The Brotherhood #34

By Mark W. Meier

Part 34

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Seven

Loggerhead

An iron ball attached to a long handle, used for driving caulking into seams. Occasionally they’re used in fights.

Bob Schwartz quit on the spot and refused to talk to you, regardless of how you cajoled him with an increased salary. The police, of course, wanted to talk to both of you.

Riding to the precinct was awkward. Silence oozed from everyone in the car, and Schwartz, arms crossed, simply stared out the right side of the patrol car. All I had to do was ride along, enjoying the hostility filling the air around you.

As the cop pulled into the municipal lot, you took out your cell phone and dialed Howe. When he picked up you said, “Find a new chauffeur.” You hung up without waiting for a response. Schwartz didn’t react. I smiled.

Instead of an afternoon of boating you were subjected to interrogations by several people. You had no information to share, but they didn’t believe you. The simple fact was you were as mystified as they were.

Six hours later you were released, but stood in the lobby, aghast. “How am I supposed to get home? I have no car, no driver, and I don’t carry cab fare.”

An officer behind the desk pointed over your shoulder.

“I’m here, Mr. Grambic.” Victor Howe rose from the cheap plastic chair across the lobby. “I’ll take you home.”

You heaved a sigh of relief. Howe had been with you for the last ten years. He knew you in ways nobody else could, and asked for precious little in return. Money couldn’t buy that kind of loyalty, but could be used to reward it.

“Give yourself a ten percent raise, Victor.”

Howe nodded, but otherwise didn’t react beyond his acknowledgment. “As you wish, Mr. Grambic. Thank you.”

Separating Howe from your service would have made my assignment much easier, but there were only so many Brothers. Imps capable of supporting roles were too few to squander when I was perfectly able to complete my mission.

At home, you hoped for a quiet evening, but it wasn’t to be. Your butler never broke your concentration when he entered the study where you read an industry publication.

“Mr. Grambic, there’s a police detective here.”

“Thank you, Charles. I’ll meet him in the day room in a few minutes.”

The butler cleared his throat. “The detective is female, sir. She gave her name as Jessica James.”

Jessie James, the police detective. “Very good, Charles. I’ll be there shortly.”

You finished the article on a potential breakthrough on fabrication methods and momentarily pondered holding off on construction of your factory in Dannacona. Almost instantly you rejected the idea. The breakthrough might be years in the making, if ever, and you needed the facility operating sooner rather than later.

You stepped into your day room and offered the detective your hand. “Detective James. I’m Michael Grambic.” She looked more like Jessica Rabbit than the gunman of historical fame.

James shook your hand. “Thank you for taking time for me, Mr. Grambic.”

“My pleasure.”

She was unexpected, and I wondered how I could use her in my plan. She didn’t seem the type to interfere with my kind. That aura wasn’t there.

James had been studying an original Whitmarre painting at the far end of the room. Not one of his best pieces, but produced before fame had set in. Alcoholism quickly destroyed his talent, if not the artist himself. The last of his paintings had sold for only hundreds of dollars last year, as opposed to the hundreds of thousands only five years ago.

Another Brotherhood project.

James pointed over her shoulder. “Whitmarre?”

You nodded. “From fifteen years ago. ‘Cubicle on Ice.’ He said it represented the chilling effect of corporate America.” Ironic that you, an evil corporate bigwig, would own a painting decrying evil corporate bigwigs.

James turned back to the painting. “It’s interesting.” She pushed a few loose strands of red hair behind her ear. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

You motioned for her to sit near a small table holding a chess set. You’d never played, but couldn’t make yourself change the setup your father had arranged. Staff dusted it twice every week, so it didn’t look unused.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” You sat across from her.

“I have a few more questions about the explosion.”

Your cell phone vibrated. Only Howe sent texts to your phone – everyone else was blocked – so he could wait. “Like what? I told three different officers everything I know, and I did so repeatedly.”

“I’ve read the reports they filed.” She brought out her phone and a stylus and tapped a few times. Her tone of voice became official. “Could you tell me where you were going this morning before your trip was interrupted?”

You sighed in frustration at having to answer that question once again. “I’ve recently purchased a small sailing boat and wanted to check it out on Lake Marion. My driver was taking me to the yachting club to change into sailing gear. I don’t typically wear a suit when I’m on the lake.” James ignored your attempt at humor.

