The Impossible Future: Complete set Frank Kennedy (freenovel24 .TXT) 📖

Plasma blasts sliced past Michael, scarring the wall, as he returned fire. He hit her twice in the high chest, and she stumbled backward but fired again, this time clipping Michael in the right shoulder. He lost his Ingmar but continued shooting with his borrowed gun. Alise fell on the fourth hit when he burned a hole through her neck.

He grabbed his Ingmar even as his shoulder suggested something inside was torn. Outside the double doors, Michael stopped his advance. A small metallic orb rolled to his feet, elevated a few inches off the floor, and rotated wildly.

The electromagnetic pulse disrupter – illegal on all forty worlds – killed his weapons and threw Michael back against the wall. The pain extended far beyond his back and shoulders. It would not be like he saw in the movies: He couldn’t push himself up and keep fighting. That’s when the lead assassin entered the doorway.

Head Chef Patroon, not on a family emergency, held the longest serrated knife Michael ever saw. The man did not seem deadly – bald, middle-aged, a slovenly beard. He did, however, shed a tear standing over his sous chef’s body. Michael watched the man’s features twist into full-on rage as he stepped over Alise. Michael tried to push himself up, but the pain and the steady flow of liquor double-teamed against him.

Not like this, he thought. I’m not going to die like this.

Neither one of them saw her coming.

A woman hurled herself, as if in flight, into Patroon and crashed upon him. She gathered herself in a single motion, took the knife now lying loose on the floor, and buried it in Patroon’s chest.

“You got to be kidding me,” Michael mumbled. He looked into the dead man’s glassy eyes and realized who his savior was: Rikard’s other “asset.”

“Hello again, Michael,” the opera singer said.

Michael had enough for one night and faded to black.

7

Vasily Intersystem Transfer Station

S AM COULDN’T THINK OVER THE KLAXONS blaring like a symphony of trumpets. She floated weightless, drifting hand-in-hand with Pat, while Maj. Lancaster continued to bark orders through his amp. The station’s automated security system declared an emergency.

“Attention, all residents and guests. The station has experienced a failure of its magnetic core, thus inhibiting artificial gravity. Be assured this error is temporary, and we will soon restore full station service. In the meantime, the zero-gravity environment poses no immediate danger to life. Please follow proper protocol. Find the nearest available handholds mounted on ceilings or interior walls. Utilize the closest objects or people to generate angular momentum toward these handholds. We advise against acrobatics or other reckless maneuvers which may increase the risk of injury. Secure yourself before the restoration of standard gravity. We at Vasily apologize for the inconvenience.”

Sam noticed the ceiling handholds for the first time, a series of flanges carefully built to blend in with the architectural design. A few feet from the closest, she and Pat gave each other a boost to generate momentum.

The restaurant fell into disarray and panic. Amid the clutter of humans grappling for stability arose food, plates, glasses, and silverware. Many patrons, clearly tourists judging from their fashion choices, tried leaping from one handhold to the next, as if escaping the restaurant would secure their safety. The most desperate had no qualms about flinging others off their handholds.

The security system made no mention of the explosion or decompression at the docking quays.

“Hold fast,” Pat said. “If any of these morons come our way, be ready to kick them off course.”

“We’re under attack,” Sam said. “Aren’t we?”

“Probably. It’s possible there was a system cascade failure leading to the explosion but …”

“Anything like this ever happened before?”

“Here? No. Vasily has a perfect safety record going back at least a century. But the systems here are ancient. Perhaps …”

“Don’t spare me, Pat. We know what this is.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said, tapping into her amp. “If I can lock into an internal comm system, maybe …”

Maj. Lancaster, clinging to a handhold several feet away, stifled his full-throated profanities long enough to order additional help. He called in the Scramjets patrolling the station’s perimeter.

“Full tactical, zero-g protocol. Dock at evac ports six through twelve.” When he tapped off his amp, he assured Sam and Pat help would arrive soon enough. “We’ll have teams with gravmod equipment locking down the station. In the meantime, the three of us will begin a measured retreat. We are seventy-five meters from the lift to Guard headquarters. Internal transport systems are in automatic shutdown, but I have command authority to override them. Follow my lead.”

As they gave a gentle nudge to propel themselves toward Lancaster’s position, the surrounding situation deteriorated. Shouts competed with the klaxons, and fights for control of handholds broke out. Many patrons tried to bully their way from grapple to grapple to escape the madness. An elderly couple thrown from their support barrel-rolled across the restaurant and crashed in slow-motion against the panoramic window. Sam looked back when she heard the thud. She saw outside, where the bodies – now in the dozens – drifted, helpless and hopeless.

Lancaster cleared a path for them, pushing aside guests as he claimed the authority of the Guard. Sam did not let go of Pat’s hand.

After a few minutes, Lancaster pointed to their destination, the center of five lifts, designated above in a flashing beacon: UNIFICATION GUARD PERSONNEL ONLY. Many guests had already made their way to this area of the promenade, one of four lobbies linking the restaurant to the station’s hub. Sam saw their problem: These people would flood the UG lift as soon as Lancaster opened it.

The major tapped into Station Watch and issued a new command.

“Kill the cudfrucking horns and issue a new station-wide directive.”

In seconds, the klaxons fell mute and a