Kingmaker, page 6
part #1 of The Gods That Gamble Series
After several seconds of silence, a voice responded. "Sorry, but it seems his tech is offline. Last location: Martian Genetic Exchange on Cloud Three."
Johnny stumbled, but caught his balance. "Play back his last few moments."
Francis' schematics disappeared and were replaced with a video. From Jack's POV, they watched a docking truck back into a loading port. After a few minutes of talking, his vision shook, then the glasses cut out.
Francis squinted. "That doesn't seem right. N'cole, can you show us the last few frames as images?"
A grid of eight pictures appeared. Francis selected the last frame.
The crimson figure towered in the projection before them.
Johnny blurted, "Well, what the hell is that?"
Francis shook his head. "I'll start pulling what I can. N'cole, figure out what this thing is."
Johnny's cup slid out of his hand. It toppled, spilling onto the cruiser's carpet. He slumped back on the sofa and fought heavy eyelids. "Last thing we need, Francis. Another fucking variable."
Johnny ground his teeth well into his sleep. Francis pressed on, furiously swiping the air in front of him.
Chapter 9
Nexus: Assignment
Mars, Kingmaker Tower
Director Nexus was in a dark room. White, glowing nodes freckled his body. He was boxing with a yellow hologram. He landed a punch—the hologram blinked and reset. The hologram started the next round with a high kick. It clipped Nexus in the neck. One of his nodes turned red and sparked. Nexus cursed as his neck and right shoulder convulsed. After a few seconds, he recovered.
Light poured into the room, and the hologram faded. Nexus turned around—a uniformed agent stood at his door. "Director, sir!" He stood at attention, a finger over his lips.
Nexus waved his hand. "At ease. What's up?"
The agent, and then reported, "Client Johnny King has been ringing you for some time. Can I port him to the dojo?"
Nexus swore, and yanked a node off of his neck, the rest of the nodes on his body coming off with it, in a web. He threw the chain to the floor and hopped to his desk. He dug through the drawers for an orange-and-teal padded jacket. He found it, and then pulled it over his torso. He reached up and twisted his long hair into a tight bun resting on the crown of his head. "Put him on." He was still in his yellow fitness shorts. "And raise the camera."
The soldier tapped on a screen for a few moments. On the back wall of the room, a projection appeared: a tall man with a narrow face and thick, black glasses sat, tapping his index finger against his cheekbone.
"Francis!" Nexus wiped his forehead. "I thought it'd be King."
"Consider it as urgent." Francis said. "And I'll tell him you picked up the first time."
Nexus apologized. Francis continued, "I have two assignments for you. The Martian Genetic Exchange on Cloud Three has been attacked. We can only confirm as of ten or twenty minutes ago. The fight could be over by now."
Nexus' eyes widened. "Vamps? Ghosts? Any visuals? Details?"
Francis shook his head. "They pulsed the place. No feeds, nothing."
"A pulse?" Nexus quirked his eyebrows. "Those are some big guns."
"Bigger than any we were expecting this time around."
Nexus said, "Any word on your guys?"
Francis shook his head. "That's your first assignment. Figure out if Jack and his Shadow made it. If not, recover any Kingmaker tech you can—glasses, watches, suits." He brought up his left arm and made a flicking motion toward the camera. The projection changed to an zoomed-in image of a crimson warrior standing tall on the back of a cargo truck.
Nexus squinted. "What the hell is that?"
Francis' voice came in over the projection. "Your second assignment."
Chapter 10
Kingsmen: Arena
GenEx Facility, Cloud Three
Jack and Ramir made it to the room with the fighting pit. As they rounded a bend, Ramir stopped Jack with a hand to the chest. "Jack!" he panted. "My watch is back on."
Jack exhaled sharp, terse breaths. "Let me..." he tapped his wrist. He breathed a long sigh, then gave a hard chuckle. "Dorsey! Get us—"
A sharp, thick buzz shook the building. The watch lights deactivated. Jack stamped his feet and shouted a series of curses.
Ramir's knees buckled. He leaned on the floor and rubbed his eyes. His face was soaked. Tears and sweat dripped from his face. He screamed in angush.
