The Brotherhood #22

By Mark W. Meier

Part 22

Act III

The First Horseman

A month later I urged caution. The city’s parks department wanted to rename an area for a popular former mayor who’d abused his wife. Most on the council knew of the abuse, but nobody would object because he contributed to their campaigns.

You came to my office – which held better furniture than yours. My custom bubinga wood desk alone cost more than all your desks, bookshelves, and credenzas combined. “We can’t name that park after a misogynist, even if he used to be mayor. The only reason it’s even proposed is because his family is rich.”

“True, but that’s the reason we can’t fight it.” I turned a computer monitor to face toward where you paced. “A poll shows residents admire the man by a margin of eighteen points. The park board favors the change seven to one. You’re the only one who’d vote against it.”

“If we don’t stand up on this, when will we fight back?” You dropped into a handmade chair.

A message flashed on my screen. You saw your name and the House Minority Leader’s name before I swung it back around. That was enough to whet your appetite for more.

“If you stand up on this you’ll be a single-term councilman. You’ll never fight for anything else. Evil didn’t take root overnight, and you can’t fight it without incremental progress, Bob.”

The wisdom of my argument – and the names you saw – swayed you.

Over the next year I kept your attention focused on reelection. You promised constituents everything you could. My Brothers and I kept the streets in front of the city’s wealthy residents cleared of snow, repaved, and lighting updated. Crews managed such miracles without inconveniencing residents. Contributions flowed.

Roads through the area were widened without objection from neighborhood groups. A write-in campaign put you on the ballot for the county board, even though you were serving on the council. You won both those seats in landslide victories. Unfortunately, the statutes forbade you from serving on both political bodies. You had to choose.

“I think I should keep the council chairmanship.” Reclining in your new leather chair you withstood the urge to put your new wingtips on your polished mahogany desk. The aroma of fresh leather and lemon-scented furniture polish vied for supremacy in your office.

So did we.

“Why would you do that?” I drew out a thin manila folder.

“It keeps me more connected with the common voter.” You crossed to a mini fridge and selected a diet cola and offered me one.

I shook my head and handed you the paper from my folder. “Do you think being chair of the county board would prevent that? A national study shows county board chairmen are no less connected than council chairmen.”

It was a lie, but I didn’t want facts getting in your way.

You sipped the cola and pondered the data. “I see. Perhaps you’re right. I’ll take the county board.”

“It does hold more possibility. Who do you think will head the city council?” As if I didn’t know. My Brothers and I controlled enough of the council to elect anyone we wanted. The support flowing from the Brotherhood gave me enough power to do all of that – and more.

“Phoebe Carson.”

She was a client of someone who owed me many favors. I could sway my Brother into having her support in my current project.

“You should get married,” I said. When your jaw dropped I laughed. “Not to Phoebe. Andrea. You’ve been with her for three years, and a run for state senate is much easier if you’re married.”

Four months later Andrea became your wife. You told her about what you’d seen in my folder, and her excitement was contagious. You weren’t churchgoers and didn’t believe the Bible, but chose to accept my skewed story of the first horseman. How humans could hold two conflicting views bewildered me.

Your only reluctance came from paying me, now that your grace period had ended.

“Twenty percent of my salary? Unacceptable.”

Yet you’d come to my office for the conversation – a concession to my dominance. My selection of soft drinks was better, too. Even though it was loaded with sugar, you took the Stewart’s Key Lime.

You sipped, and a blissful smile erupted. “Heavenly.”

I ignored the insult and steepled my fingers, leaning back in my Wellington’s Heirloom custom leather chair. “That’s my rate, Bob. If you’d rather not pay, I’ll find another who will. You need me more than I need you.”

You frowned, placing the cold bottle of soda on a coaster. “Leo, I have ambitions that will lead to a massive income for your partnership. If you insist on twenty percent, I’ll find another firm and you’ll never be more than a small-time consulting business.”

“You’ve done some research,” I said, though I knew you were being foolish. Leaning forward I stared into your eyes. “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you’ve found everything.”

An expression of doubt flashed. “Is your fee negotiable?” Your hand wavered as you picked up your soda.

You intimidated, I threatened, we both postured. You didn’t want to give up such a large percentage to what looked on paper to be a mid-size consulting firm with only regional clout. I understood that, but couldn’t put up with it. My firm had tentacles reaching into far more pockets than those in your wardrobe. Eventually we settled on fifteen percent.

You won reelection. Next on our schedule was a run for the state senate, and you were more than eager. Companies and individuals who bankrolled that campaign also sabotaged those working against you. Eventually I had the imps supporting my efforts back off to keep your win from becoming an unbelievable landslide. Subtlety keeps the Brotherhood effective.

