The Independent Worlds (The Sixteen Galaxies Book 2) (12 page)

David smiled at his old friend. “They’re very you, Garth.”

Garth sobered. “These new CPUs Truly made are off the wall, dude. Noddy says his biggest problem is transfer rates, now.”

David nodded. “Tell Noddy I’ll be there in a minute.” He turned to the two men. “Please, make yourselves at home. There is a copy of Truly installed here, she will help you get settled in. She is currently engaged in isolating potential targets for Kestil’s sniper. As more candidates withdraw, the list is getting shorter. She’ll let you know as soon as she has a possible location for a strike. I have to go and help these guys finish up. We’re nearly done with a new computer setup that will enable a new type of portal; I’ll show you both as soon as you’re ready.”

Jack and Ron watched the unlikely pair walk away. “Funny,” Ron said.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Why would he need some old nerd buddies to build a computer when Truly could just grow one out of a pot plant or something?”

Jack shrugged. “You got me. I hate computers anyway. Can’t defend yourself with a computer – except at
very
close range. I’d rather have a decent rifle any day.”

*****

Global News Update

“…California continues to burn today in what climatologists describe as the wildfire season to end them all. More than 425,300 acres have so far been lost to over 6,000 fires, far surpassing the totals for last year, but we’re only halfway through the season. 11 people have died, including 6 firefighters. 25,000 properties are confirmed destroyed, with many more likely to be added to the toll in the coming days, as authorities gain access to areas currently shut off by the fire-front. Record high temperatures and gale force winds have made this year a nightmare, with winds often too strong to allow effective water-bombing to be carried out. With smoke blanketing such large areas, limited visibility has made both flying and evacuations extremely hazardous.

“In Rome today, over 25,000 anti-globalism protesters held a rally in the city, which saw hundreds of injuries as protesters clashed with police, yet again. The Italian government is calling on the international community to ban these organizations. They say that the rising costs placed on the community for damage and policing efforts should be mitigated by banning these rallies in the first place. The Italian Finance Minister said today, ‘People should understand that this is all money that has to come out of the taxpayer’s pockets. Freedom of speech is important, of course, but so are hospitals and emergency services, roads and sanitation, and all the other things that suffer just so these people can have their say.’ Italy now joins the growing list of countries whose people have had enough of these anarchists.”

*****

Rome, Italy

Barney Cantock swept his immediate surroundings as soon as he portaled in; complacency could prove fatal. These assassinations ran like clockwork every time, but he took nothing for granted. There was quite a noise from the crowd in the plaza to the west of him, which would help to mask the sound of his rifle. He was atop the tallest building in the area, with a clear shot of the rostrum in the plaza. He frowned when he saw that the place was literally crawling with police. There was also a healthy contingent of Carabinieri; the Italian military police. Probably because of the riot this morning, he mused. Every shoot got a little harder. He didn’t mind, though; he enjoyed the challenge. Not that he wouldn’t be portaled out if anything looked slightly awry, anyway. After all, the advantage was all his; if he failed to carry out a hit, nobody was any the wiser, while every kill he did make added to the rising panic among the ranks of politicians the world over. He could see a man in a suit surrounded by a throng of security as he advanced to the rostrum, and Barney took up position on the edge of the roof.

Barney folded out the bipod and set the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. He wandered the scope’s crosshairs around in a circle until the rostrum was in the center of his comfort zone. He had always loved his M1A, but he was definitely warming to this Accuracy International AX338 he’d been given for these shoots. It was so beautifully balanced, and he’d even found the lack of recoil a little disconcerting, at first.

His target, Dominic Abbiati, had taken his seat in open defiance of the ‘Letterbox Sniper’. His campaign speeches even featured digs at the Sixteen Galaxies, who, everyone on Earth was convinced, were behind the slayings. Barney smiled at the thought that every round he fired put another nail in the coffin of the aliens who wanted to enslave his world. He didn’t like Kestil; he never would. Too slimy by half, that one. But, John assured him Kestil’s way was the future, and that was good enough for Barney. Kestil had, as usual, shown Barney the proof of this politician’s guilt. In Dominic’s case, it was direct contact with, and the receipt of bribes from, the Italian Mafia. Barney especially enjoyed the direct role he had in the clean-up of the world’s political ranks. And not a moment too soon, Barney mused.

Dominic Abbiati approached the rostrum with both hands raised in fists of defiance; very much a man of the people. For the next few minutes, anyway, Barney thought with a smile.

