The Independent Worlds (The Sixteen Galaxies Book 2) (9 page)

Drifter took a long pull on his bottle and laughed. “Damn, boy. That’s better than any movie I ever seen.” He leaned over toward David and tapped his leg with the bottle. “But, you ain’t told us why
we’re
here, have ya?” He held up a hand. “No offense, but why all this fuss over a bunch of old farts who’ve done their bit already?”

David looked around at the group. “Because you’re needed. Not yet, but somewhere in the near future. I can’t explain much more, as your knowledge might change the outcome.” He explained the ability the Entity, and by extension he, had to calculate the future.

Bear scratched his head. “So you know you’ll need our help. Do you know how we’ll give you that help?”

David spread his arms wide. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to trust me, but you guys are a vital part in a series of events that will come soon. In order for us to avoid catastrophe, these events must take place exactly as we have planned and predicted. I’m very sorry, but I can only tell you as much as I already have.”

They all sat and thought about that. Drifter looked at Robert. “Bobby, you in on this?”

“I am, boss.” Robert replied.

Drifter sighed. “Well, Bobby’s the only one of us with a good woman and a fine home. If he’s willing to do it with all he has to lose, who am I to let him go in alone?”

Bear laughed. “You guys are damned crazy. But, I ain’t got nothin’ to lose, except my ass. I’m in.”

Karl just nodded, and grabbed another beer.

David looked around at the men. “I must tell you; this help you’re to give us, it may well cost some, or even all of you, your lives.” He turned to his Father. “That includes you, Dad.”

Robert nodded. “I know, son.” He swung his gaze around his old crew. “What do you guys say to that?”

Drifter leaned forward. He pointed a finger at David. “We already been through that kind of deal before. I can’t sleep at night, even now, because of the things I’ve seen.” Robert made to interrupt, but David tapped his arm and gave a slight shake of the head.

Drifter carried on, oblivious. “It’s got so bad, I really don’t care if I die, now. I pulled screaming boys out of downed Hueys, all burned to hell, with the skin peeling off of them, and when I go to sleep, I see them again. I flew choppers into LZs lit up like the 4
th
of July, and somehow got us out. Now, every night, I fly in again. And when I wake up, I’m not just scared; I’m freakin’
terrified
.”

The other members of the old crew stared at the fire. David knew they all still got the dreams Drifter spoke of; he could feel it.

“And why did I go through all that madness?” Drifter sat back. “Because from what I could see, it was the right thing to do. That’s why all of us went; to do what we saw as right.”

“Damned straight,” Bear said.

Drifter waved a hand in the air. “Sure, other guys burnt their draft cards. Sat around smokin’ weed, singin’ protest songs and skipping off to Canada. But we believed the same as our parents did in World War Two, Korea, and God knows where else. Somebody had to stop the wrongs being done. Now I know that most folks these days think it was a waste. We should’ve minded our own business; same thing they been sayin’ for years.”

He shook his head. “The trouble with that thinkin’ is, if we didn’t fight them, then who would? And if nobody fought them, then why would they stop what they was doin’?”

“So,” he continued, “we put aside our own lives to fight for what they told us was right, and we fought damned hard, let me tell you.” Drifter’s face clouded over. “But, when we were done, those same people that told us to go, the guys who told us who the bad guys were; they turned their backs on us. They watched our own countrymen spit on us and call us baby-killers, and they did
nothin’
. Just paid us a lousy little pension and expected us to disappear.”

Magnus Marx raised a finger. “And they’ve kept on doing it, too. Lebanon, Iraq twice, Afghanistan, it never stops. Every time, our boys go in, right or wrong. And every time, some don’t come back, and the ones that do?” He fell silent.

“This time, it’s different,” Robert said. “This time, there can be no argument; it matters. If we don’t fight, we lose the entire planet. But this time, they do nothing. Hell, they’ve damn near handed Kestil the keys to the world.”

Drifter spat into the fire. “To hell with the lot of them, I’m ready. At least this time we know what the fight is really all about.”

“We know who the winners and losers will be, either way,” Bear added.

The rest nodded their agreement.

David gave them a warm smile. “Thank you, all of you.”

Bear scratched his beard. “Thank us when we’re done.”

David nodded. “I have to go, I’m afraid. But, before I do, there’s someone else you need to meet.” He passed Drifter a little cube. “After I’m gone, just put this on the ground.” He got to his feet and shook hands with them all.

Before David left, Robert took him aside. “Listen, son. You safe down here? I mean, from what you told me, Truly can’t help you much, if at all. This computer thing of Kestil’s, can’t it find you?”

