The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  As they arrived at the rooftop, Hans froze the door controls.

  “We’ll be stepping out into the service and security terminal,” he told them. “The security checkpoint will be empty at this hour, but we’ll trigger the automatic sensors and notify every DayWatch vehicle in this part of the city.”

  “And anyone they’re linked in with.” Michael nodded. “Great.”

  “I’ve got Oliver on circastream. He’s almost here.”

  “How much time will we have?”

  “Not much,” Hans conceded. “Response time will be damn near immediate. This is a Sanctum, after all. It means we sprint, and we don’t look back for any reason.”

  “How far will we have to run?”

  “Hundred feet. Minimum. But there are multiple factors. The terminal is L-shaped, and there are two autoloaders between it and the landing zone. Also, the zone is large enough for two Scrams or C Class commercial uplifts. As a result, the Sanctum-owned Scram is usually stationed here. So, we might have to run a little farther.”

  Michael grew ill. “And this is easier than going down the lifts and shooting our way out?”

  “We’ll only be exposed for a few seconds. Our odds are dubious in either case, but I believe this gives us the best chance to fight on.”

  Michael pivoted to Maya. “You ready for this?”

  “Another stop on a long road, Michael. I do have an idea, though. Why don’t you boys take flank this time?”

  Michael remembered her savagery at Entilles Club; yes, this was a woman who anyone should want at point. Hans did not object.

  They took position, weapons chest-high, feet planted, knees bent as though waiting for the starter’s pistol. Hans signaled.

  “Oliver’s coming in. Now.”

  The lift opened.

  The path seemed clear enough. A straight shot through the checkpoint, slight adjustment around the autoloaders, and a sprint for the twin landing lights of the uplift now visible. If they weren’t flanked, if no one came in from above and started firing, if no one shot a rocket or energy slew at them, hope might prevail.

  Or so Michael thought as he and his companions made a mad dash. As they bolted through the checkpoint, green flashers and shrill klaxons filled the terminal. This was expected. What they did not foresee was that their motion would not trigger the exit doors. They remained stubbornly unpixellated.

  “What do we …?” Michael started to ask the question before he realized the obvious answer, provided by Maya.

  She fired her blast rifle into the glass, which cracked but did not relent despite the barrage of flash pegs. Michael had a theory and opened up his Ingmar pulse gun on the doors, accelerating their decimation. For an instant, as the cracks extended and deepened, they turned orange-yellow, as if on fire. And then, collapse.

  The delay felt like forever to Michael, though likely no more than five seconds passed. But he knew how deadly this might be.

  Though Hans was right about a Scram occupying one half of the landing zone, the inner pad closest to the terminal was empty – until their rescuer came down before them, hovering. The port door pixelated, and an armed Solomon hurried them onboard.

  They leaped to safety then followed orders to grab hold of the ceiling hooks. The uplift pulled out. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Thirty.

  Was this possible? Michael dared to believe. Yet he knew it was too easy.

  That’s when he realized their luck ran out. Perhaps it was the delay at the doors. Perhaps this maneuver was as stupid as trying to shoot their way out at ground level against superior forces.

  It was as if all DayWatch rose to meet them simultaneously. F class uplifts built for three occupants – highly adaptable in a city environment – danced, bobbed, and weaved to form a cordon. The vehicles, half the size of Michael’s, featured the DayWatch crest and a glowing yellow orb above the flight deck. Their spotlights illuminated the Sanctum rooftop and splashed inside the Solomon uplift’s hold, the disparate beams telling Michael they were surrounded.

  “Go, Oliver,” Hans said. “Up, up, let’s move …”

  “Negative,” Oliver said. “We move, and we’re dead.”

  Michael heard an engine of a different sound above them. He grabbed the hooks and moved to the open portal. He looked skyward. A Scram blocked their vertical escape, its Carbedyne nacelles casting a blue pall over the moment.

  “Who are they?” Michael yelled over the cacophony, pointing north. “Mercs? Sanctum? More assassins?”

