The Independent Worlds (The Sixteen Galaxies Book 2) Page 7

  Justin had no idea why he was even interested, really, but he copied the text document and emails onto his USB drive, along with the calendar screenshots. He shut down the computer, removed the drive, and slipped off the gloves. He turned off the transmitter. He shoved the drive, transmitter and gloves into a trouser pocket and opened the office door. Just as Justin left the office, a guard appeared at the end of the corridor. There was a crackle on the guard’s two way, and he listened briefly before acknowledging the caller.

  “Hey,” the guard called, “you touch any wires in that office?”

  “Lo sentimos, pero no hablo Inglés, señor,” Justin replied with a shrug.

  The guard held up a hand to him. “You stay there, comprendo?”

  Justin bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Sí, sí, te espero.”

  The guard went into the office and looked around. He pulled out his radio, “Nothing out of place here, Johnny. Must have been some interference or something.” He turned to Justin. “Okay, you go now,” he said, waving towards the elevator.

  “Gracias Señor,” Justin replied, and headed to the elevator.

  “Dumbass wetback,” the guard muttered at Jack’s retreating back.

  Jack waved at the guard from inside the elevator. “Su madre era un burro, Señor,” he said as the doors closed.

  Back in his hotel room, Justin made a coffee and then had a shower. Clean and refreshed, he booted up his laptop and inserted the USB drive. He brought up the Symondson files. An hour later, he sat back, his face ashen. The target wasn’t a terrorist sympathizer. He had no political affiliations at all, as far as Justin could see. But Justin knew exactly why the department wanted him gone.

  Peter Somers was about to publish an article that exposed Symondson Energy’s involvement in mass murder. According to the text document, which was an outline for the article, he had solid evidence; interviews, documents, emails, the whole works. None of the evidence was on the material Justin had copied, so he guessed it was on the two USB drives Hilary wanted taken back to England. What the evidence apparently showed was that Symondson had given weapons, ammunition and supplies to The Blood Alliance; a loose association of local rebel groups who were wanted in connection with raids on villages up and down the Niger delta. Shortly after Symondson paid TBA, the rebels raided four villages of tribespeople. Usually, they took all the food, stole some young men to fill their ranks, and took young girls for entertainment.

  These raids were very different. TBA systematically massacred the entire population of each village; men, women and children. The few survivors who fled into the surrounding jungle were pursued relentlessly, but a handful managed to get away, and hid themselves in villages around the area.

  When TBA carried out the attacks, the four villages were preparing to appeal to the UN over a huge toxic waste spill into a river upstream from their locations. The tribes had been decimated by ulcers and fever as a result of the spill. Symondson tried to buy their silence, but lives had been lost, and the villagers weren’t having a bar of it. So, Symondson paid off TBA to eradicate the problem.

  Peter Somers had gone to Nigeria and managed to get some interviews with the terrified survivors. On arrival back in the States, he did some heavy research, and put together a damning report. Somers was a good journalist, and Justin couldn’t help but admire the man’s comprehensive work. The report was political dynamite, and it would destroy Symondson if it ever went to press.

  A quick search of Symondson on the internet, and the reason for the department’s interest was obvious. Symondson had a multitude of high-profile investors and board members; some of whom were British aristocracy. Edwin Symondson, the current CEO of the energy giant, was a personal friend of several cabinet ministers, and had no doubt provided a healthy donation to the campaign coffers.

  All of a sudden, the department’s true role became crystal clear. Justin looked at his hands. How much innocent blood was on them? How many of those people he eliminated were real terrorists or sympathizers? A picture of Hilary came to mind, and he felt the heat rise in his forehead. She had to know, there was no way she didn’t.

  He got up and walked to the window. Not much of a view, really. A four lane road, some trees and lots of advertising. Cars passed by in a steady stream, and the odd pedestrian wandered past. Ordinary people, ordinary day. None of them had any idea of the kind of world they lived in. The type of world where highly trained killers were, in reality, janitors. There to take out the garbage and unwanted items that might inconvenience the lives of the elite few.