The building shook. It was coupled with a deafening crack. The stadium lurched. Jack and Ramir were heaved: they soared into the air and landed in the fighting pit.
Jack grabbed his lower back and yelled curses. Ramir, on his side, moved his left arm from underneath himself. When his elbow twitched, he screamed. He rocked himself, rolling to his right side. He lifted himself up onto his right elbow, and eventually stood up. Jack made it to his knees, and finally managed to stand up.
The two looked up at the ceiling. The high dome hosted a gaping crater. Half a dozen crimson-plated soldiers surrounded it, looking down at them. The warriors lifted into the air—blue flames jetting from their feet and lower backs—and dived toward them.
Jack reached into his jacket. He flung his bolter out, and clicked his thumb wildly against its trigger. He cried out, pairing an insult with each bolt.
Ramir drew his bolter and followed his mentor's lead.
The lead of the flock raised its rifle. Its hands went limp, and its blaster slid from its grasp. Its mask cracked — a short spark, then a flame erupted from its face. The jets carried its body straight for the ground—it landed, punching a dent into the arena floor. Its neck collapsed, rolling the soldier onto its back, lifeless.
Clink! Clink! Clink! The rest of the crimson swarm returned fire. Hot, searing gashes peppered the arena floor. Jack threw himself onto his back again and fired upward. Ramir ran from one edge of the pit to the other, zig-zagging, tossing bolts into the sky.
The figures swooped upward. The soldiers crossed between each other, flipped, then flew over the arena once more, discharging another volley of blasts.
Jack rolled across the hard floor. His bolter escaped from his grip. Ramir ran, ducking, rolling, sprinting, and firing when he could. He slowed for a moment, aimed his gun in the air, and clicked the trigger wildly. After two bolts, the bolter gushed hot air, and then ejected its cartridge onto the floor.
The swarm ascended again. They danced in the air, spun around, and then dived back toward the pit.
Clank! One of the soldiers broke formation, and shot toward the stadium at a sharp angle. He slammed into the raised floor surrounding the ring. The wall caved in, and the soldier collapsed into the pit, followed by rubble.
Clank! Clank! Two more soldiers took sharp dives, angled into opposite sides of the stadium. Black liquid sprinkled from their armor.
The two remaining warriors lifted their blasting rifles. One shot toward the ledge of the stadium behind Ramir. Clank! Clank! Clank! The warrior's rifle ceased, and the warrior plunged toward the pit. The remaining warrior soon followed, its hulking armor echoing as it crashed.
Ramir looked up at the ledge behind them. A single man stood—a dark, towering male, with broad shoulders and a bright, fiery goatee, painted like a target around his lips. Three NIS agents in orange-and-teal battle armor were perched behind him, bolter-rifles still scanning the sky.
"Grab him and let's move." The Communicator commanded.
Jack lay writhing, moaning. Ramir walked over to his boss and knelt beside him. Ramir placed a hand under his waist and wrapped Jack's left arm around his shoulders. He lifted.
Jack wailed, crying out in primal pain.
Ramir hoisted his boss up, easily positioning him over his shoulder.
Jack writhed, kicked at the air, and screamed.
Ramir looked down. On the ground was a twitching, writhing hand. His eyes followed its length—the elbow, the shoulder, then the ground.
Jack wailed and pounded a fist into Ramir's back.
Ramir closed his eyes, bent down, and picked up the severed limb.
The Communicator stared into the air.
From the breach in the roof, a small orange-and-teal cruiser entered the stadium. It drifted down toward the three agents, and slid open its doors invitingly.
Chapter 11
Senator: Catch-up at the Cafe
Cairo
There was a small café on the pedestrian bridge that crossed the Nile River. Thick, brown liquid pumped with chemicals filled tiny shot glasses on each of the tables. Patrons were mostly in suits or GAF uniforms. Server-droids—white, short, circular, wearing aprons and fluffy hats—rolled out orders made on the touchpads embedded in each table. Most of the patrons sported frumpy, defeated looks. A waft of smoke, like cinnamon and charcoal, lingered through the patio. The patrons smoking cigars, made from actual leaves, tied together the sophisticated atmosphere. Alabastra Paige-Zuckerberg sat at a two-top overlooking the bridge. In the far distance, the silhouette of the proud Sphinx loomed over the Capital.
