Kingmaker, page 9
part #1 of The Gods That Gamble Series
The Communicator looked away from King and rolled his eyes. The Director shot his report a scolding look. "Johnny," Nexus said. "Thank you for joining us."
"Are we ready, Risuna?" King ignored the greeting.
Nexus cleared his throat. "Yes."
King smiled. He walked to the edge of the rooftop. The city was alive with color, neon lights of business signs and cars reflecting off the black and silver buildings. King looked back up into the sky. There was a faint glimmer just before the horizon—the celestial lights reflecting on the glass dome over Cloud Three. "Soon, we'll be able to govern within our own walls. Soon, we will never answer to the Terran authority." King faced the two men. "Gentlemen, soon, we will make history."
There was an odd silence. After a few moments the Communicator spoke. "Is it right?"
King said, "What do you mean?"
"Is it right, King? A bankrolled revolution? Using a private army to free the people?"
"As opposed to the Monsters of the Sewers pillaging the streets?" King cracked his knuckles. "We're past the times, as a species, of some mob rising up and liberating themselves. We're buried in screens and most people's hobby is spending time on the Hub managing their egos." King unbuttoned his blazer and tucked his hands into his pockets. "It's always been this. A few dedicated people with enough resources, conviction, and subterfuge to redirect the course of civilization."
The Communicator said, "You better not be sending us to die for nothing."
Nexus snapped, "Your tongue, Communicator. I am the one sending people to die. We're serving a contract to our client. Your complaints can go up the chain of command."
King interrupted. "It's a valid concern." He wiped his thumb across his lip. "Do you know how I know we'll win? Because we're up against an army of conscripted adolescents. Our soldiers have signed up of their own free will, of their own personal motivation, and know what's at stake—whether it's money or liberty. The Gaffers they'll be shooting at, tragically, are simply hoping to earn enough credit on their tour so they can go to school."
The Communicator was silent.
Nexus said, "We're finishing up here, King."
"Not to worry." King nodded. "Last thing, Risuna. Is the weapon ready?"
Nexus nodded.
"If we're outnumbered, if its more than a few ships that start heading into orbit, you launch it."
"Launch what?" The Communicator asked.
"A statement of intent."
Nexus looked up at the night sky. "We call it Executor Prime."
Chapter 20
Amy: Etches
Low Earth Orbit, Satellite
Amy clutched an amulet wrapped around her neck. A relic of forgotten—or perhaps, misremembered—ideals. A cross, made of Old Earth woods, the splinters of cypress and dogwood, mottled by blue and silver metals.
By all accounts, it was ugly—twisted, knotted, almost alien. It was dismantled from the ruins of her grandmother's rocking chair and forged with foreign electronics. It had hung around her neck since her late teens—nearly a decade and a half ago. She had clutched it as she spurred forward in her career, careening around the bullies of the corporate world. She had clutched it through lovers and ex-lovers, when her knees buckled and tears tumbled down her face, so heavy that they reached her knees. She clutched it on days like today, when she remembered the crazed woman who left her with nothing but erratic haunts and a stoic faith. Days like today, where she sat, in her satellite's artificial garden, under the canopy of an olive tree, scrawling the words Whore! Imbecile! Wretched, wicked waste! into the sands near its roots.
Today was her grandmother's birthday. She spent it as she had for the last fifteen years, but with one difference: she would not spend it alone.
Amy felt a sharp prick from her back pocket. She stopped scrawling in the sand to secure the offending object. She brought it up to her face, and the simulated light of the garden gleamed off it.
It was an onyx cube no larger than a fingernail. Faint blue lights oscillated over its surface. Amy rubbed the cube between her fingers and placed it in her front pocket.
She wiped away her etchings in the earth. Beneath her curses and cries, she scratched one last word into the sands:
KING.
Chapter 21
King: Old-Fashioned
Johnny's Apartment, A Martian Highrise on Cloud One
"This dress is so old-fashioned," the woman said. Her raven hair was streaked with purple. On the right side of her forehead, a small, pointed protrusion—a developing horn, from a recent genetic injection. She tugged at the sides of her skin-tight, black cotton dress.
"It's Revivalist. Old-Earth millennial. It's in right now." Johnny assuaged. "It looks fantastic on you." He was lying in bed, wearing only his silver suit pants.