  “Don’t know,” Oliver said. “But we’re still here, and that’s something. Means they don’t have an energy slew. Otherwise, they could have incinerated us by now.”

  “What are they waiting for? They expect us to sit down and surrender? That ain’t happening.”

  “We may have no choice,” Hans said. “We don’t know their capability. If it was just DayWatch, I’d say we take a chance but …”

  Michael wasn’t having it. “I say we go anyhow. Fight our way out. We unload on DayWatch,” he said, pointing to the visible gauntlet. “We knock out three of those baby-size lifts, and we can slip through. They’re gonna kill us if we surrender, so what the fuck we gotta lose? Am I right, people?”

  “May be,” Hans answered. “But I don’t like this. Why aren’t they ordering us back to the roof?”

  Michael got a good look at the scene below. “Maybe waiting for that lot to show up.”

  Eight figures emerged from the rooftop terminal. Dark armor, helmets fully extended, faces hidden. So, Hans had been right about attempting a downward escape plan. Were the assassins already in the building when the trio agreed to try the roof?

  “Same assholes that followed us from the mountains. These guys won’t even line us up before they burn us full of laser holes. Oliver, dude, you gotta fly. If we don’t fight, it’s all been for nothing.”

  They stood on the edge of agreement. He saw their resignation, though they understood the odds. The moment they turned on DayWatch, the assassins would unload from below. If they took out a nacelle, this bucket was going down.

  “Nothing?” Maya sported her disarming grin at a moment Michael least expected. “I don’t much care for the sound of that.” She advanced across the hold and joined Michael inside the open port. “Who dies first?”

  “Not us.”

  “No,” she said. “Never us.”

  Hans and the Solomon who arrived with Oliver joined them in position to open fire. Michael pointed to the DayWatch uplifts he thought easiest to take out. A message arrived, this one certainly the demand for the Solomons to return to the roof.

  Yet as Michael lined up his shot – rifle in one hand, Ingmar in the other – he realized the message was not an incoming for the uplift. He twitched and acknowledged a live stream on his amp.

  No. Not now. You got to be kidding me.

  He almost set it aside, but if this was Sam, maybe the last time he’d ever hear her voice …

  He tapped his amp. The voice was male, unfamiliar.

  “Michael Cooper, my name is Capt. Joseph Doltrice, on commissioned service to Samantha Pynn. We have been tracking your position from original coordinates provided by Ms. Pynn. Please verify you are situated in an uplift that is in a forced holding pattern above the Harrisboro Regional Sanctum.”

  “You’re who …?” Michael caught himself, his head locked in an unexpected daze. Oh, babe. You are too good. “Yes. Yes, Colonel, we’re trapped here. If we land, they’ll kill us. If there’s anything you can do to help …”

  “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Cooper. Hold on to what you have.”

  He dared not smile. “I think the cavalry just arrived.”

  A pair of golden streaks sliced the night sky beneath them, cutting between DayWatch uplifts and crashing into the roof, igniting a fireball where eight armed assassins used to stand. The concussion jolted the uplift, as it did every hovering ship.

  Maya and Hans stumbled back into the hold. Michael dropped his rifle, which slid over
the edge, but he held on to the hook. Alarms went off at the pilot seat, and Oliver worked to stabilize the ship. As the uplift jolted to a new angle, the open port now provided a view across the western expanse of the city. A Scramjet, perhaps a hundred meters beyond the cordon, was barely visible, its running lights off.

  Michael opened a cube as Capt. Doltrice spoke again, but this time the mercenary’s message carried to every hovering vessel.

  “Attention, DayWatch. I speak to you from a Class Axel Scramjet equipped with full Unification Guard armaments, including a complement of slews. We have targeted each of you and will unleash deadly force unless you retreat at once.”

  “Negative,” a woman replied. “We have jurisdiction here under the edicts of the Chancellor Treaty. We are in the process of detaining unlawful insurgents. You will depart at once or …”

  Michael thought it interesting she didn’t mention the incineration of the assassins. What could she do about it? The Scram hovering above, which now appeared to belong to DayWatch, would not have had the combat capability to take on the new arrival. Sound tough, maybe they’ll go away. It was the only card she could play. Made sense to Michael.