  Justin stared out of the window for what seemed like hours. He had absolutely no idea what he should do.

  *****

  Washington DC, Present Day

  Robert Markham found a park outside the bar and walked once around the old building. Nobody unusual, and nothing out of place. The alien Kestil had apparently made a few attempts to capture both he and Margaret, but gave it up when Truly thwarted every attempt. David said they were safe these days, but still urged him to be careful. He strode in and took a seat in the back booth with three other men. They were all in their sixties, like Robert, and they wore a badge on their shirt collar; a yellow Norman shield with a thick black diagonal stripe and a horse’s head in the top right corner.

  A stout man with an impressive beer belly nodded to Robert. “Bobby, how you doin’?”

  Robert smiled. “Pretty good, Drifter, and you?” Robert relaxed as all the pleasantries were exchanged. He ran his eye over his old crew. In the Vietnam war, Robert had volunteered for one of the most dangerous occupations there was; he was a ‘Shotgun Rider’, officially called a door gunner, on a Bell UH-1 “Huey” helicopter gunship. It was a very hazardous occupation, with all the risks one would expect to be associated with half-hanging out the side door of a helicopter above a war zone, held in by a harness bolted to the chopper, and operating an M60 machine gun. The life expectancy of a Shotgun Rider was rumored by some to be as low as 5 minutes, although there was no official figure. Robert Markham had defied that statistic, along with his entire crew.

  Dunstan “Drifter” Hall was the Aircraft Commander, a tough man to work for, cranky, harsh and demanding. But, he was also arguably one of the best chopper pilots the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) ever had in the Vietnam war. His exploits had taken their toll, though, and he leaned heavily on bourbon to keep him going these days. He kept himself to himself, and all Robert knew about Drifter was that he lived outside of a small town in Arizona, where he said he kept birds, of all things.

  In contrast to Drifter, the Co-pilot, Magnus “Karl” Marx was tall and thin. Quiet and unassuming, Magnus had copped hell from everyone around him for his unfortunate surname. Dunstan always argued they would never get shot down with Karl on board. Because, he argued, ‘Ain’t no Commie in his right mind gonna shoot at a chopper with Karl Marx in it.’.

  Across the table from Robert was Graham “Bear” Fullerton. Short, with a wiry build, Fullerton was the Crew Chief, a position which saw him responsible for the maintenance and repair of his aircraft, as well as operation of the right hand door gun.

  In theory, both Robert Markham and Magnus Marx were not assigned to a particular chopper, but were rotated around the aircraft in their squadron as they were needed. However, when Drifter saw how well both of them did their jobs, he managed to have them with him on nearly every mission he flew.

  Robert relished this annual meetup. With Drifter in Arizona, Karl in Wisconsin, Bear in Kentucky and himself in DC, once a year was all they could manage. They rotated the city for each meet, to even up the travel costs. This year they were in DC, and bunking at Robert’s place. The other three had flown in today, and they were to have a few drinks before heading to the Markham’s house.

  With her usual panache for such things, Margaret had gone to visit her sister in Florida. It was the kind of thing Robert cherished about his wife. She understood that he needed this time each year, and never once showed any resentment.


  They took their time as they caught up; each drink, each tall story, each and every memory savored. They were all a year older, of course, but the years faded away with the hours that passed.

  They were just into their third round when a voice interrupted. “Excuse me, sir.”

  The table fell silent. They all turned to regard the tall young man who stood there, his pals watching from three tables away.

  All four of the veterans stared at the youth impassively, but their bodies were tensed. Here we go, Robert thought; another young punk gonna give us a pile of attitude to show his buddies how tough he was. How many times do we have to put up with this crap? he wondered.

  They all goggled in disbelief as the young guy put a modest pile of notes on the table. “The boys and I just wanted to buy you a round, to thank you for your service, sir.” He gave a sketchy salute and went back to his table. The four veterans waved their thanks at the other table, and the young men raised their glasses in acknowledgement.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Drifter muttered.