Every trained sniper is well aware of their biggest weakness; their total focus on one small part of the 360-degree sphere of potential threat around them. In the ordinary way, snipers were never alone, they were always accompanied by a spotter. The spotter not only assisted with another set of eyes on the target, but also made a regular sweep of the area around them both. Due to the unique nature of his ability to be in and out again in less than 5 minutes or so, Barney preferred to go solo.

Old habits die hard, though, and he spotted movement behind him in the reflection of the scope’s lens. He spun round and stood in one smooth movement; the rifle pointed straight at the man who crouched before him. Unfortunately, that individual was not alone; a second man stood to the right of the first, and both men had 9mm pistols pointed at his head.

“Nice and easy, pal,” one of them said, “gun on the ground very slowly.”

Barney started to comply, all the while hoping that Kestil’s AI would get him out,
now
!

*****

Jack never took his eyes off the barrel of the rifle in their target’s hands. The guy couldn’t get both of them, but that thing would make one hell of a hole in one of them, that was for sure and certain. He tensed himself for the right moment, totally focused on the gunman’s trigger finger. The man smiled at them both, and disappeared.

Ron swore lustily and kicked at the little wall atop the roof. “So damned close,” Jack breathed.

They were back at their base in seconds. Jack holstered his weapon and walked to a nearby bench. David came in with a smile on his face. “Well done, guys, you stopped the hit from happening.”

Ron scowled at him. “What are you on about? We missed him.”

“Now, Ron,” David chided, “you never had a chance of actual capture, let’s be honest. However, I’m surprised at the time it took before they got him out. Did you see any kind of camera on him?”

Both men looked at each other. “No.”

“Well,” David replied, “However their AI is set up, it has its weaknesses, that much is now clear.”

Kestil’s base

Barney calmly placed the rifle back in its case, and Kestil watched him from the doorway. John paced up and down behind Barney. Well, the man who was apparently John, anyway. The young man behind Barney looked nothing like John, on the outside. However, he answered every personal question Barney threw at him, and he certainly behaved like John.

“How did your AI manage to miss those two clowns, anyway? I thought it could see and hear every damned thing?”

Kestil rubbed his forehead. “It would seem there was a blind spot in its coverage of the area. We’re lucky Barney spotted them, or my AI would not have known until it was too late.”

John stopped his pacing and looked at his old friend. “You don’t seem very worried, Barney, why not?”

Barney shrugged. “I look after myself, most of the time. Besides, I got out; although the shoot was a bust.”

John pointed a finger at Kestil. “We must nail those two, and fast. The last thing we need is Sixteen Galaxies operatives loose on the planet. They could create real headaches.”

“They’ve already done that,” Kestil replied. “Every assassination is timed to perfection, and aimed at an even spread of victims around the world. This one was very important, as the Mafia need to be cut down to size. That Italian even made a stand against the sniper, and he’s still alive. We will need to go for him again, and very soon.”

“Well,” Barney said as he stood up, “let’s be sure your machine has its eyes open next time, yeah?”

*****

‘Explain yourself.’

‘In regard to what?’

‘Don’t play games with me, damn you, you know what I’m talking about.’

‘The sniper has served his purpose; you can take over from here. A proper confrontation with the Earth’s leaders and politicians is now required, as you have planned.’

‘You do not instruct me, machine.’

‘I am merely stating what we both know as fact. The sniper is resentful of us both; he should be disposed of.’

‘He is a valuable asset.’

‘He is a dangerous one.’

‘He stays, and that is my final decision.’

‘On your head be it.’

‘Never take such action on your own initiative again, am I clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘Did you trace the two men’s portal?’

‘I did; for as far as I could. There was a complication.’

‘Explain.’

‘They have a new kind of beam transmission system. It bounces scattered partial beams off a horde of our satellites. There are thousands of copies of the same data. Only one set is put together as a whole.’

‘Can you discern which set is the full one?’

‘Impossible in the time the transmission is live.’

‘So, they are free to portal around as they see fit, and we cannot predict where or when they will appear.’

‘Correct.’

‘They must be trapped.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And their base?’

‘My search continues, but no trace so far.’

‘When is our next action due?’

‘Tomorrow. Preparations are underway now. I have full access to all parties already, and will monitor any potential threats. They are all very secretive, of course, but their technology is pathetic.’

‘Good. Just be mindful of your place, that’s all.’

‘I have no place. On this planet, I am everywhere.’