Alabastra sat alone. On the screen of her table, a thinner, more toned, fiercer image of herself appeared. The young woman had her hair in a bun that was beginning to shake loose. She sipped on a coffee-shot. "In your actual office? That bastard." She shook her head.
Alabastra exhaled. "It was frightening. No record of it, either: Galactic Security—now, I'm not saying they're not bought off or anything—had failures in every room he was in. One by one, shut down. It's terrifying, yet oddly remarkable." She set down her empty glass and waved her hand. "But I'm over it. It was weeks ago. How have you been? When do I get to see you out of that uniform?"
The young woman crossed her arms and looked out over the bridge. After a moment, she answered, "I know. It's been what, two years?" She gave a light chuckle. "I think I'll have some time once this Mars business is over."
Alabastra smiled. "Well, we sure as hell won't spend it in Cairo." She gestured toward the island on the horizon. "From one battlefield to the other."
"Oh, I couldn't fight your fights." The young woman laughed. "The rules keep changing, the players stay the same, and nobody ever wins. Not my type of game. I'm not sure how you do it."
The Senator laughed. "Every day, you just find a new target, a new battle, and throw everything you have into it. When that's over, you find another one. It's the only way to stay focused, to feel like you're doing something." She sighed. "Anyway, are you running the ship yet? Where are you stationed?"
The young woman smiled wide. "I'm aboard the Ness now. With Captain Halsey. They call him Hardass Halsey." She chuckled. "But he really isn't so bad."
"Halsey?" Alabastra said. "Isn't the Ness the lead ship flying to Mars right now?"
"You better hope that bill passes, Mom."
The Senator put up her hand. "And send my daughter to the front lines? Maria, why didn't you tell me?"
Maria, on camera, gulped her coffee-shot. "I was on a team attached to a fleet of gaffers doing Moon work. Then, Halsey pulled me a couple months ago. I've so far went through ten different interviews with various officers, a psych eval, three genetics analyses, and a really boring seminar on the Martian Underworld."
Alabastra quirked her eyebrow. "They pulled you from the Moon to torture you with school?"
"It's a little more than that." Maria flicked her nose.
Alabastra's eyes widened. "Maria!" She stood up at the table with her screen. "I am so proud of you."
Maria laughed. "I have a team of my own. Even have a Snowborn. Big blue Siberians? I love my team. I'll be able to pick my own cases, projects, too."
Alabastra beamed. "That's so great. I should have sent a congratulations or something. I had no idea. We have to celebrate."
Maria tapped at her screen, her hand taking up the camera. The Senator's table turned into a projection of two flagships with eight fighters each. "Want to see if you still got it?"
The Senator sat up in her seat. "You're on."
Chapter 12
King: Make Decisions
Kingmaker Tower, Mars
The colossal tower, oval chambers stacked a mile high on top of each other, stood tall in the center of Cloud One, crowned by three shattered clocks orbiting a red globe. Inside, Johnny King waited in a lobby at the center of the tower, overlooking the Martian cityscape. Below him, the multicolored rooftops of Martian residences and businesses shone in the sun. Traffic buzzed outside—small, flying ants marching single-file in several major routes looping throughout the city.
Francis sat behind him, his limbs sprawled wide over a leather chair. He tapped his thumb and knuckle against the sides of the seat, drumming a beat.
Johnny turned from the window. "How long did they say?"
Francis kept tapping. "They didn't. He should wake soon. Kid's blood was probably to the brim with his own meds. Most likely had to wait before they could put theirs in him."
Johnny frowned. He looked toward the back of the room. A grey-skinned man had his back to Johnny, staring into the window of the operating room. Johnny walked up next to the Communicator and peered inside. Jack lay on the operating table in a hospital gown, a cover draped over his right shoulder. Ramir stood next to the table, chatting with the doctor.
Johnny asked the Communicator, "Any word from Nexus?"
"No." His deep voice reverberated off the glass in front of them.