  “Huh,” Bear snorted, “I was just about to start in on what’s wrong with youngsters these days, but that feels kinda wrong, now. I guess the times are changing.”

  Karl pointed his beer at the television behind the bar. “You ain’t wrong they’re changing, man; we even got aliens on TV.”

  Robert called out to the barman, and asked him to turn the sound up.

  “This is Becky Carver live in the studio…”

  *****

  TV studio, New York City

  “…with a representative of the Independent World’s galactic society. Mr. Kestil, welcome to Earth.”

  Kestil gave Becky a smile. “Thank you, Becky. Although I have been here for some time, this is, indeed, the first opportunity I have had to be welcomed to your planet. I have been too busy due to some rather unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Yes, let’s start with that attack on your ship; it must have been terrifying to be so outnumbered.”

  Kestil nodded. “Outnumbered and outgunned, yes, but not outwitted. It was a close-run thing, though, let me tell you.”

  “Mr. Kestil, why were you attacked?”

  Kestil held up a hand. “Just Kestil will be fine, Becky, please. The reason for the attack on my research ship is simple, really. I came to your planet to make humanity aware of the true nature of the Sixteen Galaxies. They did not take kindly to my interference with their plans.”

  Becky frowned. “The other alien, Nuthros, claimed that the Sixteen Galaxies is a peaceful society; that they exercise complete unity among their people. You’re saying that is not the case?”

  “Becky, if you were to ask the leader of North Korea whether his country is a peaceful one or not, what answer do you think you’d get?”

  “I guess he would say it was. Very true, Kestil. So, what is the Sixteen Galaxies really like?”

  “Well,” Kestil replied, “I don’t want you to get the idea that the Sixteen Galaxies is some dark and evil empire, bent on secretly eating your brains, or some silly notion like that. However, they are not all love and harmony, either. Nuthros painted a rosy picture, but it was very one-sided, I can assure you. He also grossly exaggerated your current situation, doubtless because he feared our society might intervene. He wanted to get you to commit to them as fast as possible, hence the dramatic entrance and outlandish statements.”

  “So, you’re here to ask us to join your society, instead?”

  Kestil leaned forward. “For the moment, I’m just here to offer some guidance, Becky, no more. A little helpful advice while you rectify your current situation. The Earth is in need of remedial treatment to ensure its longevity, and that is our primary concern. Of course, I’d be lying if I said we didn’t want you to join us, somewhere in the future, but we are anxious that you do so as, dare I say it, an independent world.”

  Becky gave him a warm smile. “But, you also hold concerns about us having any dealings with the Sixteen Galaxies, is that not so?”

  “That’s correct, Becky,” Kestil replied. He spread his hands. “Under the auspices of the Sixteen Galaxies, humanity would throw out the baby with the bathwater, as you people say. You don’t need to destroy your entire way of life just to save your planet; nor even close to that extreme. It is quite within humanity’s power to rise to the occasion, I promise you. Look at what you have already done, since Nuthros arrived.”

  Becky nodded. “You’re referring to the Vincent Generator; the first of which is due to go online very shortly.”

  “Precisely. But, I have been told your scientific and industrial sectors are all hard at work on many projects dedicated to cleaner energy at this time. You know, humanity is the most creative, inventive and industrious people in the known universe, and you should feel justifiably proud of that. I would hate to see you wasted on the Sixteen Galaxies.”

  “Wasted?” Becky asked. “In what way?”

  “Well, let’s say you did agree to join the Sixteen Galaxies. First up, you would need to work towards that aim for a couple of millennia, until they decreed you were good enough to join them.”

  Becky frowned as she thought that through. “Millennia, you say? You mean it would take two thousand years before we could join them?”

  “Oh, at least that long, I would think,” Kestil replied. “The Sixteen Galaxies would be there, at the helm of Earth’s affairs, the whole time, too; to ensure you were headed in the right direction. You see Becky, their society is not one with any black and white, so to speak. Theirs is a world of grey. It’s bland, unimaginative and dull. They hate creativity, and they try to ensure everyone fits the one pattern.”

