The Brotherhood #11

By Mark W. Meier

Part 11

Act II

Prophet of Death

Woods scowled at you. “Do you drive Uber, Mr. Reymond?”

“You’ve seen my car.”

“The thing is,” Woods continued, “there’s been a spate of odd deaths that seem connected to you. They happen all over the country, and all within a few days of you posting advice for the victim. That’s why it’s my case and not the local PD’s.”

You sat staring at Woods, eyes wide. If you were horrified before, you were frightened now. “Someone’s . . . I mean . . . how . . . .” You cleared your throat. “These deaths, I couldn’t have anything to do with them. I haven’t left Waterloo in a couple of years.”

Woods took out his cell phone and tapped a few times. “We have a statement by someone who witnessed you visiting the man you warned to stay out of his upstairs bathroom.”

“What?” It didn’t take a Brother to know you were befuddled.

“They say you stopped in while the man’s son was practicing bicycle tricks in his front yard.” Woods consulted his notebook. “You confirmed the address, then rang the doorbell. That two-story house is at the base of a bluff.” He looked up at you, gauging your reaction.

Of course it wasn’t you. I went there, in your form, to get someone to claim you’d been there. We used that ability sparingly to preserve it’s power. If Brothers did it too often everyone would be forever suspicious and never let down their guard.

“Where did this happen?”

“Vernon County in Wisconsin.” Woods glanced back to his notebook. “An hour later a cow fell from the cliff and smashed him to death in his upstairs bathroom.”

You laughed. “A cow fell on him and you suspect me?”

“There’s another witness that puts you at a home in New York State where a riding lawn mower rolled over, trapping a man beneath it. A jaywalker caused a driver to swerve and slam into a utility pole in Colorado. The passenger picked you out of a photo lineup.”

“What did the driver say?”

Woods glared daggers at you. “The driver died. So did a water park employee who had a water cannon explode a half-hour after you leaned up against it to catch your balance in Georgia. A baker in New Mexico was poisoned by licking frosting delivered by you. In Nebraska, a tornado siren malfunctioned after a sky blue Pacer with your license plates drove by. The next day a repairman fell onto a re-rod sticking up out of wet concrete. More than thirty deaths like this have happened since your Fired in Fairmont column – all within a day or two of getting advice from you.”

Flabbergasted, you sputtered wordless denials.

“Perhaps you’re doing it to gain credibility.” Woods heaved a breath and let it out slowly. “People are paying attention to your advice now. Your predictions are being read by tens of thousands, and in case you missed it, they’re from all over the country. Did you notice you’re being called ‘The Profit of Death’? Because you’re profiting from people dying.”

Your blood pressure spiked and your fists clenched. “It couldn’t be me! There’s no way I could even afford to drive around the country, much less pay for airfare. Someone’s framing me!”

“Calm down, Mr. Reymond.” Woods took out his note pad and pen. “How do you manage to pay for things? Did you inherit money from someone?”

“I don’t have money!”

“Have you been doing horoscopes for cash to pay for airline tickets? We have witnesses who say they saw you getting on and off planes here in Waterloo.”

“Get out of my life!” you shrieked. “I’m not doing any of this!”

Woods got to his feet. “You’re distressed now. I’ll be back when we know more.”

With that the marshal exited, while you declaimed your innocence. Calming enough to get back to work took hours, and an entire pot of caffeine-free tea.

Finally you retrieved a question that struck a nerve.

Dear Prophet:

I got a friend who plays games all day and wants me to play too. Mom says it’s not good to play so much. But she’s gonna be out of town all weekend and won’t know.

Should I play with my friend?

Gaming in Greensboro.

You rolled your eyes because you still weren’t used to being called a “prophet.” If you knew the truth you’d be more upset than ever.

Since the thought of pestering you occurred . . . .

POP!

The tatters of your sanity snapped. You took a cinder block used to anchor your wobbly table and smashed it through your television. Then you threw open your only window and tossed the noisome appliance into the light snow, where it smashed through the windshield of a neighbor’s tiny discount car. Then it popped again.

You slammed your window closed and pounded out a reply.

Dear Gaming:

The information you filled out indicates you are not yet even a teenager. You are a bit of a rebel, but there’s no reason you cannot play games with your friend. And what your mother never finds out won’t hurt you.

Just remember to eat and drink. Long gaming sessions can leave you hungry and thirsty. Remember to clean up any messes you make before your mother returns.

The Prophet.

POP!

Your toaster.

You closed your eyes and sobbed.

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Of Nanites and Spies 1

The William Placard hummed along at a hundred-twenty times the speed of light. Lannetay and Carnifor sat in stony silence in the control room. Lannetay wondered who would win the war of silence. A holo of the ship’s cargo bay showed the relatively small volume of space used to hold the Herlorwian wood products they’d acquired. Borenic had lied when he said he’d fill the hold, and the minutia of the contract they’d signed had fooled even Bill.