“Which yacht club?”

“Savannah Yacht Club. Is there any reason you’re asking these same questions?”

Even James’ smile was like Rabbit’s sultry expression. “Humor me. It seems odd you’d be on Oglethorpe. It’s not exactly the best route from work to the yacht club.” She tapped her phone a few times and looked back up.

“I don’t tell my people how to do their job.” You crossed your left leg over the right. “There’s no benefit for taking a longer or shorter path, so if Robert took Oglethorpe, he must have had a reason.”

“Did you know the governor was in town?” Again she tapped. When she looked up this time her eyes were calculating.

“How would I know that?” Why would she ask about the governor?

I wondered how you could even ask that question. You were among the wealthiest people in the state, so if you wanted to know where the governor was at any particular moment you had but to ask. But you were naive.

James crossed her legs to mirror yours – an obvious tactic to anyone who knew about body language. You, of course, failed to notice. Ephemerals are so clueless.

“Michael.” She shook her head. “May I call you Michael?”

Another strategy. It worked best on males when used by attractive females.

“Certainly. But let me clarify that my question had nothing to do with how I’d go about finding that out. Why would I care to even know?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” James tapped with her stylus again. “If you didn’t know he was in town, then the point becomes moot. However, there’s legislation he’ll be signing soon which could affect your business significantly. The lieutenant governor, however, has hinted at a distaste for increasing regulations on businesses. If the governor should die before the signing ceremony on Monday, the bill could be safely ignored during the transition period.”

“And maybe forgotten entirely.” You nodded. “I can see that.”

The bill, which would increase your taxes to the point you’d have to leave the state, was a Brotherhood project. That it would force you to relocate was of tangential import. The benefit to our other undertakings would be significant.

James looked up over the scarlet frames of her glasses. “I’ll repeat: did you know the governor was in town?”

Some might say that the way she looked at you was granny-ish. “No. And my lawyers are planning to file a suit the moment the governor signs. I’ve been told an injunction is likely, and the law will be struck down by the courts, so I have no reason to resort to killing him.”

The detective probed for another half-hour and found nothing new. Though you felt some chemistry with her, nothing beyond business happened.

Too bad. A romance would be reason enough to get her pulled from the case. The Brotherhood could use another detective to better effect.

Moot point, though, as Detective James had said. This project was up to me alone.

At least as far as I knew.

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Tractors for Sale 8

“Easy does it.” The Wanti raised her hands and intertwined fingers on top of her head. “No need for that.”

Bill interrupted. “Can we kind of focus on L-T right now? If you people start shooting in here, I’m not sure I can pick up the pieces.”

Lannetay waved Olthan down. “If she wanted to try taking us down, she’s had plenty of opportunity.”

Carnifor walked over to the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Corporal Iresha Donter. I could give you my serial number, but it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

“Relax, Corporal.” Lannetay’s gesture to Olthan was sharper than her words to Donter.“We’re not going to hurt you.”

Olthan looked askance.

“Of course not.” Iresha shook her head. “I surrendered. Why would you hurt me?” Then she smiled,lighting up the room.

Carnifor said, “Get rid of the rest of your space suit. Olthan, cover her.”

Lannetay turned back to where Bill worked on L-T. “How is he doing, Bill.”

“He’s lost blood, but that’s the worst of it.” A tube snaked out of the bulkhead and inserted itself in L-T’s right arm. “Fluids for a start. Calcium supplements for his medi-nano to rebuild bone. Growing replacements for bone and tissue will take quite a while.”

Iresha stood in tight-fitting blue shorts and t-shirt with space suit parts on the deck around her. Carnifor walked a circle around her, inspecting her with enhanced senses. “No sign of weapons. L-T why don’t you . . .” His voice trailed off. “Marc, pick up her suit and take it to engineering for study.”

Marc blinked in surprise. “Okay.”

The suit had broken down into about twenty pieces – gloves, boots, shins, thighs, torso, arms, and helmet. Putting it on must take a lot of practice. Marc would need at least three trips. Picking up the chest pieces made him blush, and Iresha flashed him a teasing smile. His already red face turned a brighter crimson.

Bill told Carnifor, “She’s safe enough, Commander. You can relax a bit now.”