  He spoke to Capt. Doltrice. “We’re in a hell of a hurry over here, Captain. Think you could show them what-for and end this shit?”

  “Ms. Pynn authorized me to take whatever action deemed necessary. However, there will be consequences for killing DayWatch officers in the pursuit of their duty.”

  “I understand, Captain. Look … just one of them. Maybe the rest will do the right thing. Get my speed?”

  Michael didn’t have time for remorse. He already killed an officer inside the tower. Who was to say the Chancellors piloting those bite-sized uplifts weren’t as corrupt or as deserving? Besides, Sam came through for him. Least he could do was walk out of this alive.

  “Get ready,” he told the others. “We’re gonna blow this town.”

  The line sounded good to Michael, like something from action movies he’d seen. Just one more explosion to seal the deal …

  The rockets obliterated a DayWatch vessel, whose shrapnel scattered in flaming bits across the roof. Two other vessels began to move away, albeit cautiously. The path was almost open.

  “Attention, terrorist leader,” the woman’s voice blasted over Oliver’s comm. “You have superior firepower for the moment. However, we will not relinquish these insurgents. Any further action you take, you do so at your own peril. Even you cannot stand against the power of a Unification Guard Transport.”

  “What is she …?”

  The picture clarified itself. DayWatch never ordered them to land on the roof because they weren’t waiting for the assassins at all.

  “Captain,” Michael said. “What is she talking about?”

  Doltrice’s face was stern, his voice reserved.

  “The UGT Desolation. She has just come into range. She’s on final approach to Harrisboro.” He hesitated, looked away as if waiting on further data. He nodded, “She’s launching attack craft. Inbound, heading our way. We have one minute before it won’t matter.”

  We can’t beat the Guard. Nobody can.

  67

  Great Plains Metroplex

  T HEY WEREN’T BLOWN OUT OF THE SKY, which rated as a small degree of success. Nonetheless, Sam and her allies were escorted to the GPM and arrested upon landing. A heavily-armed contingent of ten soldiers were deemed necessary for parading twelve unarmed civilians – half of them over sixty years old – into the Intercollectorate Presidium of the Unification Guard. To no one’s surprise, and despite their protests, they were not led to the offices of the Admiralty but rather down below, toward the cells.

  Sam remembered the last time they were here, and how new Supreme Admiral Grandover warned them about the stark horror of the cells. She recalled how he took them to the gallery where the Bouchet brothers dueled to the death two years earlier and opened a holowindow to Celia Marsche, at home in Scandinavia. In retrospect, Sam wondered whether Finnegan Moss was living with her by then, if he was just out of view while she transmitted her veiled threats.

  Did she really kill Finnegan? If so, Sam wondered how he would be remembered. Hero? Traitor? Or more likely, fool. Perhaps they all were. Like him, they voluntarily entered the viper’s nest armed with little more than hope. Not that a blast rifle would do them any good other than to expedite death.

  Since their arrest, they took turns demanding to see Grandover. They frequently told officers to pass along their one-word message: Artemis. Some in the escort did tap their amps from time to time, but if anything was said, it was too low for Sam to hear. Ezekiel whispered to her once, saying he had no idea whether his off-duty contact forwarded the Artemis evidence into the chain of command.

  They arrived at the cell block. The man leading the contingent, who introduced himself as Maj. Brynn Donahue, ordered the group to halt. Sam thought Donahue looked like every generic, oversized peacekeeper. The very sort her parents aspired for her to become. Now, she found such ambitions repugnant.

  “You will each be assigned a cell,” he said. “Per protocol, you will be stripped of all clothing. Your amps have been nullified, of course, and you will be permitted no contact, no food, no water, for a minimum assimilation period of twelve hours. At that time, we will begin the interrogation process. If you are convicted as traitors, the Supreme Admiral will render military judgment. He will be swift but fair. Any questions?”

