The Impossible Future: Complete set

by Frank Kennedy

  Which was, Michael admitted, a fair question.

  In the subsequent weeks, as he pushed through tortuous Guard training, Michael also focused on his Tier III education, especially on quantum math and science. The Guard synthetics not only augmented his physical strength but elevated his cognitive abilities. By the time he reached Ericsson Research Station, Michael entered territory unknown to scientists on first Earth. He learned enough to toss out two laws of physics and alter the third law of thermodynamics.

  Yet even as his mind expanded and he interpreted the secrets of the universe, Michael never shook the suspicion he was being led down the garden path by Chancellors once again.

  “The timing is too damn convenient,” he told Maya Fontaine over one of their last meals together on Praxis.

  “How so?”

  “These people failed to develop FTL for a thousand years. They studied the Void for centuries. And now, right as they lose all their colonies, this little toy falls in their laps. I don’t buy it. Maybe these Anchors will work, maybe not, but the Bouchets got more up their sleeves. I can feel it.”

  She sipped white wine. “Of course, they do, Michael. Their entire lives have been shrouded in deception. But I wonder. Must all timing be inconvenient in order to avoid suspicion? Is luck not part of the grand equation of life? Given enough effort, are not all things possible? Just a thought. I’ve had too much to drink.”

  Michael stumbled through the past few years as luck’s great beneficiary, whether dumb or manufactured. He couldn’t be the only recipient. Maya’s wisdom leveled his paranoia.

  In time, he decided to place all his hope in manufactured luck, orchestrated by the very monsters most of humanity thought were still dead. Ninety-eight standard days passed since the revelation, buzz grew of a coming demonstration of the Void’s awesome power, and Michael’s impatience to find his way to Sam intensified.

  In place of paranoia, he filled the time by becoming a monster of his own making, in this case one who killed Mongols with gleeful abandon. As the sun rose on the other side of the Void, and laser fire engulfed the slope outside the fortified research station, Michael completed a quick descent from a high cedar branch, opened a Lin’taava sword, and engaged the enemy.

  4

  T HE BATTLE DEVOLVED INTO CHAOS. The Mongol strategy threw off the team’s usual precision. All seven opened audio streams through each other’s DR29s, and Nilsson barked orders without his typical air of discipline. But no one on the team fell, which gave Michael hope as he plowed through the enemy.

  He stepped over two Mongol women who he shot through the head and chased three others who were making their way up a stone run, their final challenge before reaching the landing platform outside the station. They hopped from ragged boulder to boulder, showing dexterity. The instant Michael opened fire, they dropped for cover. A storm of flash pegs impacted on the field of stone.

  The choreography surprised Michael. All previous incursions showed little use of the topography as a tactical weapon, but these three appeared to have rehearsed, as if they knew this area intimately. Stone runs like this were common near the ridgeline, formed long ago when the land crested after the Void’s arrival. Arranged in all manner of shapes, the boulders were as tall as peacekeepers and suffused with enough hollows between for clever hiding spaces.

  Michael surveyed his comrades and looked for the closest member who wasn’t pinned down or fully engaged.

  “Muldoon, lock me. I’ve got three about set to make a run for the platform. Come at me from 27.4 north.”

  “Oh my,” Percy Muldoon said. “Eager little cudfruckers, they are. Hold your Ingmar tight.”

  “For it,” Michael replied in the Guard combat language of confirmation and replaced the Lin’taava sword with his laser gun. “I’m going to swing over, lay down suppression fire, see who pops.”

  “Hold on five, Cooper. Nearing position. Hold two, one, and …”

  Michael jumped onto the closest boulder, hesitated when he didn’t land with firm footing, then opened fire with both weapons, intentionally delivering the barrage in the direction where he knew one of the three to be hiding. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others raise up. They returned fire until Michael shifted his flash pegs toward them. He hit no one, but they managed to snag him twice with laser blasts – over the right collar bone and above the left groin. He jumped down and reassessed, the aches deep, his body armor searing. He would feel this all day.

  “Locked on,” Muldoon said. “I’ve got an indigo at 36.2. Clear shot. Set your aim for 33.9 and 33.1.”