Carnifor nodded absently, still keeping his eyes on Iresha. “Olthan, you can lock up your rifle. Make sure you take hers, too.” He pointed at the blaster still on the deck a few meters away.

Bill broke in again. “Commander, we have a hover car approaching.”

Carnifor finally turned away from the prisoner to see what Lannetay would do. After a moment of silence he prompted, “Lannetay?”

Lannetay looked up. “Find out who’s in the car. If they’re hostile, have Goofball blow them to pieces.” She had Bill grow a stool and she sat next to L-T to keep an eye on him.

I got this, Lannetay. Bill’s “voice” was uncharacteristically tender. Your crew needs you.

Let Carny take care of things for a while. He’s always wanted command.

“Whattawe do with her?” Olthan pointed at the girl.

Marc wandered in and scooped up more pieces of Iresha’s suit. “Use a grav cell.” He exited a moment later.

“What is a grav cell, Bill?” Carnifor had never heard of it before.

“Something kind of new. Surround the prisoner with high gravity and they can’t get away. In the middle is normal gravity, but it ramps up. Two gravities for a centimeter, then three, four, up to ten gravities.”

Iresha didn’t seem bothered by that. She only shrugged when Carnifor looked her way. “Okay. Bill, give her a couple of square meters, a chair, entertainment, anything she might need that won’t hurt you or the ship.”

“Consider it done,” Bill said.

Carnifor swapped out his support belt for a fully-charged unit. He and the armored Olthan hefted rifles and exited the ship.

***

I like the suit, Carnifor sent as they descended the ship’s ramp. I didn’t know we had that.

There’s three others. One of ‘em’d woulda let me hold off that whole platoon, but I couldn’t get to it soon enough.

The two men took positions covering where they expected the car to approach. As if choreographed, the car followed the expected course and stopped fifty meters from the ship. A lone figure emerged and walked toward the boarding ramp.

Goofball, look sharp, Carnifor sent. We might need you.

Roger that.

After a few seconds Bill told Carnifor, It’s Grenwel Pop. She’s asking to come aboard.

What does Lannetay say?

Bill sent back, She’s busy at the moment. By the way, Pop doesn’t appear armed.

Carnifor stood. Olthan, let’s go inside with her. Bill, set up a meeting room just inside the airlock. No sense in giving her more of a look at us than necessary.

Carnifor switched to a universal channel usable by most space suits. “Grenwel Pop, I’m coming up behind you with a shipmate. Don’t be alarmed.”

The spacesuited person jerked in momentary alarm, then turned. “That sounded like Carny. Apparently you found the right spot for our colony. Sorry about the soldiers, by the way.”

Carnifor waved toward the airlock. “Shall we step inside?”

Bill had partitions arranged to form a small conference room just inside the lock. Carnifor sent, Bill we need a table and three chairs. Could you have someone bring in refreshments? To Pop he asked, “Can we get you something to drink? Coffee, perhaps.”

“Coffee will be okay.” Pop removed her civilian-issue suit in two pieces and leaned it into a corner. When the table and chairs finished growing from the deck, she sat and crossed her legs.

Carnifor sat as well, but Olthan stayed standing just inside the airlock. The Marine removed his helmet and pointed his disrupter rifle to the deck.

Carnifor leaned forward. “You were saying something about the soldiers?”

“Yes. The Wantis had a series of small outposts constructed around our colonies here. One of them picked up your ship and reported it. Since the cutter was in the outer system, DoMinn ordered nearly every armed soldier to drive out here. They wanted to bring you in for arrest – or destruction, whichever was easier.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

A door formed in one of Bill’s walls. Iresha came in with a tray and Carnifor blanched. Nobody had told him the prisoner had been released. What’s going on, Bill?

Tell ya later, Carny.

Iresha, apparently, had been allowed to wear one of Lannetay’s outfits – a flowing, bright orange blouse with pinstriped black and white pantaloons. She placed the tray with a decanter and two mugs on the table.

Pop seemed oblivious to the situation. She filled one mug and took a sip. “Three men escaped a ghost fighter when it attacked. They report a single strafing pass devastated their numbers and they fled on foot back to Olmin.” Pop smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a ghost fighter, would you? It appeared out of nowhere, then vanished again.”

