Subversive Elements (Unreal Universe Book 2) Read online

  The Sigma Protocol –while causing little to no physical damage- could crack the planet if mishandled.

  Those sitting in darkness doing nothing other than watching Doans found great irony in a woman bound by a twisted moral compass using the Sigma Protocol at all; it was at utter odds with her apparent dreams of merging Latelyspace with Trinity and they rubbed their hands gleefully every single time. Sooner or later, Doans would pass the point of no return and thus, all her hopes of fouling Latelian waters with Trinity’s presence would die.

  Removing Reywin duFresne and Bolobo from the ‘LINKs and systems kicked up a firestorm that would send the whole system careening down a path never imagined.

  It wasn’t so much a matter of deleting names and entries from systems, but of subtly rewriting them, shifting data from one column to the other; there were things those two had been involved in that shouldn’t be vanished, not without greater cause than a FrancoBritish assassin, and so thousands of files were simultaneously manipulated. Chain-of-evidence files bearing their names had new names posted. Testimonials given saw names morphed into ‘anonymous’ and so on and so forth down through the long years of their respective careers. The ripple tearing through the Latelian infrastructure was enormous and only the criminally stupid or myopic missed it.

  Sleepers hidden inside meaningless terrorist organizations like 'Lately for Latelians' received fresh orders from their handlers the moment the Sigma finished howling through Latelyspace.

  Doans’ decision to hide two gory deaths obviously indicated some deeper secret, some vital threat to her power. They couldn’t learn the truth behind what was now discarded, but they could use that Sigma to their advantage, to remind Chairwoman Doans of a fact she’d seemed to’ve forgotten; that she was, in truth, the greatest Chairperson Latelyspace had ever seen, and that under her banner, they would rise to greatness once again.

  Either she would lead them as a true tyrant, or she would die. The terrorists didn’t deplore the violent excesses of a power-mad Chairperson, they reveled in them, demanded that the screws be turned tighter. They would cause mayhem, strife and disorder amidst the sheep until Chairwoman Doans recognized –and admitted- her sole true ability was iron determination.

  Or her worlds would burn.

  Orders received, real terrorists stole equipment from their individual cover organizations, killed anyone who got in their way, and quietly oriented themselves on their target. It was the one place in all Latelyspace that had stood inviolate through five thousand years:

  The Museum of Latelian Natural History.

  If Doans refused to recognize the inherent glory and honor of all things Latelian, if she insisted on turning them all into AI-hobbled stooges and coddled children, then it was high time they destroyed their ancient heirlooms.

  Why?

  Because when Trinity came a-knocking, everything important was going to be destroyed to make way for some soulless multi-systemic Conglomerate parking lot anyways, and damned if loyal Regimists didn’t deserve the right to get to the wrecking first.

  xxx

  Scheduling regular sessions of the Philosophical Brotherhood was a dicey proposition at the best of times. The four who oversaw the spiritual and religious well-being –at least in their own minds- of the entire solar system weren’t the sorts of men who found it easy to be completely unavailable to their respective underlings for any length of time. Questions were asked, answers expected. Because of this, each ‘scheduled’ meet oftentimes took weeks to prepare, a monumental task under the best of circumstances.

  An emergency meeting of the like-minded men was an impossible nightmare, the problems caused by their unexplained disappearances for the hour or two it took to meet unfathomable. There was quite literally no way of knowing what would happen to any one of the four when they returned from this unscheduled meet.

  Twice in the same week! They were practically begging for a Sigma, for The Watergate Men, for The Peak or worse. Yet, there was no choice.

  Grey looked nervously at his ancient pocket watch. He’d been gone from the Control Center for just over an hour and a half now, during which time any one of the work crews who’d been chomping at the bit to check out the ‘funny signals’ coming off the interplanetary Commlines would decide to go ahead and do it without authorization. Doing so without necessary permissions was a guaranteed termination only if they found nothing.

