoted, his back to the Kartuffian exobiologist. He spoke to Rikard at a whisper.

  “Carlos is right. This dude ain’t a killer. He’s something else.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Look, the intel report you got a few days ago said there were less than two hundred assassins hunting down Solomons. Right?”

  “According to our informant. Yes.”

  “But they’ve already killed three hundred of us, all over the fucking planet. Right?”

  “The death toll is climbing by the hour.”

  “Most of us went into hiding day one. We’re scattered everywhere. Even if they started with names and cities, they couldn’t be knocking us off so fast, unless they had help.”

  “You mean scouts?”

  “More or less. The best assassins – the ones who do this shit for a living – use networks of informants and subcontractors. More eyes over more ground. Yes?”

  “They do.”

  A cold shiver jolted Michael when he concluded what they were up against.

  “More eyes. That’s it. Those assholes have the credits and the tech. They can get people to scout for them without ever realizing it. They send people to suspected target zones.”

  “How, Michael? You’re not making …”

  “Bleeders. Fucking bleeders. The max on a standard bleeder is two hours, right?”

  “The ones we’ve used, yes. There’s classified Guard tech we believe lasts up to four hours. You don’t think …”

  “If I’m right, we’re already screwed.”

  He ignored Rikard’s reply and raised his weapon before entering the circle. The exobiologist stood beside the stream, pleading.

  “Carlos, can you scan for bleeders?”

  Carlos turned white. “Are you serious? You think he …”

  “Yes or no?”

  Carlos nodded and open a cube. Michael aimed his weapon to within inches of the man’s heart.

  “Where did you land and who brought you here?”

  “Wha …? Is … was our sponsor. Please, if I contact Alvi, he can provide all the answers.”

  Please, God, let me be wrong. I don’t wanna kill this guy.

  Michael knew the feeling of being on the other side. On his first day across the fold, Rear Admiral Augustus Perrone implanted a subcutaneous transponder on him and Sam, recording everything they said and did. Almost got them killed.

  But Michael knew he wasn’t wrong. These people, who were almost certainly what the man claimed to be, were a perfect scout team for assassins looking to expand
their reach rather than overextend personal resources. These Kartuffians wouldn’t even know what they carried inside.

  Carlos confirmed it. “Cudfruckers.”

  Michael saw the results of the scan. His chest tightened, as if burdened by heartburn.

  “Do you have an open stream?” He asked the indigo.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Here, I can speak to Alvi and you …”

  Michael talked to Rikard at full throat. “It’s too late, dude. Everything he’s seen, it’s been transmitted. Soon as they see my smiling face, they’ll know we’re here.”

  “We’ll start the evacuation,” Rikard said. “Get your team to the rendezvous point fast as you can.”

  Michael heard the orders but didn’t move. There were no options.

  The transmission had to be closed. The hunters needed no more data about the location and disposition of their prey.

  “I’ve never killed an innocent man,” he told the target, whose name he never learned. “Do you want to live?”

  “Yes. Yes, please. Yes.”

  “Turn around. Run fast as you can. Tell Alvi and the others to do the same, or they’ll be dead.”

  He squeezed the trigger button, burning the ground at the target’s feet. The man stumbled then pivoted. He sprinted.

  Ten feet later, he fell, a hole singed in his back.

  Carlos lowered his weapon and curled his lips in satisfaction.

  “Nobody’s innocent, Michael. Not anymore.”

  42

  On approach to Moss compound

  Boston Prefecture

  S AM’S ESCORT TEAM PREPPED FOR landing, ready to take opposing fire the instant they jumped ship in full body armor. Holding a blast rifle at her side, Sam stood tall, braced by a magnetic still-seat. The holowindow projected the faces of her closest allies on the Americus Presidium.

  “I want you to see everything,” she told them. “Will you stay in my circastream?”

  Nothing she did mattered if Ezekiel Mollett, a baby-faced Adonis a few years older than Sam, and Lucinda Blanche, old enough to be their great-grandmother, turned their backs on this unprecedented action.

  An overt assault on a fellow Chancellor’s estate? “Madness,” Lucinda said when briefed earlier. “Premature,” Ezekiel agreed. But the timetable was closing fast; martial law under the Guard was otherwise inevitable. “If it all ends,” Sam replied, “at least we go down doing what’s right. It’s too late to be afraid.” Here she was, about to take out the external security cascade of a neighbor, and her allies had not broken their links.