"Largest security breach in our operation, and he can't—"
"He'll show, King." The Communicator continued staring into the operating room.
King clenched his fist, then exhaled. "Well, thank you for getting to them. I know most of their tech got fried."
The Communicator nodded. "Yeah, they were down to near-empty bolters by the time I got there."
Johnny shook his head. "Have you seen anything like them before?"
"No."
Johnny paced back toward the middle of the lobby. "Communicator, I have another task for you."
The Communicator was silent.
"I need you to tap your media connections again. I'll forward you the breakdown."
The Communicator was silent.
"Terran Senator. Blackmail, throwing different shades on her policies. We scanned District Seven to see what might hit with her locals. Can you swing it?"
The Communicator grunted. "Forward it."
Johnny rolled his eyes. "Thanks."
Johnny quietly got Francis' attention and motioned toward the Communicator. Francis tapped the screen in his left arm, and then nodded.
Muffled shouts and pounding came from the operating room. Jack was up, flailing his remaining limbs at the doctor. The doctor's back was to the wall, his hands in the air. Ramir stood between the two. Jack yelled at the top of his lungs. The three men in the lobby rushed toward the room.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!" Jack spat.
King entered the room and put his hand up. Jack returned to the table, twitching.
"Jack, what the hell is wrong?"
Jack said nothing, but growled at the doctor.
The doctor replied, "I simply gave him the surgery options."
Jack screamed, "Bullshit! You told me I need the injections! I don't need any fucking injections!"
The doctor raised his voice. "I simply told you that the injections would give you the best mobility within the quickest timeframe. You can always choose the more primitive methods."
Jack sat up. Ramir held him down with an arm across his chest. Jack scooted to the edge of the bed and kicked at the doctor. "Trying. To. Infect. Me. Fucking. Fuck!"
The doctor, more confident now with witnesses in the room, stepped forward. "I am trying to save your arm, Mr. Cho-Rosenstein. Nano-surgery is the quickest, safest, and most reliable option."
Jack kept kicking. "Little termites. Crawling around my blood. Piece of shit!" He struck the doctor with one of his heels.
"They dissolve after a few days! This is the only chance of attaching that charred arm without having to wait weeks to grow a new one!"
King threw a hard stare at the doctor. The doctor blinked and fell quiet. King walked over to Jack and loomed over him. Jack broke his fierce stare with the doctor and looked up at his boss. He sniffed, then lay calmly back down on the operating table. "He's not putting robots in me."
King swiped the knuckles of his right hand against his left palm. Back and forth, like striking a match against sandpaper. King rotated his wrist twice and pivoted back. He swung a punch into Jack's jaw that left his torso hanging off of the operating table. Ramir helped him back to the center of the bed.
"Quit acting like an asshole and make a decision." King slid his hand under the cloth draped over Jack's shoulder. "You're a Kingsman. What are your first two rules?"
Jack stared up at King and inhaled deeply. "Make decisions, and lead situations."
"So, you don't want the nanosurgery." King's hand moved sharply under the cloth. Jack howled in pain. His heels slammed wildly against the table. "So what? A new arm? Grown or teched?"
King's hand made another sharp movement under the cloth, digging his fingers into the maimed shoulder. Jack writhed, screaming, "Grown! Grown!"
King removed his hand. He wiped it on his suit, painting a crimson streak on his silver blazer. He looked toward the doctor, who was pressed back into the wall, mouth agape. "Doc, Jack here wants a new arm. A SproutSleeve should do just fine."
"They are so outdated, Mr. King. He can walk out of here in minutes if we can—"
"He's the one who can wait a week to grow a new arm." King said. "And I'm the one paying you."
Chapter 13
Senator: What I Wanted
Cafe in Cairo
As the sun set, the far-off Guardian Sphinx faded into a silhouette. Lighting up the dusk was the projected video game on her table. Two hologram fleets of their respective colors faced each other. In this version, the spaceships defended a planet of their same color on each end. Alabastra's hands were lit with blue nodes, Maria's with orange. Brows furrowed, their hands danced in front of their screens. The backs of their hands were lit with numbers: virtual resource allocations and scores. This was the game played at its most intense setting, playing against the opponent's fighters along with one's own dwindling supplies.