“A ten-point victory!” Your acceptance speech thundered from the massive speakers in the packed arena. “We’re on our way to bringing justice back into politics, here in the state, and eventually the nation.”

Supporters cheered the tacit admission you sought higher office. A steady stream of donations came from across the state, throughout the region, and from foreign sources laundered through multinational corporations. All of it was orchestrated with the help of the army of imps in the Brotherhood. I even had access to a few full Brothers for assistance.

Unlike posers who did nothing but collect a paycheck and show up for votes, you regularly proposed legislation to fix more roads, put more police on the street, and cut bloated budgets. Not everything passed, but the failures were used to hammer your opponents. Last-minute add-ons to fund popular causes helped you accuse others of not caring about feral cats killing songbirds.

Through it all, people passed money to you during handshakes. Blank envelopes full of cash from anonymous sources were delivered by messengers. Checks for speeches and appearances poured in. If anyone looked they’d find rampant impropriety. I kept watchdogs from looking by the judicious use of innuendo, suggesting I had documentation of their own dishonesty. Which I did.

Before your reelection campaign started you publicly announced a run for a soon to be vacant congressional seat. Six members of the media covered your speech in the nearly empty reception hall.

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.

The Brotherhood #21

By Mark W. Meier

Part 21

Act III

The First Horseman

“Hatred is beautiful.”

-Bathin

Manipulating humans was easy after thousands of years of practice. You were no different.

Alderman to ten thousand residents in the north central United States, you knew your idealism would never be realized unless you held higher office. Still in your first term you already wanted more influence to accomplish your goals. I could give you everything you thought you wanted.

At the council president’s retirement party some drudge brought out a cake. I handed you a business card and had to yell to be heard above the thirty-year-old music blaring in the horrid acoustics of the reception hall. “Alderman Wilson, I’m Leo Jeffrey.”

You jerked to awareness and read the card without taking it. “Political Advisers, LLC. You think I need a political adviser? I won this seat by thirty points.”

Politics was my specialty, and I knew you hadn’t learned the most basic of lessons – this is a long game. “You could have won by more. Or lost if I’d helped your opponent.”

You ignored the card and looked to see if anyone important was around. “I can’t afford an adviser.” Instead of a reporter you found a secretary holding out a small plate with a neat cube of frosted white cake – which you took with a reasonable approximation of a genuine smile.

“Can’t afford not to, Bob. We work free for a client’s first term. If dissatisfied, you can fire me any time.”

As a freshman alderman you had no seniority and less power. My card offered you influence. The backing of thousands within the Brotherhood was something you’d never comprehend, and was beyond imagination.

You set the cake aside without eating. “Come to my office tomorrow. Nine o’clock.” You took the card and put it in your breast pocket – over your heart.

The next day, fifty-six minutes after office hours began, you meandered in and swore to yourself for forgetting our appointment.

Leaning closer to the receptionist you murmured, “Tell the Foschard people I’ll be with them in a few minutes.”

You escorted me into your office, closed the laminate door, and perched yourself behind the faux wood desk. “What can you do for me, Mr. Jeffrey?”

Ignoring the shelves of books with titles designed to impress visitors, I sat and opened my briefcase. You busied yourself responding to social media posts as I drew out a folder bearing a single page.

“First off, you should distance yourself from Foschard.” Foschard Partners, Inc. was the construction company preferred by the city, even if other bids were periodically accepted, just to keep up the façade of impartiality and preclude accusations of graft. That was my first order of business, and the real lure for our relationship.

“They’re my biggest donor.”

“You should disavow them today. Tomorrow the Tribune will publish a piece about the aldermen they’ve bought. Your name is listed.” I tapped the folder’s contents to draw your attention.

Tomorrow’s headline, “Bought and Paid,” screamed at the top of the page. You blanched. Sweat beaded on your forehead. “Where did you get this? It’s obviously wrong. This is what I said I’d fight against.”

I’d had your name added. The others named in the story were guilty.

“I have contacts at the Trib. They’ve been working on that story for months, and there’s evidence Foschard has been bribing aldermen. You’re a freshman member of the council. It’s possible the scandal will bypass you – if I have my contact alter documents.”

You gaped. “Won’t your contact be implicated if he changes things?”

“That’s our concern, not yours.” I plucked the paper from your fingers, placed it back in my briefcase and snapped it shut.

“What should I do?” You looked shaken. The long path of your political future might be detoured– or ended.

“Hold a press conference.” I stood and opened your door. “Television, radio, newspaper. Tell them you’ve discovered members of your council have been bribed to procure contracts. They’ll eat it up. Then do what comes naturally.”

I walked past the receptionist as you yelled, “Becky! I need you!”