Iresha exited, and Carnifor couldn’t help scowling. He hated flamboyant clothing, and now the ship had two people wearing dangerously fluid outfits that could interfere during emergency situations.

Carnifor shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this does provide an opportunity for you. Have you thought about recapturing your colonies?”

Pop’s smile broadened. “We’ve already taken everything back but the main dome of Olmin. Rumor has it only a dozen Wantis remain. Thing is, they have all the weapons.” Pop raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have weapons hidden away on this massive ship.”

Carnifor pursed his lips before replying. “Nothing you could use to oust a dozen Wantis.”

Pop relaxed once more. “Just as well. Rumors say the cutter is coming back to evacuate the remaining soldiers. As soon as they’re gone you can plant our new colony. Nobody will notice.”

“And we’ll have a place to put all those tractors in our hold.” Carnifor rubbed his chin. “Then I’m wondering what we can buy here that someone else might need on another colony.”

Pop stood. “Swonorikus is looking for oxygen-making equipment. Chemyl colony here makes some of the best.”

“How much for a load of that?”

Pop paused, as if calculating in her head. “I understand you’ll have fifty thousand credits in cash.” She flashed him a glowing smile before taking another sip of coffee.

Carnifor groaned, but inwardly admired the leader of Rubineker’s farming colony. Savvy negotiating could be the difference in a colony’s survival. This one would thrive.

If you're wondering more about these characters, their origins are detailed in Ebony Sea: Origins. If you appreciate this story, please share on social media, and consider supporting the author's ability to continue writing by purchasing the Origins story and leaving a review at the link above.

Next week: Running Before the Storm, as Ebony Sea: 1 continues.

The Brotherhood #33

By Mark W. Meier

Part 33

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Six

In Irons

When a sailboat is pointed directly into the wind and unable to maneuver.

You were an hour late getting to work the next day. Though you knew your people had things in hand you spent the whole morning feeling like you were in irons. One of the hazards of having so many capable people is feeling superfluous.

You wanted to think about your sailing contest, but the situation in France kept you from concentrating on anything else. I was content to leave you stewing in your own juices. In fact, you used up the entire day and never accomplished anything of consequence.

I smiled to myself. When my clients do nothing I count that as a good day.

Your staff, however, managed to convince the Paris Police Prefecture to allow you to start the process of getting your property outside the city listed for sale. Lepine wasn’t happy, but Kristy Erickson assured him nothing would happen until the investigation was complete. Talvan’s International, the agency you’d be using, was fully aware of your needs as well as those of the police.

The following day gave you enough distance from the explosion that your mind could process other things. You were finally able to think effectively about the sailing race. Thursday afternoon your boat guy sent an email that indicated he’d have your new Neo at Polly’s Landing by Friday morning.

That brought you a thrill of anticipation. However, you couldn’t do anything more than go over the chart again.

As you perused the digital representation of your course, your desk phone rang.

It never rang.

Howe looked up in panic. “I’ll get it, Mr. Grambic.” He lifted his own handset and punched a series of buttons as the sound-dampening shield rose between the two of you.

Your phone rang a second time, and Howe stood. “I can’t pick it up, sir.” Only his head showed above the partition, and he looked wonderfully flustered.

You lifted the receiver in the middle of the third ring. “What?” Your phone shouldn’t be connected to the outside world. All calls were designed to go through the central switchboard and only be sent to your phone by Victor Howe. This call couldn’t be from anyone who deserved your respect.

“Mis-ter Gram-bic. Judge Boynton.”

Your jaw dropped. “What do you want, Boynton?”

The judge chuckled. “Not much, Grambic. I’ve heard of your setback in Paris and wondered if you were going to use it as an excuse to get out of sailing.”

Howe picked up his handset again to track down how a call could get past him.

“It’ll take far more than that.” You scowled. “I have people who will take care of everything.”

“Still planning on trying out your new boat? You call it Sell Short, don’t you?”

You couldn’t figure out how he’d known that. “Boynton, what do you really want?”

“To beat you.” He chuckled. “And to beat you badly. But I can wait until our official race.”

“Don’t sell me short, Judge.”

“Ha. You’re funny, Grambic.”

The line went dead.

“Victor.” You hung up the handset. “Get someone to find out how Boynton got through. If there’s someone at fault, have them fired.”