David put a hand on his Father’s shoulder. “Kestil’s AI uses the Earth’s technology, Dad. The internet, mobile network, TV, radio, microwave, shortwave, satellites, radar, you name it. As long as I’m off-grid, it can’t see me. I have to portal out now, because a satellite passes overhead in ten minutes. We have a base to set up, which is as remote as it gets. We can jump around because we have portal generators in our heads. Though mine is the only one powerful enough to take me anywhere on the planet.” He gave his Dad a boyish smile. “It’s pretty cool, actually.”

Robert shivered. “My God, son, you’re running a terrible risk. If those lunatics get hold of you…”

David hugged his Dad. “What happens is what happens, Dad. When the time comes, your life will be on the line, too. The future is in flux, right now. Kestil’s empire is smaller, and way behind. But, our hands are tied here. We can’t just march in and take the Earth, our consciences won’t let us. Besides, if we did, the human race would fall apart. Humanity must determine its own future. Kestil wants to fool them into a pretense that they’re doing just that, and we have to stop him, or at least expose him for the liar he is.”

Robert stood back from his son and held him at arm’s length. “And just what do I tell your Mother, hmm?”

David grinned at him. “You’ll think of something, Dad. But listen, if this all comes down as we currently see it, you and Mom might not be able to stay here.”

“Here? You mean this planet, don’t you?”

“Yeah; this planet.”

Robert frowned at the ground. “Well, we’ll worry about that when we get to it.”

“Kestil hasn’t made a move on either of you since Truly lost most of her control here. We don’t know why, exactly, but we calculate his plans to capture me don’t include you two.”

Robert searched his son’s eyes. “Your Mom, is she in any danger, son? Please, I have to know.”

“No,” David assured him, “she is under permanent observation, Dad. The second we sense any change; she’ll be portaled up to the ship, even if it risks another connection to Kestil’s AI. You would be taken to our base. We need you both in place for as long as possible; otherwise Kestil may make some connection between you and the future. That could put these guys here in real danger, too.”

Robert laughed, “I wish I could make the connection between me and the future.”

David patted his father’s shoulder. “All in good time. I have to go, I’m afraid. I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, son.”

The two men embraced, and David disappeared. Robert went and sat with the others by the fire. Drifter looked at the cube in his hand. “Well, let’s see what this is all about, then.”

He sat the cube on the ground and a glowing sphere appeared above it. “Hello,” a woman’s voice said. “My name is Truly.”

Los Angeles, California

Democrat Senator Jarrod Charles Dwight raised his fists in the air and strode onto the stage. Flags waved and the crowd cheered him to the microphone. He could have wished for a larger turnout for his acceptance speech, but he was a man who took what he could get. He secretly thanked Senator Jack Wright, who had dropped dead of a heart attack; it was like a dream come true. The old coot had made life a living hell for Jarrod. Jack always portrayed Jarrod as a young upstart with no experience and no future in politics. Well, old man, Jarrod thought, you’re just as wrong as you are dead. Jarrod won the special election by a narrow margin, but enough to give him a firm seat.

His heart soared as he put himself just the right distance from the microphones, and he felt he could give the entire speech without a single glance at his notes. He paused for dramatic effect, and in the short silence, just managed to make out the crack and echo a split second before the .338 Lapua Magnum round slammed into his forehead. He died as he fell.

Up on an office building rooftop some 800 yards away, Barney Cantock bent down and stuck something to the parapet of the corner which had been his perch, folded up the bipod on an AX338 sniper rifle, slung it over his shoulder and promptly disappeared.

*****

The White House, Washington DC

President of the United States Michael Maitland looked up in alarm when two secret service agents burst into the oval office. One went straight to the window, while the other guided the president out of the room.

“Sorry, sir. But there’s been an assassination in California; senator by the name of Dwight, sir.”

Maitland frowned as he was ushered along the hallway. “Jarrod Dwight? But, he hasn’t even taken office, yet. Why the hell would anyone want to kill Jarrod?”

More agents joined them. They led the president into the Situation Room, colloquially known as the Woodshed. Over the next hour, staff trickled in with updates. The federal agents on the ground in California had located the perch the shooter used; the rooftop of an office block.

The hit looked to be professional; the shot was at a distance of just over 800 yards, and the rifle required for that kind of feat did not come off a retail shelf, generally speaking. What was more interesting was the sticker found at the scene. It was an ordinary house number sticker, a black number on a gold background; the type you could buy from any hardware.

The sticker was a number 1.