  Michael adjusted his DR29 targeting command, which connected directly to both his weapons. Then he waited for Muldoon to strike first. He needed to leap up two seconds after Muldoon’s shot, catching his intended targets in the back as they reconfigured for the new enemy at their flank. Michael trained for this “companion” technique dozens of times, but this was his first chance to execute it in combat.

  In the instant before he was supposed to jump, Michael’s groin seized up. He felt an agonizing spasm and reached for the spot. The body armor absorbed most of the blast, but remnants broke through. He was bleeding.

  “Fuck me.”

  “What’s that now, Cooper?” Muldoon said.

  “Nothing. Do it, Muldoon.”

  Percy fired the shot. The remains of his target splattered across the nearest boulder as Michael pushed off. He led with his right leg as he leaped, but he landed awkward and stumbled forward. Nonetheless, his targets emerged as predicted. He laid down fire, shredding the enemy at 33.1. However, his Ingmar aim missed, and the Mongol at 33.9 retreated, but only for an instant.

  Either a surge of unparalleled valor or a determination to die must have fueled the remaining Mongol, who leaped atop the boulders and raced toward Michael. He did not, however, fire his weapon.

  That’s when Michael realized what was happening behind him. Percy made the moment clear.

  “Rifter incoming. Down, Cooper. Down.”

  Michael danced on one leg and turned to face a steady stream of laser fire. He took three hits in the chest but continued a steady volley of flash pegs even as he fell backward, slamming against the jagged rock of a man-size stone. He stared upward, fire coursing through his lungs, and realized his mistake.

  The Mongols were too clever by half, more than anyone anticipated. They didn’t come here planning to win. Their goal was to reduce the numbers of their enemy, to improve the math. They spun traps and encircled individual fighters then tried to overwhelm them – the only viable way to take out a soldier of the Guard.

  Michael didn’t have time to admonish himself for not seeing the net being sprung; he had no intention of going out like this. He pushed himself up, threw the Ingmar aside, and took out the sword. He extended the blade just as the enemy reached his position.

  When the rifter emerged above him, Michael decimated the engine with flash pegs and shielded himself as the rifter exploded. Shrapnel ricocheted around him, but Mongols fell as well. For an instant, three had Michael in their sights. He wriggled his way onto his feet and matched fire for fire, his helmet taking two direct hits. The DR29 blacked out for a second then regained composition.

  A Mongol fell on top of him, blasted from behind by Muldoon. His Tuvaan brothers continued to fire, sending laser after laser into the dead man’s back, hoping the shots might pass through. As Michael threw off the corpse, he rolled to avoid more direct hits and lifted his blast rifle to finish off the enemy. He wasn’t fast enough. A Mongol jumped down, landing on the rifle and aiming his laser at Michael’s head, looking for the kill shot at the neck brace.

  He never fired. He stood in awed silence as a Lin’taava sword drove into his intestines.

  Michael pushed off and ran the sword through the enemy, who spewed blood as he collapsed. Michael swung around with his right arm as the final enemy lunged, sword in hand, only to be greeted by a chest-opening storm of flash pegs.

  “Cooper. Sit-rep.”


  It was Nilsson.

  Michael unleashed a barrage of mental curses.

  “Enemy is down, Major.”

  “Muldoon, assist Cooper.”

  “For it.”

  Percy arrived in seconds. Michael realized the pale sky was brightening and the sounds of chaos dimming. The team was checking in, reporting the same everywhere: “Enemy is down.”

  “Cudfrucker,” Percy said when he saw Michael. “Cooper, your armor is smoking. Never seen that before.”

  “Tell me about it. Think I’m gonna need a backup.”

  Percy laughed; he was a man known for finding humor in life’s tricky moments. Michael, however, found nothing funny here. Apparently, incursion fifteen ended the same as the others – a battlefield of Mongol bodies. But for Michael, this felt too close to defeat.

  An hour later, as he was being treated for his considerable wounds in the station’s medpod, he wanted to share his concerns with Nilsson, who visited to commend Michael for his courage.

