The Brotherhood #29

By Mark W. Meier

Part 29

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Two

Resonant Frequency

A frequency capable of exciting a resonance maximum in a given body or system.

I exited the elevator with you as Bob Schwartz opened the door on your late model Audi SUV. Anyone should be able to see the humor in having antique furnishings but only the newest model of automobile. For some reason humans found that to be a status symbol, and you were no exception.

“Thank you, Robert.”

He looked a lot like the actor who had played Robert Grantham on British television. You smiled at the thought of an earl holding a car door for you.

You climbed into the third row seat and settled in. Armored windows and door panels kept you safe from imagined enemies. Only a year earlier, however, an executive for your biggest competitor had been assassinated. You were actually innocent of that, despite theories to the contrary. Another of my Brothers had done the deed as a setup for this part of our project.

Earl Audi climbed into the driver’s seat and shifted into gear. “Where to, Mr. Grambic?”

“The Club, Robert.”

The Savannah Yacht Club on the Wilmington River is where you moored your 115’ yacht Resonant Frequency. You’d decided to stay the weekend offshore instead of at your Wilmington Island estate, despite the close proximity of six crew. You’d trained them to avoid you unless called for.

The drive to your club didn’t take long. In less than two hours you were passing Hilton Head on your way to an anchorage a mile offshore from Hunting Island State Park. The water would be calmer there than in the Savannah area.

I watched you and your crew through the night, all day Saturday, and until noon on Sunday. You spent all that time sipping expensive non-alcoholic beverages.

Mostly, though, you lounged on the upper deck, staring out from under the overhang of the sun deck. There you watched the waves in the Atlantic. Getting a “read” on you wasn’t easy, mostly because you did nothing and thought less.

Your well-trained crew knew you’d want to head back right after lunch. Two of them prepared your Sunday luncheon in the small galley, and they chattered aimlessly. Those nearer to you never spoke a word, focusing on their job of attending you and Resonant Frequency.

As one of your crew brought up your summer berry salad, fennel salmon, and a cucumber roll, the rest gathered in the galley for their own lunch of burgers and caviar. You couldn’t stand the salty treat most rich people favored and only kept it on hand in case a rare guest might want it. With your stay aboard coming to a close, someone had to eat it.

After almost an hour you finished eating and surveying the rolling ocean. You waved for a steward to take your plates away, which she did without a word. Her turn for lunch, and the pilot would get you underway in a few minutes.

As you passed Port Royal Sound another yacht moved out into the Atlantic. Yours moved along at a leisurely ten knots, and the other slowly gained on you. Ten minutes later you could make out the name Justice Given on its starboard side.

Justice was owned by one of the associate supreme court justices in Georgia. He’d been the only dissenting voice in a case you’d won the previous year. You didn’t recall many of the details. Only this: liability for an injury caused by a faulty ceiling tile falling on a child.

You climbed out of your deck chair and stretched, then meandered forward to the bridge.

“Adam.”

The pilot gave a startled look over his shoulder. You’d never spoken to Panicked Pilot, and the fact you knew his name doubled the shock. He didn’t know you associated his name with the asymmetrical Adam’s apple in his throat.

“Yes, sir?”

“I don’t think we should let Justice Given overtake us, do you?”

Hilton Head passed on your starboard, and Judge Boynton came up on your port beam.

“As you wish, Mr. Grambic.” Panicked Pilot edged the throttle ahead and Resonant Frequency moved up to fourteen knots. Justice fell sternward a few feet.

A minute later the engine noise from Justice increased and the yacht gained on you a fraction. Panicked Pilot looked to you for permission first, then pushed the throttle open a bit more. With Frequency going fifteen knots the shorter and wider Justice fell further behind. Boynton’s pilot edged back to their normal cruising speed.

You smiled. “Ease us back, Adam. No sense straining things if they’ve given up.” You ambled aft and stood at the rail to watch the slower yacht fall further back.

Instead of docking at the yacht club you decided to stop at your home on Wilmington Island. The crew could take Frequency back, and one of them would tell your chauffeur to bring the car. You were too pleased at winning your race with Boynton to deal with the delay of getting home through traffic.

That’s what gave me the idea.

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Tractors for Sale 3

Carnifor, barely a meter behind, couldn’t match Lannetay’s stealth, but kept pace until they rounded another building. The airlock stood only five meters ahead. Nearly there, Carnifor slowed.

Lannetay hissed as a pair of privates approached the airlock from one side. With their rifles strapped to their backs, the soldiers obviously didn’t expect resistance. Lannetay ran toward the two and drove a knee into the solar plexus of the nearest. The other staggered back in surprise, scrambling to bring his rifle to bear.

Lannetay spun, dress flying, and planted a kick into the Wanti’s face. He flew backward, blood from a broken nose spattering the ground.