  Finding ‘nothing’ was extremely unlikely; the modifications they’d made to those Commlines were as plain as noses. Even the slowest-witted technician would be able to tell that something was wrong with the hardware. Sadly, there were no fools in his department. The few who excelled in their jobs already thought someone had hijacked their equipment and were desperate to find out the truth.

  Making matters worse, none of the other members of The Brotherhood were concerned about the Commlines or Grey’s personal situation at all; they were worried about the Sigma repercussions, and the effect it’d have on the activist organizations on Hospitalis.

  Grey supposed it was fair enough, but he wished for once that they’d consider speeding things along. It was his life who was in the most immediate danger, his tongue that was likely to be pulled out by the roots. His life that would soonest wind up in a dark, dank underground cell.

  Quite nastily, he imagined giving up the other three members of their little cabal within the first five or six seconds. Turning them in wouldn’t spare him the punishment, but it might spare him the torture. Glowering angrily at himself for such childishness, Grey prayed a moment for forgiveness before turning back to the problem at hand.

  Currently, his brothers were arguing very heatedly about what -if anything- they could do to stop the terrorist super-cell from assaulting The Museum. Well, everyone except Green. Green was as calm as … as dirt. As usual, Green had brought them the information, meaning he’d had more time to process the wretchedness of plan, but no one else at the table could think straight.

  Grey shook his head. The Museum! The effrontery of it all!

  The as-yet-unnamed group of terrorists was bound to do something so outrageous that their message would be lost in the shuffle. Even if they beamed their message out now, today, this very instant, terrorists were going to attack The Museum. That hadn’t happened in thousands of years. No one was going to remember anything else about this day, ever. It was a disaster in the making.

  “We should send minions.” Grey announced abruptly, sick to death of Blue’s boring line of cyclical Zen arguments and loathing Green’s unutterably placid calm. When the two got on each other’s nerves –which was often- they turned into children.

  Black, blisteringly unhappy this meeting had hauled him from of the Arena right in the middle of an exceptional match, held up a hand to silence Blue. Grey’s suggestion was the first reasonable answer he’d heard. “To what end?”

  Grey held his hands wide. “Between the four of us, we have the resources to, ah, equip our … followers to … remedy any situation that rises. The terrorist ‘attack’ may be nothing more than another burning fool trying to show us all the error of our ways.” He tilted a hand back and forth. “Then again, it may be worse.”

  “You consider arming our disciples?” Blue asked, shocked to his toes. “That is not the way. Our message should continue down non-aggressive paths.”

  Grey wanted to shout. He controlled his anger, the words hissing out of him. “Dammit, brothers, listen. Doans is a woman who responds quickly and decisively to any perceived threat. Usually with three times the necessary force and over a much broader area. Our outbreak is peaceful. It relies on slow saturation through the consciousness and into the subconscious, where it will take root and grow. Everyone seated at this table knows and accepts that our uprising won’t take place over night. It will likely be months -if not longer- before we see any changes. We also know they will happen. Our methods are proven through the course of History.” He licked his lips, drank some water, and persisted.

 
; “If these terrorists move on The Museum -as they damned definitely will because of this latest Sigma- her response will be vehement. There will be no hesitation, not if she gets a clear opportunity to rid herself of one of the blights on her career. OIP satellites will launch God soldiers around that Museum and the carnage will be definitive. If Doans handles these terrorists, if the people of Latelyspace witness her fury in demolishing them, nothing we do will work. Ever. Ingrained Regimist tendencies will flare up, burning away anything else in a hot instant. Besides, they are attacking The Museum. Think for a moment, will you? Nothing else in the entire system will matter. We need to stop them before they get too far. For our plan to work, our brothers and sisters need to be devoid of Latelian pride. If we can steal their thunder, we can incorporate that into our message.”

  The other three ‘brothers’ sat quietly, considering impassioned Grey’s words.

  Black wanted to contact the Chairwoman’s offices with the names, locations and known associates of every terrorist they knew; it was a long list, filled with more than a few surprises. Green’s personal network of informants –surprisingly large for a bored rich person- was paramount at collecting hidden secrets.