Johnny stumbled, but caught his balance. "Play back his last few moments."
Francis' schematics disappeared and were replaced with a video. From Jack's POV, they watched a docking truck back into a loading port. After a few minutes of talking, his vision shook, then the glasses cut out.
Francis squinted. "That doesn't seem right. N'cole, can you show us the last few frames as images?"
A grid of eight pictures appeared. Francis selected the last frame.
The crimson figure towered in the projection before them.
Johnny blurted, "Well, what the hell is that?"
Francis shook his head. "I'll start pulling what I can. N'cole, figure out what this thing is."
Johnny's cup slid out of his hand. It toppled, spilling onto the cruiser's carpet. He slumped back on the sofa and fought heavy eyelids. "Last thing we need, Francis. Another fucking variable."
Johnny ground his teeth well into his sleep. Francis pressed on, furiously swiping the air in front of him.
Chapter 9
Nexus: Assignment
Mars, Kingmaker Tower
Director Nexus was in a dark room. White, glowing nodes freckled his body. He was boxing with a yellow hologram. He landed a punch—the hologram blinked and reset. The hologram started the next round with a high kick. It clipped Nexus in the neck. One of his nodes turned red and sparked. Nexus cursed as his neck and right shoulder convulsed. After a few seconds, he recovered.
Light poured into the room, and the hologram faded. Nexus turned around—a uniformed agent stood at his door. "Director, sir!" He stood at attention, a finger over his lips.
Nexus waved his hand. "At ease. What's up?"
The agent, and then reported, "Client Johnny King has been ringing you for some time. Can I port him to the dojo?"
Nexus swore, and yanked a node off of his neck, the rest of the nodes on his body coming off with it, in a web. He threw the chain to the floor and hopped to his desk. He dug through the drawers for an orange-and-teal padded jacket. He found it, and then pulled it over his torso. He reached up and twisted his long hair into a tight bun resting on the crown of his head. "Put him on." He was still in his yellow fitness shorts. "And raise the camera."
The soldier tapped on a screen for a few moments. On the back wall of the room, a projection appeared: a tall man with a narrow face and thick, black glasses sat, tapping his index finger against his cheekbone.
"Francis!" Nexus wiped his forehead. "I thought it'd be King."
"Consider it as urgent." Francis said. "And I'll tell him you picked up the first time."
Nexus apologized. Francis continued, "I have two assignments for you. The Martian Genetic Exchange on Cloud Three has been attacked. We can only confirm as of ten or twenty minutes ago. The fight could be over by now."
Nexus' eyes widened. "Vamps? Ghosts? Any visuals? Details?"
Francis shook his head. "They pulsed the place. No feeds, nothing."
"A pulse?" Nexus quirked his eyebrows. "Those are some big guns."
"Bigger than any we were expecting this time around."
Nexus said, "Any word on your guys?"
Francis shook his head. "That's your first assignment. Figure out if Jack and his Shadow made it. If not, recover any Kingmaker tech you can—glasses, watches, suits." He brought up his left arm and made a flicking motion toward the camera. The projection changed to an zoomed-in image of a crimson warrior standing tall on the back of a cargo truck.
Nexus squinted. "What the hell is that?"
Francis' voice came in over the projection. "Your second assignment."
Chapter 10
Kingsmen: Arena
GenEx Facility, Cloud Three
Jack and Ramir made it to the room with the fighting pit. As they rounded a bend, Ramir stopped Jack with a hand to the chest. "Jack!" he panted. "My watch is back on."
Jack exhaled sharp, terse breaths. "Let me..." he tapped his wrist. He breathed a long sigh, then gave a hard chuckle. "Dorsey! Get us—"
A sharp, thick buzz shook the building. The watch lights deactivated. Jack stamped his feet and shouted a series of curses.
Ramir's knees buckled. He leaned on the floor and rubbed his eyes. His face was soaked. Tears and sweat dripped from his face. He screamed in angush.
The building shook. It was coupled with a deafening crack. The stadium lurched. Jack and Ramir were heaved: they soared into the air and landed in the fighting pit.