The news conference went well. The few media who came were provided with documentation, provided by my firm, of high level corruption. The obvious conclusion was that after only months in office you’d uncovered the graft and bribery you’d mentioned in campaign ads.

Over a three-month period the scandal cost half the aldermen their positions. Coverage catapulted you into the council leadership. Despite your first-term status people rallied around you. And jealousy raged. The Brotherhood could use that.

One day in your office, while discussing a councilman’s illegal use of city funding to promote a political group, my cell phone rang – right on cue. I checked the caller ID. “Sally Shoen – my partner.”

“You need privacy for that?” You pointed to another door leading from your office. “That’s a room you can use.”

“One moment, Sally.” I made my way past a stack of boxes ready to move to your new office. When the door to the small conference room closed behind me, voice activated microphones, planted the previous day, came alive. “I’m alone now, Sally. What’s happening?” My voice was piped into your office.

Your jaw dropped as you heard my one-sided conversation. You found one miniature speaker hidden in a tape dispenser, another beneath your desk.

“He could become the first horseman of the apocalypse, just like in the Book of Revelation.” I paused to let the imaginary Sally speak. “I’m sure he’ll need a lot of grooming, but it could happen.”

Still listening, you peeked into my briefcase. Inside was a folder with your name containing a twenty-year schedule of your future political career.

“That’s right, Sally. We’ll start him out slow so he can learn the ropes. State Senate, Congress, the governor’s mansion, and eventually the White House where the world will unite around him.”

A note at the end of the file you read mentioned Secretary General of the United Nations followed by a question mark. Any young idealist would want everything on that list. For a while you couldn’t decide if I should be institutionalized or believed. You settled on believed. Just like Chamos had suggested.

“He’s young and inexperienced, but he’ll be a great candidate.” I sat in a chair at a small conference table. “Certainly better than the previous chairman.” I pretended to listen. “I’m not sure why so many candidates come from here, but flyover country is the best. I’ll let you know.”

After faking the obligatory “thanks-see-ya-later-bye,” I looked through the wall to watch you put the folder back in order. I timed my return to coincide with you sitting again.

“Something’s come up, Bob. I have to return to my office.”

You stood. “Well, so far your firm has done wonderful things. I look forward to putting an end to the rot in our system.”

I pointed to the boxes of paraphernalia littering your open space. “When will you move into the chairman’s office?”

“Next week. I’m having the carpeting replaced.”

“You deserve nice things.” No doubt someone would suggest new paneling and better equipment. Foschard had those contracts. And the Brotherhood had Foschard.

I passed your new secretary on my way out, and when nobody looked I turned invisible and intangible to reenter your office.

You’d called your girlfriend. “Andrea, let’s celebrate. I have good news. Dinner at Forozeo’s?”

I heard her excited reply. She was probably expecting a diamond ring or the key to your home.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You hung up and rubbed your hands together. “First horseman sounds good.”

It would take work on your part. And patience.

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.

The Pirates 4

Lannetay nodded for Bill to comply. Both hatches opened and four people strode in, hand weapons drawn.

The four were a study in opposites, if one could even have four opposites.

A flamboyant woman in a startling orange/black patterned blouse and tan pantaloons stood out the most. She also wore a patch over her right eye. As she crossed into the William Placard she glanced at Lannetay’s outfit and smiled. The distraction didn’t last long. She held a small Hummingbird 92 disrupter pistol. Not a powerful weapon, but it could tear a person in half when set on full power and steady stream. That would exhaust the power supply in two seconds, though.

Only slightly less splashy, the haughty leader’s outfit was inspired by a blue sky on Earth. Patches of cirrus clouds interrupted the cerulean button-down shirt, with the azure pants fading toward gray just above obsidian calf-length boots. A Grackle 7 blaster of Wanti manufacture waved from side to side, covering one corner of the room after another. The weapon’s emitter would burn out after a dozen shots, but each bolt could kill a man – two if they stood one behind the other.

Another man with shifty eyes wore denim pants and a retro t-shirt from another era. Some unreadable beverage logo covered the front of the torn shirt. He carried a projectile pistol with a rather impressive bore.

The last man looked dressed for dinner at a vice minister’s estate. The muted colors he wore blended together in an unoffensive style popular on busy colony planets. This man could wander the streets of Inglep and be noticed as someone important. He held a mid-sized Pony J-12 sonic stunner in an easy grip.

The leader glanced around the common room. “Sensors initially said there were six of you. I see five.”

Lannetay shrugged, trying to keep her eyes on the pirate captain. The orange and black shirt kept pulling her gaze to the side. “Only five aboard, so I can’t tell you about a sixth. You only mentioned scanning five before you boarded.”

The lead pirate glanced at the woman, who merely looked back at him. “Well?” he demanded

“Well, what?” Her attitude led Lannetay to wonder who was actually the leader.