Borenic had lied to Lannetay on more than one occasion, and she was ashamed at not catching this one.

“You said I got to pick the destination.” Carnifor snapped, not for the first time. “Quit grousing about it.”

Lannetay’s crossed arms spoke volumes. She added verbally, “Inglep is a stupid destination.” But giving him permission to pick implied he didn’t have the authority already. Next time he’d defer to her instead of ordering her.

“You should have overridden my choice fifteen days ago if you felt that strongly. Instead you complain every light year, sometimes more.” Carnifor slashed a hand through the holo to cancel the display, leaving the control panel bare. “Besides, it’s the most advanced colony anywhere outside of Sol System itself.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Lannetay, they have three Twenty-K rings, fifteen more Ten-K, and more domes than anyone could count. It’s civilization!”

Lannetay glared through the forward view, secretly pleased at her strategy. Tactically it had been foolish to go with his choice, but the overall benefits outweighed the seeming setback. “We can’t sell this wood for enough to make the trip worth it. Even if we went straight through the Wanti Confederation the trip would take thirty days.”

Carnifor’s response was an attempt at placation, but came out tight anyway. “Look, the people on Inglep are surrounded by industrialized goods day in and day out. They’ll pay a premium for real wood products, and Herlorwian material is a step or two above anything else. It’s a great idea.”

Lannetay rotated her chair to face Carnifor and wagged a finger at him. “There are probably a lot of colonies closer than Inglep who would want this kind of cargo. Want me to get a list?” She could have Bill produce that list in less time than it took to ask for it.

“No. You’re thinking like a trader.” Carnifor refused to meet her sour gaze. “We’re covert operatives acting like traders.”

“No sane trader would make a run nearly all the way across the Wanti Confederation with so little in their cargo bay.” Lannetay leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms again. She glared at Carnifor, shooting him with blaster bolts from her eyes.

Carnifor sighed. “We don’t have to tell anyone.”

Exasperated, Lannetay had to point out the obvious. “And if we get stopped by some Wanti patrol? What do we tell them when they ask that question?”

“That’s not going to happen.” Carnifor’s voice tightened even more. “What are the chances?”

Bill activated his sound inducers. “Normally only about one in ten, but there’s a Wanti cutter matching course and speed. They’re ordering us slow to STL.”

Carnifor looked aghast. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier, you ignorant hunk of junk?”

“You were talking, you worthless meat bag. I don’t like to interrupt.” Bill’s voice turned smug. “Unlike some humans I could mention.

Lannetay gave a brief laugh, then tried to cover it with a cough.

Carnifor growled. “You interrupt all the time.”

Lannetay shot Carnifor another acid look. “Come to a stop, Bill, and let them dock.”

“Not much else we can do at this point.” Carnifor still seemed nettled. “We have to discuss what to do next time we get stopped.”

Lannetay’s scowl never wavered. “We’re unarmed and slow. Next time we’ll do the same exact thing as this time.”

“They’re coming up on our starboard airlock.” Bill sent the sensor readings.

“Small ship,” observed Carnifor.

The cutter looked like a fly searching out a tasty morsel next to an inverted mixing bowl. Lannetay stood. “What did you expect? Compared to any cargo ship, a cutter would be small.”

“Their designation is WCS Jenbur Sho,” Bill told them. “They’ve locked on and are matching atmo.”

“We’d better go.” Lannetay shook off her faux ill mood. She didn’t like the lines it made in her face. Her mother had told her, “Frown too often and your face will stay that way.”

As they stood, Carnifor looked over Lannetay’s outfit of the day and smirked. “Still time to change clothes.”

“I’m comfortable in this.” Lannetay wondered if he’d tried for humor.

Carnifor affected a haughty demeanor. “That blue-red shirt makes you look ridiculous.”

“It’s called magenta, and it’s a blouse. Designed by Florine.” She sashayed through the open hatchway into the ship’s common room.

Lannetay knew Carnifor hated walking behind others, so she carefully kept herself a half-pace in front of him. That, more than anything, lifted her spirits.

Carnifor’s breathing was a little labored as they reached the airlock.“You usually wear dresses. What’s up with pants?”

Lannetay shook her head with smugness. “You wouldn’t understand.” The ebony slacks by Harmo had white flecks which dimmed and brightened to give the impression of twinkling stars.

Goofball, who rarely interacted with others in a serious way, looked up as Lannetay and Carnifor walked past. “I like the belt.” He sat in an overstuffed recliner with the holo of a technical article floating in front of him.

Olthan lifted weights nearby and glanced up. “Blue shoes?”

Over the months Lannetay had grown accustomed to being ribbed about her outfits. She wore them to be noticed. If nobody commented she’d as soon wear a gray jumpsuit.