Jack grabbed his lower back and yelled curses. Ramir, on his side, moved his left arm from underneath himself. When his elbow twitched, he screamed. He rocked himself, rolling to his right side. He lifted himself up onto his right elbow, and eventually stood up. Jack made it to his knees, and finally managed to stand up.
The two looked up at the ceiling. The high dome hosted a gaping crater. Half a dozen crimson-plated soldiers surrounded it, looking down at them. The warriors lifted into the air—blue flames jetting from their feet and lower backs—and dived toward them.
Jack reached into his jacket. He flung his bolter out, and clicked his thumb wildly against its trigger. He cried out, pairing an insult with each bolt.
Ramir drew his bolter and followed his mentor's lead.
The lead of the flock raised its rifle. Its hands went limp, and its blaster slid from its grasp. Its mask cracked — a short spark, then a flame erupted from its face. The jets carried its body straight for the ground—it landed, punching a dent into the arena floor. Its neck collapsed, rolling the soldier onto its back, lifeless.
Clink! Clink! Clink! The rest of the crimson swarm returned fire. Hot, searing gashes peppered the arena floor. Jack threw himself onto his back again and fired upward. Ramir ran from one edge of the pit to the other, zig-zagging, tossing bolts into the sky.
The figures swooped upward. The soldiers crossed between each other, flipped, then flew over the arena once more, discharging another volley of blasts.
Jack rolled across the hard floor. His bolter escaped from his grip. Ramir ran, ducking, rolling, sprinting, and firing when he could. He slowed for a moment, aimed his gun in the air, and clicked the trigger wildly. After two bolts, the bolter gushed hot air, and then ejected its cartridge onto the floor.
The swarm ascended again. They danced in the air, spun around, and then dived back toward the pit.
Clank! One of the soldiers broke formation, and shot toward the stadium at a sharp angle. He slammed into the raised floor surrounding the ring. The wall caved in, and the soldier collapsed into the pit, followed by rubble.
Clank! Clank! Two more soldiers took sharp dives, angled into opposite sides of the stadium. Black liquid sprinkled from their armor.
The two remaining warriors lifted their blasting rifles. One shot toward the ledge of the stadium behind Ramir. Clank! Clank! Clank! The warrior's rifle ceased, and the warrior plunged toward the pit. The remaining warrior soon followed, its hulking armor echoing as it crashed.
Ramir looked up at the ledge behind them. A single man stood—a dark, towering male, with broad shoulders and a bright, fiery goatee, painted like a target around his lips. Three NIS agents in orange-and-teal battle armor were perched behind him, bolter-rifles still scanning the sky.
"Grab him and let's move." The Communicator commanded.
Jack lay writhing, moaning. Ramir walked over to his boss and knelt beside him. Ramir placed a hand under his waist and wrapped Jack's left arm around his shoulders. He lifted.
Jack wailed, crying out in primal pain.
Ramir hoisted his boss up, easily positioning him over his shoulder.
Jack writhed, kicked at the air, and screamed.
Ramir looked down. On the ground was a twitching, writhing hand. His eyes followed its length—the elbow, the shoulder, then the ground.
Jack wailed and pounded a fist into Ramir's back.
Ramir closed his eyes, bent down, and picked up the severed limb.
The Communicator stared into the air.
From the breach in the roof, a small orange-and-teal cruiser entered the stadium. It drifted down toward the three agents, and slid open its doors invitingly.
Chapter 11
Senator: Catch-up at the Cafe
Cairo
There was a small café on the pedestrian bridge that crossed the Nile River. Thick, brown liquid pumped with chemicals filled tiny shot glasses on each of the tables. Patrons were mostly in suits or GAF uniforms. Server-droids—white, short, circular, wearing aprons and fluffy hats—rolled out orders made on the touchpads embedded in each table. Most of the patrons sported frumpy, defeated looks. A waft of smoke, like cinnamon and charcoal, lingered through the patio. The patrons smoking cigars, made from actual leaves, tied together the sophisticated atmosphere. Alabastra Paige-Zuckerberg sat at a two-top overlooking the bridge. In the far distance, the silhouette of the proud Sphinx loomed over the Capital.