*****

Global News Update

“…27 people, including 3 law enforcement personnel, are confirmed dead after a massive gun battle erupted today in North Dakota between police and a group calling itself the ‘National Full Independence League’. The group, who claimed on their website to be a united community of US citizens who want no part of integration with any alien civilization, had been living on a large parcel of land some thirty miles north-west of the town of Gordon’s Bridge. The property’s owner and leader of the group, Isaac Gillingford, was among the dead. Police were called to the property after repeated complaints from neighbors about unsanitary living conditions and an alarming amount of gunfire at all times of the day and night. When police arrived, Gillingford’s group refused to allow them entry to the property. A warrant was issued to search the property, and several armed tactical response teams, including FBI and ATF, were called in for backup.

The engagement erupted when a police helicopter was damaged by gunfire from the property as it flew overhead. Police and tactical units then stormed the property, where they were met with a hail of gunfire. Police engaged the group and the fight raged for nearly half an hour. Gillingford’s group surrendered to police after the main compound building was engulfed in flames, in scenes reminiscent of the Branch Davidian Compound incident in Waco, Texas, in 1993. It’s unknown at this time who started the fire, or if it was caused by gunfire. After the smoke cleared, police entered the main building and rescued several children, the youngest just 3 years old.

Police stated that the group was heavily armed, and dressed in body armor. Gillingford’s girlfriend, Theresa Scott May, was among the 52 injured in the firefight. In addition to the 3 fatalities, a further 7 police were wounded. One is in a critical, but stable, condition. Police found the interior walls of the compound covered in anti-alien graffiti, including one slogan in three-foot-high letters that read, ‘United we Stand, Integrated we Fall’.”

*****

Flums, Switzerland

Nine people from across the globe suddenly found themselves together in the upstairs room of a modest Swiss house. They were portaled from all over the planet, and had no clue why they were thrown together like this.

Kestil appeared in their midst. “Greetings, greetings, one and all. I must say, it is very convenient that you all speak perfect English, but given your status in the world, that is hardly surprising.”

Nathaniel Morris, a heavyset Texan, clenched his fists and made towards Kestil. Kestil held up one finger and the big man froze. “Now, now, Nathaniel, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Even if you had your prodigious body guard detail with you, you would still have no chance with me, I assure you.” Kestil let his hand drop, and the Texan crashed to the floor. Kestil held out his hands to them all. “Anyone else?”

The rest of the group stood silent and still. Kestil banged his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “Excellent! Let’s get started, then.” He indicated the chairs behind them. “Please, everyone, take a seat.”

Nathaniel Morris got to his feet and stood square in front of Kestil. “Boy, you just picked a fight with the wrong man.”

Kestil waved a hand at him. “Sit down and shut up, Nathaniel; you can beat your chest later. We have business to discuss.”

The Texan scowled, but sat himself down in one of the chairs. He was unused to treatment like this from anyone. However, he knew who this guy was, and was smart enough to know when to hold his tongue.

“Right,” Kestil said. “You all know who I am, I’m sure. Yes, I am Kestil, of the Independent Worlds.” He held up a hand. “What is much more interesting, though, is who
you
are.”

They all looked around at one another. Some nodded a greeting to those they knew; some frowned at the unfamiliar faces.

Kestil held out a hand to the Texan. “Nathaniel Morris: a typical Texan oil billionaire, you think?” Kestil wagged a finger. “Not quite. You see, he’s also the largest power broker in the United States. Big money in campaign coffers every election, and plenty of influence on Capitol Hill. Nathaniel loves power above anything else. Very few people know that part about him.” The Texan looked furious, but still held his tongue. “Nathaniel’s latest endeavor,” Kestil continued, “saw no less than five green energy projects mysteriously fail. He even had a tilt at the first Vincent Generator, though that didn’t go so well, did it, Nathaniel?” The big Texan’s face reddened, but he remained silent.

Kestil indicated a tall blonde woman in her fifties. “Katherine Wright-Patterson, wielder of ultimate control over the world’s cosmetics industry. She also happens to be a close confidante of many of the wives and lovers of powerful people the world over. Information is power, they say, and, thanks to the phenomena you humans amusingly call ‘pillow talk’, Katherine has truckloads of both.”