Marc and L-T paused their entertainment program of Galactic Expansion. L-T gave her an appreciative nod with a slight smile.

“Who makes shoes like that?” Marc asked. The stopped holo showed a tentacled alien monster with sharp teeth suspended in the act of ripping a United Stars explorer in half.

“Crubinta.” Lannetay had snapped but followed that up with a wink to take the sting out of her response to Marc. Appearances had to be maintained, and getting “irked” at the questioning was a big part of her image. “Bill, how long before we can open up?”

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 #10

By Mark W. Meier

Part 10

Act II

Prophet of Death

Chapter Three

You’d accumulated enough of a following there was no need to blather. Subscriptions to your blog continued to climb, and advertising revenue followed suit.

The day after Marshal Woods accused you of murder, you fielded a question from a local starlet. She’d been singing at regional venues and asked if she should try to go national. She went by the stage name Bether to keep some anonymity in her personal life, and signed her email Crooning to the Country.

Dear Crooning:

You have a strong survival instinct, and can be painfully loyal to your inner circle. When you make the decision to “go nationwide,” you’ll do well if you keep in mind you don’t know everything. However, don’t let others dominate you, as you may be tempted to delegate far too many chores.

Your rebirth as a star will give you intense emotional satisfaction. Avoiding routine will help you skip meaningless romance. A wardrobe including an ascot or colorful scarf might also serve as a barrier against idle flirtation by strangers. Such affectations, however, should be used sparingly. They may prove risky in some circumstances.

Three days later Crooning left a gig at the Reverb Rock Garden in Waterloo. She took an Uber to visit a friend. After dropping the fare, the driver sped away from the intersection of Midway and Sunray, and didn’t notice the starlet’s scarf had caught in the door. The other end of the scarf remained around the singer’s neck. He pulled out on University Avenue before noticing the corpse he dragged. An autopsy showed Crooning’s neck had been broken.

Marshal Woods knocked on your door even before Crooning’s parents had been notified of the death.

By now you were used to such visits. You didn’t even look out the peephole before shouting, “Just come on in, Marshal.” To say you didn’t like him would have been an understatement, but at least someone visited.

Woods opened the door and walked in. “Mr. Reymond, imagine seeing you again.” He sat without invitation. “We have another victim. This time she was only a few miles away.”

You closed down your computer and stood. You crossed your arms and turned to face him without speaking a word.

“You have nothing to say?”

You scoffed. “You haven’t mentioned anything about this ‘victim,’ as you put it. I don’t know the name of your victim, much less what happened to her. How could I have anything to say?”

“Yet you know the victim is female.” Woods made a note. “Interesting.”

“You said ‘she’ was only a few miles away. That’s a detail a writer would catch.” You glared at the Marshal.

Woods returned your glare with his familiar sneer. “Since it happened in your hometown, I thought maybe you’d already heard something about it.”

“I don’t know what ‘it’ is. You’ve told me there’s a victim, but not anything about a crime for the victim to be involved in. Robbery? Assault? Fraud?”

“Try murder.”

“Murder? You still think I’ve killed someone?”

“I think you’ve killed a great many people, Mr. Reymond. I just can’t prove it yet.”

Your television popped.

“Why does it do that?” Woods barked. “That’s your third television, and every one of them has made that noise when I’m here.”

Because I knew it bothered you, as well as the marshal. I made the unit crack again, only louder. The angrier I could make Woods, the more likely he was to arrest you. Which might trigger what I planned for you.

“If I knew, I’d fix it.” You flicked a finger at the monitor. “I’ve even unplugged it. Still happens.”

“About this Ms. Mattis . . . .”

“Who?” You gave Woods an innocent smile, feigning ignorance.

The smile breaking across Woods’ face was genuine for the first time. “Oh, Mr. Reymond, you know who I’m talking about.”

“Your victim, right?”

Now the marshal was calculated in his response. “Your victim.”

“I don’t know anyone named Mattis, Marshal.”

POP.

Woods eyed your television. “She asked you for advice a few days ago.”

Finally you sat back down on your cheap chair. “Marshal, I get a lot of requests these days. I can’t be expected to remember each and every person who writes to me.”

“You answered her question. I’d think that would make her more memorable.”

You stared at the chartreuse wall across from you, trying to remember a Ms. Mattis.

“I can’t recall anyone with the name Mattis.”

Woods waved away a fruit fly hovering in front of him. “Does a singer named Bether bring her to mind?”

“Crooning to the Country! Right. I told her, in essence, that she’d do well singing on a national stage.”

“She caught a ride to a friend’s house. The scarf she’d bought, based on your recommendation, got caught in the car door. Broken neck when the car drove off.”

The look of horror on your face was priceless. That alone made all my efforts worthwhile. But I wasn’t done with you, nor was the United States Marshal.

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.