Alabastra sat alone. On the screen of her table, a thinner, more toned, fiercer image of herself appeared. The young woman had her hair in a bun that was beginning to shake loose. She sipped on a coffee-shot. "In your actual office? That bastard." She shook her head.
Alabastra exhaled. "It was frightening. No record of it, either: Galactic Security—now, I'm not saying they're not bought off or anything—had failures in every room he was in. One by one, shut down. It's terrifying, yet oddly remarkable." She set down her empty glass and waved her hand. "But I'm over it. It was weeks ago. How have you been? When do I get to see you out of that uniform?"
The young woman crossed her arms and looked out over the bridge. After a moment, she answered, "I know. It's been what, two years?" She gave a light chuckle. "I think I'll have some time once this Mars business is over."
Alabastra smiled. "Well, we sure as hell won't spend it in Cairo." She gestured toward the island on the horizon. "From one battlefield to the other."
"Oh, I couldn't fight your fights." The young woman laughed. "The rules keep changing, the players stay the same, and nobody ever wins. Not my type of game. I'm not sure how you do it."
The Senator laughed. "Every day, you just find a new target, a new battle, and throw everything you have into it. When that's over, you find another one. It's the only way to stay focused, to feel like you're doing something." She sighed. "Anyway, are you running the ship yet? Where are you stationed?"
The young woman smiled wide. "I'm aboard the Ness now. With Captain Halsey. They call him Hardass Halsey." She chuckled. "But he really isn't so bad."
"Halsey?" Alabastra said. "Isn't the Ness the lead ship flying to Mars right now?"
"You better hope that bill passes, Mom."
The Senator put up her hand. "And send my daughter to the front lines? Maria, why didn't you tell me?"
Maria, on camera, gulped her coffee-shot. "I was on a team attached to a fleet of gaffers doing Moon work. Then, Halsey pulled me a couple months ago. I've so far went through ten different interviews with various officers, a psych eval, three genetics analyses, and a really boring seminar on the Martian Underworld."
Alabastra quirked her eyebrow. "They pulled you from the Moon to torture you with school?"
"It's a little more than that." Maria flicked her nose.
Alabastra's eyes widened. "Maria!" She stood up at the table with her screen. "I am so proud of you."
Maria laughed. "I have a team of my own. Even have a Snowborn. Big blue Siberians? I love my team. I'll be able to pick my own cases, projects, too."
Alabastra beamed. "That's so great. I should have sent a congratulations or something. I had no idea. We have to celebrate."
Maria tapped at her screen, her hand taking up the camera. The Senator's table turned into a projection of two flagships with eight fighters each. "Want to see if you still got it?"
The Senator sat up in her seat. "You're on."
Chapter 12
King: Make Decisions
Kingmaker Tower, Mars
The colossal tower, oval chambers stacked a mile high on top of each other, stood tall in the center of Cloud One, crowned by three shattered clocks orbiting a red globe. Inside, Johnny King waited in a lobby at the center of the tower, overlooking the Martian cityscape. Below him, the multicolored rooftops of Martian residences and businesses shone in the sun. Traffic buzzed outside—small, flying ants marching single-file in several major routes looping throughout the city.
Francis sat behind him, his limbs sprawled wide over a leather chair. He tapped his thumb and knuckle against the sides of the seat, drumming a beat.
Johnny turned from the window. "How long did they say?"
Francis kept tapping. "They didn't. He should wake soon. Kid's blood was probably to the brim with his own meds. Most likely had to wait before they could put theirs in him."
Johnny frowned. He looked toward the back of the room. A grey-skinned man had his back to Johnny, staring into the window of the operating room. Johnny walked up next to the Communicator and peered inside. Jack lay on the operating table in a hospital gown, a cover draped over his right shoulder. Ramir stood next to the table, chatting with the doctor.
Johnny asked the Communicator, "Any word from Nexus?"
"No." His deep voice reverberated off the glass in front of them.
"Largest security breach in our operation, and he can't—"
"He'll show, King." The Communicator continued staring into the operating room.