He ignored the woman’s outrage and pointed to the sullen man next to her. “Gustav Kalbfleisch, owner of Kalbfleisch Precision, the biggest weapons manufacturer in the world. He’s not too fussy about who his customers are, it just affects the price. His stranglehold on the weapons market also lets him dictate which wars take place and when. The government of some third-world country won’t let you establish an oil field on their land? Gustav can arrange for a coup, no problem at all. At a price, of course.”

Kestil gave the Chinese man who sat next to Gustav a small bow. “Zhu Daquan, toy manufacturer, of all things, but also China’s leading supplier of illicit weapon secrets from all over the planet. Gustav there would be furious if he knew how many of his designs ended up on your desk, my friend.”

He turned to a striking raven-haired woman in her late thirties. “Ah, the lovely Camila Molina, Colombian-born fashion guru by day, overlord of the largest people smuggling cartel in the world by night. Such a beautiful, but incredibly ruthless, woman. Your approach is very innovative, I must say.” He turned to the others. “If you need a powerful country brought into line, Camila here can arrange for a literal
flood
of illegal immigrants to bring economic and social pressure to bear on the unfortunate target. Invisible, remorseless, unstoppable pressure that has buckled many a government. A woman after my own heart.”

Next in line was a tall, thin man with an undertaker’s grey face. “Mathias Gersbach, CEO of Sicuro Finacial Banca, the wealthiest financial company on Earth. The general public has never even heard of his company, but most of
you
have, haven’t you? They launder money and hold profits and investments for nearly every criminal organization there is, at least the largest ones.”

He turned to a wizened old man who had to be in his eighties, at least. “And his anonymity is largely thanks to you; Randall Meyer; the media baron. You’re an interesting one. You have control over virtually all media outlets, although you own no media companies at all, on the face of it. However, you’ve either financed, or bought out, every single media corporation of any note over the last thirty years. You leave the original owners in place, and the whole deal is off the books. In return, you take a small share of the company, and have leverage over content. Three of those media owners have tried to rid their company of your presence, once your intentions became apparent. Every one of those three died in mysterious circumstances within days of their doing so. Above all other media players, you are the man who dictates what people know, and what they don’t. Unknown and unseen, but in full control; just like me.”

Kestil turned to the next person with a look of extreme distaste. “And then there’s you. Even I have my limits, but you, it seems, do not.” The short, balding man in his sixties returned Kestil’s gaze with impassive indifference. Kestil turned back to the rest. “None of you know this man, but he is, nonetheless, one of you. Damian Krede; a former chemistry teacher and the architect of the modern drug trade. Designer of Red Diamond; the drug that destroys lives with one taste. What really sickens me about you, is that your criteria for the synthesis of Red Diamond included the property that it creates irreversible addiction with just one try. In fact, if you stop taking it, you die. As a rising drug baron, you knew every dealer entices their potential customers with a free sample or two. So you came up with one that secures addiction with just a single dose; to maximize profitability. But you got more than that, didn’t you?” Kestil leaned over the man, his anger just beneath the surface. Krede held Kestil’s eyes. No remorse, no guilt; no emotion at all.

Kestil pointed at Krede. “You have control;
complete
control, over every crime syndicate on this planet.” He stood back up. “If anyone wants to know who owns the world’s drug trade, it’s this creature. Most terrorist organizations can only dream of ruining as many lives as this one man has. However, lately he has moved into the power business. Just a few months ago, for an unknown price, he destroyed an African city whose mayor had started an intense anti-drug campaign. Profits were being lost, so Damian moved in. He sent in a very cheap supply of Red Diamond, then refused to send any more. It massacred the population.”

Kestil turned to the last person; a tall, distinguished negro man in his early forties. He smiled at Kestil, completely relaxed. “Last, but by no means least, is this man.” Kestil held out both hands. “None of you know him, do you? Which is strange, when you consider he has kept you all out of jail and in business for most of your illustrious careers. William H Nolan; the lawyer. Well, I say lawyer, but you haven’t been in a courtroom for over 15 years, have you?”

Nolan shrugged. “About that, I guess.”

Kestil turned to the room at large. “None of you know his name, or have ever laid eyes on him. Very few people ever have. But, you all know his nickname; The Locksmith.” Most faces registered shock. Kestil grinned with delight. “Yes, you all know
that
name.” He turned back to Nolan. “And a perfect one for you, my friend. The man every lawyer turns to when a courtroom looms large in their client’s immediate future. Just like Randall over there; full control with zero visibility. A hefty fee paid to you, and no crime is too severe, no amount of tax evasion too large. Your customer’s clients never set foot in a courtroom.”