Howe stood, hand over his phone’s mouthpiece, to look over the noise shield. “Already on it, Mr. Grambic.”

“Is there anything else I need to deal with?”

“Nothing I can’t handle, sir.”

You glanced at the antique clock and guessed you could be at Polly’s Landing by two o’clock. “Call Isaiah. I want to check my boat this afternoon.”

“Very good, Mr. Grambic.”

“And buy yourself a pistol.” You stood and marched toward the elevator. “Take lessons on how to use it, then get a concealed carry permit.”

You didn’t even think of asking if Howe was interested. I knew you would fire him if he balked, and was pretty sure he knew it, too.

“Yes, sir.” There was no note of displeasure in his reply. “Mr. Schwartz will have your car at the elevator when you get to the basement.”

Ten minutes later you were safely ensconced in the back seat of your armored Audi, looking over a printed file your chauffeur handed you. The Paris Police Prefecture had relayed a few more details about the explosion. Apparently a terrorist group had taken exception to your company providing soundproofing for law enforcement interrogation rooms in France.

You scoffed and threw it aside, then began mentally planning your afternoon.

A ticking sound made its way into your consciousness. It had been there all along, but you hadn’t noticed.

You wondered if someone had set a bomb in your car. If an organization had obliterated your factory in Paris, why wouldn’t they plant explosives in the United States?

“Robert, pull over.” Your voice sounded an octave higher than usual. “Now!” The falsetto brought the chauffeur’s foot slamming onto the left pedal.

The massive SUV came to a halt on East Oglethorpe. You dove out the left door into the shrubbery between the eastbound and westbound lanes. Horns honked behind the Audi, but you ignored them.

Bob Schwartz stepped out and stared at you. “Are you okay, Mr. Grambic?”

“There’s a bomb in the car!”

A few passersby gawped at you and moved away from the area. Was it because you were acting insane, or because they heard the word “bomb?” You didn’t know, and I didn’t care. There was a surprise coming.

Traffic behind your vehicle detoured onto Habersham, and only minutes later a police cruiser pulled up behind your car, lights flashing. A police cadet’s jeep stopped at the intersection and the parking cop officially diverted traffic onto the cross street.

A police officer, eyes forever scanning the area, spoke briefly to Schwartz, then came to where you cowered behind a tree. “Mr. Grambic? Your chauffeur says you think there’s a bomb in your car?”

A second patrolman calmly ushered people away from the car and deployed yellow plastic ribbon to encircle the Audi.

“I heard ticking,” you insisted. By now, though, you suspected someone had played a trick on you.

The cop failed to hide a condescending expression. “You do know a digital timer doesn’t tick, right?”

When you realized what he was saying you could have kicked yourself. Nobody would use a clock that ticked as a timer for an explosive.

You headed back to your car, despite the anxiety. “Let me look.” The police didn’t try to stop you rummaging through your Audi’s interior. A small, fat, disc-shaped object, about the size of three stacked silver dollars, had been secured under the middle row of seats. It still ticked every second or so, but obviously didn’t pose any threat. You held it up for the officer to see.

He looked at the device and nodded. “Let’s pack it in. There’s nothing to worry about.”

The traffic cadet nodded and began pulling the caution ribbon from around your car.

You sighed as the last bits of terror faded. “I feel stupid.”

The officer nodded and put a consoling hand on your shoulder. “It happens, sir. Nothing to worry about.”

Though he seemed to understand, his tone was patronizing. You resisted the urge to punch him. Too bad. I could have used that, but my plan would accomplish what I needed.

“I guess I’m a little stressed.” Not to mention that another company’s CEO had been killed less than a year ago. You didn’t mention that, though, because it sounded like a lame excuse – even in your own mind.

“Would you come to my cruiser and answer a few questions, sir?”

You followed the police officer to his patrol car as the cadet finished cleaning up the area.

The cop motioned for your chauffeur to come, too.

Three.

The cadet reached to move the wooden sawhorse so traffic could flow again.

Two.

The officer reached into his car to retrieve a clipboard.

One.

He turned to ask you a question.

An incendiary charge immolated the interior of your car. Tongues of flame shot ten feet out the three open doors, scorching the greenery in the median.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more stories by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.