Carnifor stopped next to the first fallen Wanti who gasped for breath on the sandy surface. “Will they be okay?”

“Yes, but they’ll be in pain and a whole lot of trouble.” Lannetay hoisted the first soldier into a sitting position, wrapped an arm around his neck, and grabbed her opposite bicep. Her other hand went behind the man’s head. He feebly fought back for a moment, then slipped into unconsciousness.

“Did you have to do that?” Carnifor stood, feet apart, fists on hips.

“Yes.” Lannetay stepped up to the airlock. When it opened, she stepped in and waited for Carnifor.

Carnifor scooped up a fallen blaster rifle and slid into the lock as the hatch swung closed. A shout sounded from the dome just before the opening sealed shut.

The two activated their support belts. She wondered how long it would take for the outside hatch to open. Blaster bolts hammered the inner hatch. If Wantis managed to blow a hole through that hatch, safeties would keep the outer closed.

Pressure in the lock slowly dropped, one agonizing second after another. When the outer hatch cracked open Lannetay squeezed through. Carnifor followed just as the inner hatch burst. The outer hatch fought to close against air pressure and Carnifor’s support belt force field. He managed to pull himself outside before the hatch slammed shut.

Bill, come get us. Now. Lannetay scanned the surrounding landscape. Nobody yet.

“Here they come.” Carnifor pointed to another dome two hundred meters away.

Soldiers in space armor poured out of a wide airlock. They formed into groups of five and spread out into an arc to surround Lannetay and Carnifor.

Carnifor brought his captured rifle up and snapped off three quick shots. Wantis scrambled for cover. “Run for the ship.”

Lannetay ran as a group of Wantis brought their rifles to bear. Dirt and rocks kicked up around her as blaster bolts hit the ground or flew past. Bill, we’re running. A glancing bolt spanged as it ricocheted off her support belt’s force field. A gout of air slipped out before the field could close up again – replenished by the compressed oxygen in the belt itself.

I’ll be there in a few seconds, Bill replied. Carnifor, you’d better pick up the pace. Lannetay’s getting too far ahead of you, and it won’t be long before they launch a cutter to tear us to pieces.

Carnifor backed away from the colony domes. He spread blaster bolts around to keep the Wantis from flanking him.

Carnifor, Bill yelled, Duck!

Carnifor threw himself flat as the massive shape of the William Placard shot by, barely a meter above the ground. Wantis scattered in disarray, some dropping their weapons in haste.

The ship settled to the ground between Carnifor and Lannetay, each sprinting for airlocks on opposite sides of the ship. Carnifor dove inside. I’m in.

A few seconds later Lannetay climbed in. Me, too.

The outer hatches sealed and pressure built. Lannetay’s support belt sputtered a moment, then switched itself off. “That’s going to need fixing, Bill. They almost got me.”

Marc was there, looking worried. Lannetay wanted to hug him, but in the last couple of weeks he’d stopped being a “hugging” person. Lannetay gave a brave smile instead.

“You okay, Mom?”

“I’m fine, hon. Bill, take us east for now. We’ll circle around when we’re out of range of the colony’s sensors.”

Carnifor tossed the Wanti blaster to Olthan. “Take care of this.”

Olthan glanced at the weapon and scoffed at the Hobart-90. “Ain’t givin’ out the good stuff no more, eh?”

“Maybe you can improve it.” Carnifor turned to Lannetay. “Now what?”

Lannetay paused to watch L-T and her son walk off, purposely waiting to answer Carnifor. He had a tendency to be overbearing, even more so when under pressure. “As I said, when we get out of range of the colony’s sensors we’ll circle back.”

“Why in the world would we go back?” Carnifor was aghast. “There’ll be at least one ship coming to kill us. Even if it’s only a cutter and barely a fraction of our size, it could carve us to pieces.”

Lannetay turned stony. “I know what a cutter is, how it’s likely armed, and how much faster they are. I’ve had some experience, after all.”

Carnifor gaped. “Then why?”

Lannetay gave a frustrated sigh and brushed past on her way to the control room. “A number of reasons. First, the Wantis will never expect it. Second, if we run for deep space, any ship will easily see us, catch up, and tear us apart. Third,” she stopped at the opening hatch and spun to face Carnifor, “it’s the right thing to do. We sold them tractors, and we have to deliver them.”

The two moved forward and sat as Bill said, “We’re out of range of any colonial scans.”

Lannetay nodded and brought up a holographic map of the area. “Turn south, and stay low, Bill.” She highlighted a flat area surrounded by high bluff land. “This is where Pop suggested we deploy the colony kit.”

“That’s only sixteen klicks south of their domes. She said twenty.” Carnifor indicated another place a few kilometers to the southwest. “This is probably the one they wanted.”

Lannetay shook her head. “These folks are groundlings. Sixteen kilometers straight-line is a lot closer to twenty by ground. That’s the place.” She speared the holo with a finger.