The cloud-dressed man scowled, and pointed his Grackle at Lannetay. “Is she lying?”

The pirate woman smirked, but answered. “She’s telling the truth.”

Bill sent to Lannetay, That eye patch is a sophisticated sensor. Best be careful what you say.

Always, Lannetay replied. She prayed for wisdom in dealing with these pirates.

The leader spoke up again. “Cabon, keep your eyes open. If someone magically appears, shoot him.”

The man in denim gave a nasty smile and pointed his weapon at Marc’s head. He mouthed “bang” and laughed when Marc’s eyes widened.

L-T took one step forward, but Cabon turned his pistol toward the lieutenant.

The t-shirt man nodded and gave an accented, “Aye, boss.”

The pirate leader’s ice-blue eyes speared Lannetay. “I’m Penn, captain of the Olinerie. You are?”

“Captain Lanny Tae, of the William Placard. I own this ship.”

Penn smirked. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Rantaal, check out the hold. Captain, if you’d instruct your ship’s Core to give us access, we won’t have to damage the ship just to look.”

Lannetay nodded. Bill, give them access to the hold.

The man in formal wear headed aft toward the crew quarters. That hatch opened as he approached.

Penn scowled and waved his Grackle. “If there’s any resistance, we’ll end someone’s life. Don’t doubt me.”

“We won’t resist.” Lannetay ordered chairs for her crew. Everyone but Carnifor sat.

Carnifor looked ready to defy in full, but Cabon’s firearm shifted to provide sufficient deterrent. He glanced at Lannetay, who refused to meet his gaze. He sat, then leaned back and crossed his legs.

Just sit tight, Carnifor, Lannetay sent. I have this under control.

Carnifor’s scowl deepened, but he remained seated.

“I’m curious,” Penn said. “You bring a boy along? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

Lannetay glanced at Marc, who was too stunned to react. Cabon’s aim covered one person after another, and Lannetay had no doubt he’d kill anyone he wanted – even a nine-year-old boy. When Lannetay finally spoke, her ironic smile only added to her words. “Apparently it is, at least today. Usually it’s more dangerous leaving him behind. My nanny quit just before we left.”

Penn looked at the woman in orange who shook her head. “Don’t lie to me, Captain. Sieznull will know, and it won’t go well for you.”

“Not trying to delude you. As you already know, crew on a trading ship cannot afford to hire people to look after their children.”

Penn raised an agreeing eyebrow as he nodded.

The aft hatch admitted Rantaal. “There’s nothing but seeds and farm equipment, Captain Penn.”

Penn spun toward Lannetay, his expression a mixture of disbelief and humor. “That’s what you’re carrying? You’re heading from Inglep to Rubineker and hauling tractors?”

“Uh, yes.” Lannetay’s response sounded more like a question than a statement.

***

Goofball soared. He could reach out and touch the stars, gather them in, and keep them safe. Their faint illumination caressed his metallic skin, almost like a tickle. He wanted to protect them from the evildoers moving between the stars. First, though, he had crew members to defend. Then he could see about the larger cosmos.

For months, since he’d been informed about the secret Tromant fighter, he’d flown simulations. Nobody aboard the William Placard had ever seen a Tromant, so he could fly the simulation with others watching.

Some nights he’d descend through the hatch in his quarters to the fighter. He’d sit in his new toy, pulse pounding with excitement, and he’d lose track of time. Half of his nights were spent sleeping – dreaming – in the fighter he’d dubbed Tabitha.

Then the pirates attacked.

The Tromant’s computer system wasn’t sophisticated enough to be termed a Core, but Tabitha certainly qualified as a Node. Goofball swung the fighter around the curve of the William Placard. Tabby, scan the pirate vessel.

A representation of the enemy ship built in his awareness. Power distribution, life support, engine status, weapons, layout, life signs. The only sign of life was aboard the William Placard.

Stupid of them. Goofball smiled. Time to go to work.

The Tromant had six independently targetable high-powered disrupters. Variable power, though, made each capable of precision strikes or hard-hitting penetration. Goofball had Tabitha dial them all back to minimum power.

Edging the fighter into position took some skill. The lack of precision flying might be considered a design flaw, but Tabitha was configured to spend her time at nearly six hundred times the speed of light. Maneuvering at sublight and closing in on a motionless target complicated normal flight characteristics.

Goofball mentally drew dots on where to strike. The low power attacks should inflict just the right amount of damage.

Tabitha, fire.

The six disrupters each fired twice in the space of a quarter-second. Four attacks disabled the redundant Core connections with Olinerie’s crew. The other eight bursts shredded the power supplies sending energy from micro generators to individual weapons.

Goofball laughed aloud. He could break into the ship and infiltrate its Core without worry.

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.