  They responded, but their anger, their protests, their terror became a cacophonous soup of nonsense. Maj. Donahue silenced them by removing a laser pistol from his holster pouch and firing it into the ceiling, which absorbed the energy blast without damage.

  “Until assignments are complete, you will wait in a holding chamber.” He motioned to a lieutenant, who pixelated a door to their right flank. “This will be a good location to say your good-byes, as you are not likely to interact after we have placed you into cells.”

  “This is illegal,” Ezekiel said.

  “An abomination,” Lucinda followed.

  “We represent powerful families,” Malcolm added.

  None of their protests mattered, as they followed each other inside. A square table, perhaps for interrogation, was surrounded by a dozen swivels. The room was dark, but for low night-lights cascading from the corners.

  “Please,” the major said. “Have a seat.” He told the other soldiers to remain outside. They did as instructed, while Donahue moved to the front of the room and tapped a code into a newly-unveiled holocube. He threw it open into a full window.

  “The vid will outline the procedures you will undergo and the legality of them. Protest all you want, but you have no leverage.”

  He retreated to the door, which shut, and stood guard.

  The window threw a splash of light over them, but it wasn’t what was promised. Instead, an imposing woman with red hair sat at a desk, lording over these twelve insurgent Chancellors. Sam recognized her at once. They all did.

  Rear Admiral Angela Poussard crossed her hands as she spoke.

  “Thank you, Maj. Donahue. Well done.”

  Sam dared to hope.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the theatrics,” she began. “However, you refused orders to retreat and were deemed, by the Supreme Admiral, to pose a clear and present danger to the Admiralty. I will come directly to my point. I am in possession of your evidence regarding the Artemis Refinery Explosion.

  “Admiral Grandover’s role does not surprise those of us who are career military. All of us have made morally ambiguous choices to accelerate our careers and benefit our descendancies. It is a tradition centuries’ long. In this case, however, the benefits extended far beyond the individual and his bloodline. I can only assume you have not distributed this evidence to the public streams because the implications would be devastating. Hundreds of descendancies have benefitted, both on Earth and on the Carriers. These families would become targets, and an unofficial civil war of rival as
sassinations would become a catastrophe enveloping the entire Chancellory.

  “I cannot allow that to happen. I also refuse to commit mutiny. You want me to relieve the Supreme Admiral of his command, which he achieved lawfully upon the resignation of Stephan Tolliver. He is attempting to stabilize Earth at a time when we are trying to wrap a noose around terrorists who threaten the whole of the Collectorate. This strategy has been embraced by most of Earth’s population. The Admiralty must not be seen as indecisive.

  “I am sorry. I know you staked your livelihoods on this gamble, and I am not unsympathetic. Grandover’s day will come. But I cannot act upon this evidence alone. I ensured Maj. Donahue brought you here so you could know that you were at least heard. Again, this simply is not enough. I will do what I can for you in the judicial process to come.”

  “No,” Lucinda said. She pounded the table as she stood. “I refuse to believe you are a coward, Angela Poussard. I knew your Aunt Magdalene years ago, and she was as tough an old whip as I’ve ever seen. She had principles, which is more than I can say for most Chancellors I know.”

  Poussard interrupted. “Ms. Blanche, please. I’ve said all I intend. If you had presented this evidence sooner, perhaps …”

  “We only received it this night,” Ezekiel said. “This evidence is the reason why Grandover ordered the Guard to Earth. Celia Marsche has been blackmailing him all along.”

  Sam thought she saw Poussard’s brow flinch.

  “Celia Marsche? What evidence do you have?”

  Ezekiel turned to Sam. “Tell her.”

  Sam steeled her spine and rose. “Admiral, I was there when the evidence arrived. It came to David Ellstrom, the Chief of Staff to Finnegan Moss. It was sent to him by Finnegan, who has been working as an agent inside Celia’s consortium for some time.”

  “Interesting story, Ms. Pynn. In the consortium, you say? He would have to be quite far inside to find evidence this damning.”

  Sam hated speaking ill of the likely-dead, but her options were dwindling fast.