*****

Covert transport ship, at the edge of the Sol system

John Crabtree stood with his hands behind his back; every inch the military commander. The bridge of the covert transport ship was small but well laid out. The ship’s captain sat in her seat and gently nibbled on a thumbnail, while she tapped a tattoo with the fingers of the other hand on the arm of her chair. The atmosphere on the bridge was tense. They were about to enter the Earth’s solar system. A few transports had snuck into Earth orbit before, and every one made it in and out with no issue. This very ship had done the trip once before, so the crew knew it was doable.

“We’re inside the system, Captain.” The navigation officer spoke in a hushed voice, and John smiled. It really wouldn’t matter if the young officer screamed at the top of his lungs. They were in space, after all. Still, John held his tongue. It didn’t hurt if the crew were nervous, it would keep them on their toes.

He snuck another glance at himself in the polished wall beside him. The tall, handsome young man with the dark hair and square chin that returned the look was a stranger; but it was him. It was a weird sensation, wearing another body. It had taken some time to adjust, and the first few days were best forgotten. When he first saw himself he screamed. It took four men to restrain him. Prestern was unperturbed.

“Happens every time,” the geneticist had told John. “The brain doesn’t understand what it sees and goes into shock. The crude plastic surgery on your planet is obvious enough that the mind can accept the changes, because it can see them. My work is so good it is undetectable. The reflection simply disorients the owner. It is the mental equivalent of the organ transplant rejection that you still get on your world. At least you didn’t throw up everywhere.” At the mention of regurgitation, John did just that, much to Prestern’s disgust.

As hard as he tried, John could not force himself to like Prestern. The alien leader was cold and aloof. He looked at John the way a science teacher would regard an insect in a bottle. However, he was a brilliant scientist. The entire reconstruction of John’s body was carried out at the genetic level.

Prestern had tried, and failed, to explain the process. All John knew was he now had the body of a young man in his mid-twenties, with all the vitality and strength that went along with it. Still, he thought as he looked himself over, it would be nice when the mental adjustments finished.

When he awoke was the worst time. It still got him, sometimes. It generated the wildest dreams and nightmares. Prestern had assured him it would pass. Indeed, now that he was nearly back on Earth, the dreams had dissipated to a large degree. The important thing was that his memory was intact, with all the infused memories Kestil had filled him with. He may have a young physique, but his mind was centuries old.

“We just need to execute a turn and align out before you portal, sir.” He snapped out of his reverie to see the captain eyeing him curiously.

He nodded to her. “Very well, I thank you for your good work, Captain.”

She returned her gaze to the front monitors, which showed the Earth in all its glory. He flexed his hands in anticipation. With a new look, he was no longer public enemy number 1; the assassin who had murdered a president. Now, he was free to continue his work on Earth unhampered by the constraints of his old form.

*****

Global News Update

“…The assassination yesterday of Democrat senator Jarrod Dwight has sparked outrage around the country. Dwight, who had not even taken office, had a spotless political track record and authorities are mystified as to why he was targeted. The Office of Homeland Security is yet to release any details as to the gunman who carried out this atrocity, but early speculation is that the killing has all the hallmarks of an attack by Islamic State. IS, however, has denied any involvement in the assassination.

“Meanwhile, in Moscow 1 person died and 28 were injured after an anti-globalism rally was stopped by police. The dead man, a 21-year-old college student, was allegedly trampled while the crowd were under fire from police tear gas. Russian police have refuted allegations that they used ‘unnecessary force’, and described the death as a ‘tragic accident’.”

*****

The White House, Washington DC

President Maitland rubbed his face. The fatigue had gotten the better of him, and he’d slept for four glorious hours. He was about to call for coffee when his phone rang. He groaned when he saw the number; Michael Cromby, Director of National Intelligence.

“Hi Mick, what’s up?”

“Mr. President, if you could join us in the Woodshed, please, sir. There’s been another assassination.”

Maitland frowned. “Then where are the Secret Service? Why no panic like yesterday?”

“Sorry, sir,” Cromby replied. “I should’ve said; it’s in France. Same M.O., sorry, that’s modus op-”

“Yeah, thanks, Mick, I’ve seen enough movies to know what M.O. means. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, Maitland sat in front of the wall of screens, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. “Right, so who was it that got shot this time?”

Cromby flicked a button on a remote control, and a face appeared on the center screen. “Christophe Giroux, Minister of Transport for just five days. Killed by a long range sniper shot. Weapon used is yet to be announced, but they found this…” Cromby brought up another picture, “where the sniper took the shot from.”