  Giving those names up would be an effective method of stopping the attack, but once all the cells were destroyed or arrested, she’d turn her efforts towards discovering the identity of the whistleblower. Doans would never believe someone could know those names without being a terrorist themselves and would work tirelessly to those ends.

  Blue wanted to ignore the terrorists and their plot altogether and to dismiss the technician/preacher’s words. Non-aggression had and always would be a fundamental part of his belief system. Yet –aggravatingly-, the man was right. If the terrorists went for a shock and awe approach anything that happened would overshadow anything else for so long that their own, peaceable efforts would be wasted. Everyone in the room knew all too well how brightly Regimist pride could burn.

  Green sat there silently, either unable to come to a decision or so deeply considering the salient points of the argument that he was, for all intents and purposes, unaware that he was just sitting there.

  Black smiled thinly. “You seem to have the floor, Grey. Your proposition?”

  Grey, whose father was in the military, knew a thing or two about troop deployment. “Nothing … overt. We all have our … less-than-principled adherents, no? I think ten or so faithful disciples from each, no more, no less. As to what they should do? Without knowing precisely what the terrorist faction is actually planning, I think it would be best if our men hid themselves in the basement. It’s massive and a literal maze. Even if these terrorists are organized enough to send people down there to search or fortify, our people will be able to defeat them easily. Our faithful followers will wait for the plan to become clearer, and once the purpose is divined, they can move through The Museum, killing or converting…”

  Beneath his heavy green hood, Green smiled.

  Trinity Worries and a Most Unpalatable Job Request

  “Griffin Jones.”

  The Enforcer cursed fluently in Ancient Mandarin as he yanked his helmet off and kicked it through a wall. He’d only just got back, and already the AI was calling him. He wondered if the other Enforcers had to endure this frankly petty side of the galactic AI. “Whut is it this tahm, Trin? Oh, an’ bah the way, ya’ll’re pissin’ me off with this whole ‘Griffin Jones’ thang y’do. Cain’t you just call me up like a reg’lar person?”

  “I am neither ‘regular’ nor a ‘person’.” Trinity replied, Its voice tinged with humor. “As you so often point out.”

  “Whutever.” Griffin shucked his armor piece by piece, enjoying the feeling of fresh air on his skin immensely. As the only place in existence where he was permitted to be free of the burden of ‘his’ armor, Griffin ached for ‘home’ on a regular basis, sometimes from the moment he left until he returned.

  He flopped onto his bed and stared moodily at the ceiling. “If you’re callin’ on me tuh palaver about Garth Motherfuckin’ N’Chalez agin, Ah swear Ah will fuckin’ kill somethin’.”

  “It is about Garth that I am ‘calling’. Please, feel free to work out your frustrations if you must.” Trinity paused, waiting to see if the Enforcer would carry out his idle threat. When the Enforcer made no moves to destroy or kill anything, the Trinity AI continued. “The situation in Latelyspace is spiraling out of control. Garth N’Chalez will soon be embroiled in an excessively dangerous undertaking.”

  Griffin Jones sighed irritably. What he wouldn’t give to be left alone. “Ah tole y’already, the damned ‘borg cain’t kill Nickels. Not now, not never.”

  He didn’t mention his feelings that it was entirely possible that nothing could kill Garth. Trinity probably already suspected as much and he pretty much didn’t feel like listening to the artificial intelligence berate him for his ‘fears’. Griffin didn’t rightly know what Garth was and it only made sense to worry about what you couldn’t know.

  “Chadsik al-Taryin is but a corner of a puzzle covering the stars, Griffin. There is more at risk than you can possibly imagine, my Enforcer. The endgame I have envisioned for hundreds of centuries is in peril.”

  “And how,” Griffin demanded miserably, his twang thickening as his mood grew worse, “does dear ole Garth fit inta all of that there bullshit, Trinity? Bearin’ in mind Ah am of the inclination to travel over there and blow a few planets out of the system to calm your nerves. Why you let Latelyspace get so fucked is beyond mah ability to understand.”