“If you say so.” Carnifor didn’t seem convinced. The place he’d pointed out was only twenty-one klicks from the farms of Pop Colony.

“Bill, program a pattern for planting the nanite canisters.” Lannetay leaned back. “Take the long way there. I’m taking a nap.” She knew sleep would elude her, but she needed time to think without Carnifor’s blustering.

“You’re going to sleep?” Carnifor stood, looming over her.

Bill, cancel all sound in the control room. Lannetay closed her eyes. Carnifor kicked off another rant, but the volume ramped down so all she heard was an indistinct rumbling.

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.

The Brotherhood #28

By Mark W. Meier

Part 28

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

“Human refuse, each and every one of them.”

-Ruax

Chapter One

Acoustical Tile

A ceiling or wall tile finishing material with an inherent property to absorb sound.

In the space between spaces a pair of beings met. They had no bodies, but material existence wasn’t possible in a place without matter.

The lesser of the two had been most recently known as Jeff Woods. The other hadn’t been called by name in hundreds of years. At that time he’d been known as Chamos.

Though sound didn’t exist, conversation – of sorts – could take place.

“That imbecile nearly ruined my plans.” Had Woods been corporeal, he’d have stomped in frustration. “He kept having that patsy’s equipment make noises.”

Chamos would have nodded, if he could manifest a body. “Nobody told Pop he was a part of a team. He was assigned merely to annoy your subject. ‘Never reveal to your underlings anything you don’t have to.’” The aphorism had been repeated so often it could be considered a rule.

Woods nearly ignited into flames. “Like telling me ahead of time an overgrown imp was supposedly helping me.”

A hint of humor came from Chamos. “Exactly. You had the authority to dismiss Pop at any moment. That you didn’t tells me what you’re capable of.”

“What did some poverty-stricken astrologer have to do with the overall plan?” Woods asked.

“‘Never reveal to your underlings anything you don’t have to.’”

***

Incrementalism is one of my favorite tools. I’ve used it for millennia, and it works nearly every time. You were a joy to use it on.

Most of my Brothers tried to be genteel, or at least fake it. You were a prime example of fakery, using your wealth and position as a bludgeon disguised as refined values.

The top floor of Grambic Tower held your office – and only your office. Ranked as the sixth tallest building in Savannah, Georgia, it actually should have been listed a bit lower. The construction only held twelve floors, but the spire reached to a little more than a hundred and fifty feet above ground level.

Can you say “compensating”? I knew you could.

Four blocks of tenement housing had been plowed under to make room for your Monument to Self. The city council overrode the planning department because of the tax base gained. That year benefited my Brothers in more ways than one.

You sat behind your massive polished snakewood desk and stared out your window. An expert at delegation, you had no duties other than to make sure others did their jobs. The inbox on your desk hadn’t seen a single page of paper in nearly a year, and your email inbox remained likewise empty – thanks to your very capable IT department filtering junk mail.

Across the thousand-square-foot room your executive assistant was nearly as idle. He’d been hired only to be the final gatekeeper. He controlled elevator access to your floor, read your correspondence, and screened your calls.

Day after day, week after week, your worldwide empire of acoustical tile manufacturing hummed along without need of your input. You didn’t draw a salary, but stock dividends alone pushed your income into eight figures. Owning nearly eighty percent of Grambic Tiles had its benefits.

And your life was empty.

You had no wife, no friends, and no willingness to socialize with the other members of your exclusive yachting club. Outside of household staff, the only people you saw on a daily basis were your assistant and your chauffeur. Both of them were so far beneath your economic stratum they didn’t even try to interact with you beyond the minimum for employment.

When Chamos assigned your fate to me I relished the challenge. You were so inaccessible to the outside world, your case wasn’t one for the lower levels of The Brotherhood. Certainly Pop wasn’t capable.

Nor, for that matter, was Woods.

The nineteenth century mahogany grandfather clock on the northwestern wall chimed 5:00, and you turned away from the floor-to-ceiling ballistic armored windows. “That finishes another Friday, Victor.”

Your assistant’s desk faced yours from the opposite corner of the room. He turned a control on his desk and the windows fogged. Another dial and half of the overhead LED lights switched off; the other half dimmed to one-third brightness. “Yes, Mr. Grambic.”

“Is my car ready?” Your Allen Edmonds clacked on the Katalox wood floor as you made your way around a small conference table in the middle of the room. Over the years the dark brown flooring had deepened to a near black.

“Schwartz is waiting in the garage, sir.”

Victor Howe had called the elevator five minutes earlier. The software in the controls defaulted to “express” when the destination or originating position was the top floor. You wouldn’t have to speak with anyone on your way to the basement parking area. Certainly Howe wouldn’t be sharing a ride with you.

I would be there, but I wouldn’t be speaking with you.

Not yet.

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.