  “Cooper, what if I said the doctor wants you to convalesce on Praxis?”

  “I’d tell him to fuck off. Sir. Who needs him, anyway? I got holotools and synthetics. I’ll meet those assholes when they come back tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know if they will, Cooper. They made a mess of themselves. They’ll need time to devise another losing strategy.”

  The aches arose everywhere, but Michael had been here before – far too often, for his liking.

  “Sir, they’re getting smarter. I heard they tried the same snare tactic on Carver. Almost took him out, too.”

  Maj. Aiden Nilsson, like most veteran peacekeepers, was a broad monolith with rock jaws and searing jade eyes, the product of lifelong infusions of brontinium extract. He terrified Michael on day one of training, but they spent enough hours sharing drinks for Michael to see a softer, more reasoned side. He was a hardliner among Chancellors, opposed elevating Solomons to full citizenship, yet respected and – Michael came to realize over time – loved each member of his team as if they were sons and daughters.

  “Yes, Cooper. They exposed our No. 1 vulnerability – our numbers. Unfortunately, we’re the entire security blanket for this facility. I’ll analyze our options.”

  “Sir, you misunderstand my point. And I apologize for interrupting. I’m the newb.”

  “No, Cooper. You’re a proven member of our team. Speak your mind, Michael.”

  “The Mongols aren’t the real threat. Never have been. We all know it’s just a matter of time before wormholes open up outside. We’ll have a goddamn army of immortals and hybrids storming the place. If the immortals don’t wipe the floor with us, one of those Berserkers will.”

  “Yes. If they come, they’ll kill us all. But time may be with us.”

  “How do you know?”

  Nilsson smiled. “There have been developments.”

  “With the Anchors?”

  “Yes, but also far beyond Tamarind. I don’t wish to raise your hopes prematurely. Capt. Forsythe and Col. Doltrice are assembling the intel reports. We’ll be meeting in two hours.”

  “Just spec-ops?”

  “Spec-ops, the civilian leadership, and the engineering team.”

  The three had not met simultaneously in weeks. Michael sensed huge developments.

  “Good to hear, sir. We’ve been inside this mountain too long.”

  “You know what they say about all good things. Yes?”

  Nilsson turned to leave, but Michael wasn’t finished.

  “Sir, I joined spec-ops for selfish reasons, and I don’t apologize for them. But I would not give back a moment of these last four months. You tried to beat the holy fuck out of me until I quit, but I needed to feel that pain. Whatever my path might be, I’m damn well ready. I owe that to you, to Broadman, to all the team. Even the ones who still don’t think I deserve it.”

  Nilsson massaged his beard, a pencil-thin streak along his jawline.

  “No. None of us think you deserve it. You aren’t a Chancellor. But Cooper, you earned your place anyway. See you in two hours.” On his way out the door, Nilsson added: “And Cooper, heal quickly. I’d hate to declare you unfit and ship you off to Praxis.”

  Michael laid down in the medpod and ordered the holotools to resume therapy. While he assumed Nilsson’s parting comment was a joke, Michael was in no shape for another bout of combat today.

  As the tools penetrated and sealed his wounds, and the synthetics entered his bloodstream, Michael found a brief and much-earned shuteye. As always, Sam dominated his thoughts. He had not touched her, had not told her how much he loved her, in five months.

  Earth seemed a universe and a lifetime away.

  5

  T HE FIRST DAY MICHAEL ENTERED the research station, he was struck by a sense of déjà vu. He didn’t need long to understand why. The corridors of the base, carved out of the many hollows inside this fragile mountain, were supported by an intricate metal lattice that gleamed silver, casting a healthy glow and providing warmth. He encountered that same design the moment he, Jamie, and Sammie crossed the IDF between Earths almost three years earlier. Within minutes of that arrival, he watched his No. 1 incinerate a man alive and feared he made the worst decision of his life. This time, however, Michael wore body armor and carried enough flash pegs to fear no man – including James Bouchet.

