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

didn’t want to see. Yet her body was contorted to view it all.

After the panorama on the other side of the seal exploded, hundreds of bodies joined the shards of foot-thick, plated glass outside the station. They performed a dance of death unlike anything she might have imagined, the bodies flipping, rolling, and bouncing off each other as they caught the sunlight then vanished into the darkness of space, nothing to slow their march.

The klaxons returned, as did another automated message about a decompression emergency. As Sam watched the last of the civilians dissolve into the starfield, two other humans appeared outside the station, their motion more controlled.

The assassins in bubble suits held hands. The one who shattered the glass used his weapon in short, forward bursts to slow their momentum.

In the next instant, space did a double take. The stars appeared to fold in on top of each other. A single blast of thunder shook the station. A white flash followed. When it disappeared, a ship hovered in its place, in direct line with the approaching attackers.

The transport was small and cylindrical, perhaps fifty percent larger than a Scramjet, with no visible markings. A door on the bulkhead pixelated and opened. Ten seconds later, the attackers vanished inside.

The transport fired its system engines. Flash and thunder followed. Space buckled again as the ship vanished.

Sam didn’t understand what she witnessed, but she damn well knew who was responsible.

Why didn’t I kill you?

Soon, the klaxons fell mute.

Twenty minutes later, standard gravity returned.

Sam stayed beside Pat’s body until the recovery crews arrived.

8

Moss Compound, Medical Annex

Boston Prefecture

 

M ICHAEL REFUSED TO PLAY ALONG AS Finnegan Moss’s personal physician told jokes during his analysis. Shirtless, Michael allowed the doctor to inject him with holographic tools designed to stabilize and repair his wounds. His ribs responded to laughter with daggers of pain. At one point, the doctor – perhaps a year older than Michael – proclaimed himself a huge fan. Saw Michael’s circastream act four times, disappointed he couldn’t afford seats at Entilles, and on and on. He tested his own Chancellor jokes.

“Dude,” Michael said, trying to end the agony, “your boss could walk in any second. I don’t recommend you saying that shit around here. Get my speed?”

Michael didn’t want to demean a fan – Solomon or Chancellor – but he needed this night to be over. He’d killed three people, been shot three times, and almost died for the umpteenth time since first hearing the word Chancellor. He needed answers for what happened at Entilles, and something to take the damn edge off. Then to bed.

The doctor directed him to a Recon tube and programmed him for a slipshirt, a black medical fabric that cushioned external wounds while passing for casual evening wear. When Rikard showed up to escort him to Moss, Michael realized his shirt did not bear the Solomon tri-crest. He had not ventured into public without the branding since the day he crossed the fold. However, no one seemed to mind when he and Rikard entered the main estate house and joined a crowd in the second-floor observatory.

The spectacular backdrop – glass roof beneath a starry sky, multidimensional art from the colonies lining the walls, an EarthIn holographic terrarium, and onward – seemed par for the course. He wondered whether Chancellors understood “slumming it.” Off in the corner, a few security guards hovered. In the center gallery, reclining casually on sectionals plus pillows large enough for six, elements of the Solomon equity movement mingled with the Chancellory.

“Not how I figured this night to go,” Michael whispered.

“You’re the man of the hour,” Rikard said. “Enjoy the moment.”

The room launched into polite applause. He smiled but leaned close to Rikard. “Seriously? I just killed a bunch of people.”

“Yes,” Rikard smiled, “you most certainly did.”

The other members of Rikard’s team greeted him, all with drinks in their hands. He recognized each – including the opera singer who saved him with a knife through the head chef’s heart. The Sanctum reps in Moss’s company came forward and offered hugs; his first ever from Chancellors.

Finnegan Moss, however, remained seated, the same cool customer Michael met in the Entilles theater. He hung a casual smile as he nursed a tall liquor in one hand and pulled on a red cylindrical poltash pipe with the other. He blew sweet-smelling rings. Michael recognized the type: Chill, saving the best for last, allowing the children to finish their business first. Reminding everybody who’s the badass.

A Chancellor he didn’t recognize broke up the good tidings to offer Michael his hand. Fortysomething, shoulder-length red hair, scar along his left chin. Jawline was clear: A former peacekeeper.

“Michael Cooper, my name is David Ellstrom. I am Chief of Staff for Mr. Moss. On behalf of his Presidium, we owe you a debt. Mr. Moss has gone through many attempts on his life, but this is the first time we did not anticipate the enemy’s strategy. Your quick thinking, inventive technique, and sacrifice for a man you did not know is more than admirable. Many of us in this room would be dead if not for you.”

Another round of applause followed. Michael offered a sheepish smile and stumbled. “I don’t know what to say. Reckon we’re all just trying to stay alive. Am I right?”

They chuckled. Did they think the question was a call-back to his comedy act’s signature punch line?

“Might we offer you any refreshment or …?”

Before Ellstrom finished the question, Michael pointed to Moss.

“Actually, I’d really love a pipe if you got one to spare.”

Ellstrom motioned to a Solomon servant Michael didn’t see when he entered. The woman offered a tray of liquors and pipes. Michael took one of each and looked for a place to sit as the rest of the crowd did likewise.

He