King clenched his fist, then exhaled. "Well, thank you for getting to them. I know most of their tech got fried."
The Communicator nodded. "Yeah, they were down to near-empty bolters by the time I got there."
Johnny shook his head. "Have you seen anything like them before?"
"No."
Johnny paced back toward the middle of the lobby. "Communicator, I have another task for you."
The Communicator was silent.
"I need you to tap your media connections again. I'll forward you the breakdown."
The Communicator was silent.
"Terran Senator. Blackmail, throwing different shades on her policies. We scanned District Seven to see what might hit with her locals. Can you swing it?"
The Communicator grunted. "Forward it."
Johnny rolled his eyes. "Thanks."
Johnny quietly got Francis' attention and motioned toward the Communicator. Francis tapped the screen in his left arm, and then nodded.
Muffled shouts and pounding came from the operating room. Jack was up, flailing his remaining limbs at the doctor. The doctor's back was to the wall, his hands in the air. Ramir stood between the two. Jack yelled at the top of his lungs. The three men in the lobby rushed toward the room.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!" Jack spat.
King entered the room and put his hand up. Jack returned to the table, twitching.
"Jack, what the hell is wrong?"
Jack said nothing, but growled at the doctor.
The doctor replied, "I simply gave him the surgery options."
Jack screamed, "Bullshit! You told me I need the injections! I don't need any fucking injections!"
The doctor raised his voice. "I simply told you that the injections would give you the best mobility within the quickest timeframe. You can always choose the more primitive methods."
Jack sat up. Ramir held him down with an arm across his chest. Jack scooted to the edge of the bed and kicked at the doctor. "Trying. To. Infect. Me. Fucking. Fuck!"
The doctor, more confident now with witnesses in the room, stepped forward. "I am trying to save your arm, Mr. Cho-Rosenstein. Nano-surgery is the quickest, safest, and most reliable option."
Jack kept kicking. "Little termites. Crawling around my blood. Piece of shit!" He struck the doctor with one of his heels.
"They dissolve after a few days! This is the only chance of attaching that charred arm without having to wait weeks to grow a new one!"
King threw a hard stare at the doctor. The doctor blinked and fell quiet. King walked over to Jack and loomed over him. Jack broke his fierce stare with the doctor and looked up at his boss. He sniffed, then lay calmly back down on the operating table. "He's not putting robots in me."
King swiped the knuckles of his right hand against his left palm. Back and forth, like striking a match against sandpaper. King rotated his wrist twice and pivoted back. He swung a punch into Jack's jaw that left his torso hanging off of the operating table. Ramir helped him back to the center of the bed.
"Quit acting like an asshole and make a decision." King slid his hand under the cloth draped over Jack's shoulder. "You're a Kingsman. What are your first two rules?"
Jack stared up at King and inhaled deeply. "Make decisions, and lead situations."
"So, you don't want the nanosurgery." King's hand moved sharply under the cloth. Jack howled in pain. His heels slammed wildly against the table. "So what? A new arm? Grown or teched?"
King's hand made another sharp movement under the cloth, digging his fingers into the maimed shoulder. Jack writhed, screaming, "Grown! Grown!"
King removed his hand. He wiped it on his suit, painting a crimson streak on his silver blazer. He looked toward the doctor, who was pressed back into the wall, mouth agape. "Doc, Jack here wants a new arm. A SproutSleeve should do just fine."
"They are so outdated, Mr. King. He can walk out of here in minutes if we can—"
"He's the one who can wait a week to grow a new arm." King said. "And I'm the one paying you."
Chapter 13
Senator: What I Wanted
Cafe in Cairo
As the sun set, the far-off Guardian Sphinx faded into a silhouette. Lighting up the dusk was the projected video game on her table. Two hologram fleets of their respective colors faced each other. In this version, the spaceships defended a planet of their same color on each end. Alabastra's hands were lit with blue nodes, Maria's with orange. Brows furrowed, their hands danced in front of their screens. The backs of their hands were lit with numbers: virtual resource allocations and scores. This was the game played at its most intense setting, playing against the opponent's fighters along with one's own dwindling supplies.