  He held up a hand. “This is not hearsay, either. I have personally experienced what happens when you are different. I was born into the Sixteen Galaxies, although it was only the Seven Galaxies, then. I saw many inconsistencies in the policies of what I then thought of as the rulers of the society; the councils.”

  “What you then thought of as the rulers?” Becky interjected. “Has that changed? I mean, who really runs the Sixteen Galaxies, if not the councils? We certainly weren’t aware of any higher authority.”

  Kestil smiled at her. “Nothing gets by you, does it, Becky? I have only just learned that the councils are not the leaders of the Sixteen Galaxies.”

  Becky held out a hand. “So, who is really at the top?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid,” Kestil replied. “The Sixteen Galaxies Society of Worlds is led by a machine.”

  “Wow,” Becky said, “that’s a revelation, for sure. We’re just going to take a quick break to give our audience a chance to think about that; we’ll be right back.”

  7

  Escape Capsule, Sol System Perimeter

  Truly sealed the entry port to the little escape pod and ejected it into space. As soon as it was clear of the ship, she set course for an immediate return to Earth orbit. The two conscious occupants of the little spherical craft watched the ship hurtle away from them. It was lost to sight in seconds.

  Hiram sat quietly; he didn’t want to intrude on Christine’s thoughts. She had clung tight to David until the last possible moment. Her eyes were puffed and red, and her pale complexion underscored her emotional state. Hiram felt no such emptiness, just anxiety. The roller-coaster ride of his position as a council member seemed to promise no relief; no end to the constant crises they had to avert. Truly was convinced that Kestil’s AI would take any and every opportunity to reconnect to her, which meant she was, as she had predicted, effectively cut off from any meaningful contact with Earth. She could observe, analyze and possibly execute the odd portal, but even that was only at high risk. A connection to any point on Earth near modern technology presented risk of another infection from Kestil’s AI.

  David would have to go to Earth and stay there; just him and his two companions. David’s connection to Truly, and therefore the Entity, was apparently unbreakable and impenetrable. He would t
herefore act as a conduit through which the Sixteen Galaxies might be able to continue to influence events on Earth. But, Hiram wondered, to what end? Right now, he had no idea. David would have to wait to return to Earth, though, until at least Ron Baxter was ready. Truly was to enhance Jack Short in the same manner, if he agreed to go with David. She was confident he would take little time to adjust, as he was so highly trained to begin with.

  Hiram gazed at the Milky Way. He laughed to himself; who would have thought he would ever find himself here, cast adrift in space, to await transportation to another planet? This was to be his second visit to Kareetha, the capital planet of the Sixteen Galaxies. Somehow, it felt more permanent, more final. He shuddered. Would he ever see the Earth again? With the way things were headed at the moment, he wasn’t so sure. Could Truly, Nuthros and the others really do that much to prevent Kestil’s manipulation of humanity? Kestil looked very likely to succeed in his campaign to get them to join the Independent Worlds.

  Kestil was no fool, and he played the game well. When he looked back at Nuthros’ approach to humanity, the direct and blunt way in which he had laid it all out, it was little surprise to Hiram that Kestil succeeded where Nuthros failed. Kestil simply tailored things to suit mankind. His way posed no great challenges; he could slip the required technology to humanity without any dent to their prodigious pride at all. His covert manipulation of the world’s leaders was done in such a way as to force the leaders to keep it hidden, to protect their own positions. From the outside, Kestil appeared to offer no interruption to the existing way of things at all.

  Nuthros had alienated the world’s rulers with his open and honest approach. He had left them with no dignified way out; submit or perish. Although the Sixteen Galaxies’ council and the Entity both understood humanity perfectly, they were simply too honest to succeed in saving mankind from itself. Truly had assured him that Kestil’s agenda did not include the preservation of the Earth. But, then again, Kestil didn’t need the planet, per se. He just wanted humans in his society, to harness their creative and inventive talents. The clones Prestern had made from the ancient Earth’s dead, with which they had founded their whole Independent Worlds society, had failed to produce the same qualities as their distant forebears.