Maitland’s face clouded over when the picture registered in his mind. It was another house number sticker; the number 2. He looked at his watch. “18 hours since poor old Jarrod died. Time enough to catch a flight, but the shooter would need another weapon when he got there.”

Cromby shook his head. “We think that’s what they want us to think, sir, but I don’t buy it.”

Uh oh, Maitland thought, this could get awkward. He knew it was Kestil. Just the thing to destabilize governments around the world. He was furious with Kestil, of course, but he didn’t like the idea of Cromby on Kestil’s case. He wanted to deal with Kestil without interference. His staff would never understand the depth and breadth of what he was trying to achieve with Kestil and the Independent Worlds. “Who’s they, exactly?” he asked.

“We think it’s a cell, sir. Not sure which organization, yet, but probably anti-globalism nut-jobs. When you consider the deal Vincent cut with the French government last month, it’s possible they want to shake up the improved US – France relations.

Maitland scratched his chin, anxious to hide his relief. “Okay, well let’s give our guys on the Dwight case an open channel with the French security services. I’m going to go freshen up, so I’ll leave you with it for a bit, Mick.”

Cromby nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. President.”

*****

Kestil appeared just five minutes after the president rang his number. He looked particularly happy this morning, Maitland thought.

“Good morning, Michael. To what do I owe this honor?”

Maitland pointed to the couch in his private office. He had given specific orders for no interruptions, and was ready to bite the head off any Secret Service agent who so much as knocked on the door.

He sat down and waited for Kestil to get comfortable. “Perhaps you can explain to me, Kestil, the logic behind the murder of two politicians who barely had time to take office?”

Kestil smiled. “I knew it would take you no time to work out it was me, once the second one happened.” He frowned. “Has any of your staff pointed to me, yet?”

“No. They think it’s the work of anti-globalism protesters.”

“Good, good. I don’t need any accusations to deal with, especially here in Washington.”

Maitland shook his head in frustration. “Kestil, what the hell are you trying to do? You can’t wander the planet and take pot-shots at anyone you fancy. What if Nuthros and his people start a fuss about it?”

Kestil gave Maitland a smile. “Nuthros and his little cabal are no longer of any concern to us, Michael.”

“But what the devil are you trying to achieve, man? How many political figures do you plan to murder, exactly?”

Kestil dropped the casual demeanor. “Look, Michael. You and I both know that today’s political structures are virtually useless for the coming days. We need implementation of global change, and that will take long enough with a single human government, let alone hundreds of them. We must push forward, and to that end, the first thing we need to do is thin the ranks; clean out the dead wood, as it were.”

Maitland was incensed. “Jarrod Dwight was a fine young man with a bright future ahead of him. In what way was he
dead
wood
, exactly?”

Kestil drew a deep sigh. “Jarrod Dwight was a fine young man, was he? To hire someone to engineer a heart attack on the sitting incumbent, just so you can take his seat, is hardly the act of a fine young man, Michael.”

Maitland snorted. “Oh come off it, Kestil, you can’t tell me Dwight is a murderer.”

Kestil held up a hand. “I can, and I will, Michael. If you wish, I can furnish you with all the evidence you could possibly want, including footage of Dwight making the payment for said murder. I have eyes everywhere, Michael, you know that.”

Maitland bit his lower lip. “And the Frenchman?”

Kestil shrugged. “His father, CEO of a large weapons manufacturing company, virtually bought his seat for him, and a pretty penny it cost him, too, let me tell you. Mainly because his son is what I believe the French would call le’ imbecile.”

Maitland contemplated the carpet for a while. He shook his head to clear it. “How many people do you plan to kill, Kestil? I never signed on for all this, and I can’t condone the wholesale slaughter of politicians, no matter what they’ve done.”

Kestil held up both hands. “Michael, please. Stop and think. You must keep your mind on the bigger picture. We are talking about a minor cull as opposed to the loss of an
entire species
. You will have no connection to any of this, you have my word on that.” He leaned closer to the president. “It has to be done, Michael. Think of it, though. Those who seek political office will have to be ready to accept the inherent risk to their own lives. All those who want personal fame and fortune will avoid it like the plague, and we can be done with the vacuous simpering fools who pollute so much of your leadership.”

Maitland held his silence; his heart was racing. What had he started? How had he ended up here, with this alien who wanted to destroy human governments the world over? It needed to be done, though, didn’t it? That was the worst part, in truth. Kestil was right, and Maitland knew it. How often had he chafed at the struggle it took to enact one lousy piece of legislation, only to watch the senate tear it apart until nothing was left? Mind you, he mused, I’ve done exactly the same thing to my opponents in the past.