  He walked the corridor of Level Two an hour after his therapy ended in medpod – sore all over but numb to the pain. He left a Recon tube decked in a new uniform, with fresh crimson-and-gray body armor, his blast rifle, Ingmar, and Lin’taava sword pouched. He held his shoulders stiff and high, arms swinging wide and proud, though his chest heaved with surges of fire in his ribs.

  Michael studied each person he passed, looking for any clue as to whether they doubted his resolve. Did they hear about this morning’s battle? About his latest close kiss with death? Everyone here knew each other by name; at no time did the base house more than seventy people. Moreover, the corridors were narrow passageways, allowing two abreast, with right-angle turns that sharply carved through the mountain. The base did not provide the luxury of privacy, except for the vaunted few who received solo quarters on Level 3 – a feature even his Presidium could not buy.

  Michael knew how to read a Chancellor’s eyes, how to interpret their arrogance and disdain. The tight surroundings heightened his senses and his paranoia.

  “I know they still can’t believe it,” he once told Maya. “Me as their equal. Defending their lives. Financing part of this mission. Legally on the same standing.”

  “And now their ally,” Maya reminded him. “They may not respect you as you’d like, but they have put their trust in you, Michael.”

  “What has trust ever meant to these people? The minute they don’t see a need for me, they’ll kill me. Then they’ll come for you. No. I’ll work with these assholes, I’ll defend their fucking lives, I’ll drink and smoke with them, I’ll even sleep with them. But I’ll never drop my guard. Not for one goddamn second. Sam learned the same lesson, and she was one of them.”

  “So, they are nothing more than a means to an end?”

  “You betcha. Hell, maybe they’re rubbing off on me.”

  “Perhaps too much?”

  Maya was right, of course, though Michael never told her. He was willing to match their ruthlessness and raise them in cold-blooded betrayal. No surrender. No retreat.

  He arrived at the base commander’s office five minutes before the promised meeting, surprised to find Maj. Nilsson standing at attention outside. Nilsson saluted with a side-nod, and Michael returned the honor then exhaled poltash smoke through his nose.

  “Good as new?” Nilsson asked.

  “Don’t think I could fetch full price right now, sir, but I’m getting there. Pipe helps.” He stretched his neck. “Recon measurements were snug around the shoulders.”

  “You’re not the first to complain about that tube. I’ll order a diagnostic soon as we’re finished here.�
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  “Been trying not to get my hopes too high, sir. Any spoilers?”

  Nilsson cracked a smile. “If you mean advance intel? No.”

  Michael grabbed a final puff before they entered, the last of eight expected from base staff.

  Commandant Aldo Cabrise, who took over as CO following the Ark Carrier evacuation, leaned back on a small desk. At least ten years older than anyone in the facility, Cabrise cut a haggard figure. Gray and wrinkled, with an undisciplined silver beard, Cabrise struck Michael less as a commander and more like a war-weary refugee. Considering the stories he’d been told about Cabrise, the image made sense. Yet no one dared underestimate the commandant, whose obsession kept this project alive more than any Chancellor.

  Cabrise whispered to his aide, Maya Fontaine, whose fingers raced through a holocube in response to his instructions. Michael still didn’t know how she pulled off the job. She never would have demeaned herself to have slept with him, and she had no particular skillset to suggest she was worthy of the position. Yet within a week after spec-ops took over base security, she arrived on a shuttle from Praxis and reported for duty. From time to time, she passed along tidbits of intel but insisted Cabrise wasn’t the true power here.

  That distinction, of course, belonged to Frances Bouchet, who winked at Michael as he entered then resumed quiet conversation with her top two engineers. Not once did Michael see her without feeling a swirl of nausea. Yes, she was the embodiment of everything he despised in Chancellors, but her eyes reminded him of Jamie Sheridan. His ex-best friend was now an unrecognizable monster, a murderer of millions, and she created him. Such a wonderful mom that Jamie tried to kill her the same day he met her.

  Frances was a thin creature with oval, ginger eyes and midnight hair, cut short like a tomboy. She dyed it after she and Emil went into hiding following SkyTower, or so the rumors said. She dressed in flowing whites and pastels, showing off the pomp and bombast of Chancellor power-players and in no way resembling the modest bodysuits of her scientific colleagues.