  “Just so, Griffin Jones. Your puny mind is barely capable of processing the need to eat and sleep.” Trinity’s voice took on a pure, gender-neutral tone, an intentional sign of warning. “My informants tell me that Garth N’Chalez is likely to become involved in a prolonged terrorist activity. As I am intimately aware of Chadsik al-Taryin’s modus operandi, it is certain that the cyborg has Garth under surveillance. If Garth does indeed find himself embroiled in this potentially devastating activity, it is a certitude that Chadsik will react with extreme and colossal destruction to ensure N’Chalez survives. My informants suggest that between Chadsik, Doans and the terrorists, Hospitalis is a seething bed of destruction.”

  Griffin stared moodily at the ceiling. Trinity was always the same when it came to Latelyspace: sparse information, hints and vagaries. It was as if the machine mind had something so secretive going on in that tiny little solar system that It would rather risk sounding like an idiot than reveal another one of It’s endless, ‘grand’ schemes. That It continued to refer to ‘informants’ was irritating as well, because Griffin damn well knew for certain that the pan-systemic AI had no need of informants. It was nearly spread throughout all of existence. “Lotta suppositions raght there, old hoss. You sure you can’t be more, oh, Ah dunno, decisive?”

  “Life in Latelyspace is chaotic, random, and dangerous. There is no guarantee that any of these things will happen. If the one happens, the rest will surely follow. Garth is drawn to these things like a moth to a flame. Your old commanding officer will be in a dire predicament.”

  “Sounds like a real nice circle jerk, y‘ask me.” Griffin rolled off the bed and went in search of his helmet. He blithely chose to ignore Trinity’s jab about ‘old commanders’. Back in the day, the leaders of the Armies of Man had given Garth N’Chalez power he hadn’t deserved. Those old human fools had been terrified of the Kin’kithal and the Kith’kineen and had chosen the one they thought they could control.

  More fools, they.

  “Just so.”

  Griffin pulled his helmet out of the wall and clamped it on. “So whut is it ya’ll want me to do? Save Garth? Kill the terrorists? Assassinate this lady ruler?”

  The rest of the armor swirled and swarmed about him, sliding into place with mechanical precision. Slivers of nanometal bristled out from each piece, drilling into every pore of his body. Each tendril was a link forming a chain strong enough to keep Griffin Jones -a man of extraordinary pow
ers- from using or abusing both his own abilities and those inherent in the Suit.

  Trinity was many things, but foolish didn’t show up on that list. It knew Griffin Jones regretted accepting It’s offer, loathed being a lackey to an ancient Artificial Intelligence and sincerely wished to be free as Lisa Laughlin and Garth N’Chalez.

  Unfortunately for poor Griffin Jones, some things were never meant to be. Griffin Jones was precisely where he needed to be and would remain there until the final pieces slid into place. It had worked as tirelessly as only an artificial intelligence was capable of to get to this point and It wasn’t going to let the puny organic concerns prevent the culmination of thirty thousand years of steadfast planning go to waste.

  “Prevent Chadsik al-Taryin from being killed or seriously wounded.”

  Griffin the Enforcer froze. He blinked, slowly, certain his brain had finally been punctured by one of the trillion or so fibers piercing the skull. “The fuck?”

  “The assassin is cybernetically linked with the Hungryfish. Several Glory missiles are aboard, missiles programmed to launch if he enters a critical state. They will consume Hospitalis, and I doubt the mythical properties of a Kin’kithal will save Garth from that apocalypse. Between God soldiers, terrorists and ‘nutfucks’, Chadsik is –as is Garth N’Chalez- almost certainly doomed.”

  “Whah don’t Ah jus’ get rid o’ the ship?” Griffin demanded, slamming his fist through a wall. “Fuck me, ain’t that a great fuckin’ ahdea?”

  “Do as I command, Griffin Jones. Or you can go back in the box.”

  Griffin froze. If he wasn’t wearing armor, he knew his skin would be cold and clammy to the touch. In all his ‘loyal’ years of service to the AI, Trinity had never once used re-suspension as a threat. He wouldn’t go back under. Not ever.