The woman rolled her eyes. "It's your money."
King didn't need reminding. "Bend over."
She did. He unfastened his pants. He didn't rise from the bed; he only moved his hand to his groin. She stood at the end of the bed and gyrated her legs, her ass clapping. She swung her hips in wide arches, popped her waist to the ground, and arced her back longingly as she stood back up. King watched her work as he worked on himself.
Minutes later, he lay panting, alone on the bed. The woman brought over a damped, warm towel, lay it on his stomach, and wiped his torso and the underside of his chin.
Johnny fumbled for his black glasses. He put them on, tapped the sides, and made a few motions with his hands. The woman stared at the screen on her wrist. After a couple of seconds, she smiled. "Thank you. It's been an easy buck, as usual."
Johnny grabbed the woman's knee. "Kiss me."
She raised her eyebrow and curled her lips. She shrugged, then leaned in to meet Johnny's face.
King clutched her by the throat, pulling her lips into his. She shrieked and slapped him.
Johnny released his grip. The woman regained her posture. "Oh, fuck off, you have to pay extra for that."
Johnny shrugged and tapped his glasses, completely prepared to comply.
The woman waved away the payment. "What is with you types? You're the most powerful man on Mars, and you order me twice a week to stare at my ass. Don't you have a bunch of teens sending selfies to your personal? Why don't you get one of them to come up to this nice-as-all high rise? You know, for free?"
Johnny shrugged. "I like this. You perform, I pay, you leave. It's business. All the expectations are upfront and met."
The woman laughed. "Oh, you've had your heart broken, then? Keep it business. That's the most insecure statement I've ever heard. What's the story? She left your ass because you kept leaving your dick at the office?"
Johnny laughed. "She's been gone a long time." He sat up in the bed. He knocked on the wall twice and a panel emerged. He tapped its screen and the door to his bedroom slid open. "Now, I'll have to start charging you if you want more of the story."
The woman grinned. "A soft spot, huh? No matter, I'm sure I'll get the whole thing eventually." She eyed Johnny up and down, then winked.
King pointed to the door. "Alright, out." When she left, he tapped the panel and the door shut behind her.
Alone, King reached into a drawer beside the bed and pulled out a silver tin. He unscrewed the lid and gently set it to the side. Inside was a fine, red powder. King licked his middle finger and stuck it into the heap. He gathered a scoop and brought it up to his nose.
The panel on the wall beeped frantically, flashing red.
King growled and dumped the pile of red powder back into the tin. He carefully cleaned his finger, scraping it along the sides to ensure every speck returned to its source. He screwed the lid back on, tightly, and placed the powder back in the drawer.
King jumped out of bed and scooped up his shirt, jacket, and tie from the floor. He pointed to the flashing panel at the wall, answering the call.
It was Francis. "About time. Middle of the day…why are you answering from your bedroom?"
"It's whatever. What's going on?"
"Blackstone got the bunk data. Jack and Torrie will meet her soon. The Shadow is at the Galactic Council now, all the stooges in place. I'll set up the feeds up in your office."
"Okay, Francis. You couldn't text me?"
"Saw your calendar." Francis shrugged. "Accounts meeting? Since when am I not in an accounts meeting?" He grinned.
"Since I host them in my bedroom. Now get out."
The panel went blank and receded into the wall.
King wiped his face. War is on. Moves need to be made. He stood in the center of the room, rubbing his thumb and index finger together. His eyes darted back and forth, returning to the drawer next to the bed. His glance caught. His eyes lingered. Three long breaths passed. He reined his neck away.
Chapter 22
The Communicator: Toys
Abandoned Building, Cloud Five
Dozens of screens covered three walls of a square room. They went in and out of focus, constantly changing images—views from street corners of Earth cities, the depths of Martian sewers, laboratories, offices, and the points of view from people's own personal eye-wear. The Communicator sat at a desk in the middle of the screens, pointing at them and mumbling orders.
"Push the vision. You were too weak on the last mark."…
"Of course, I took over your surveillance tech… Because we're nearly half a week before waging war, and when I tuned into your screen you were watching your ex take a shower." …
"Who's the celebrity guest? Right, I need her replaced with an anti-Abolitionist… What do you mean 'how?' Push her down a sewer, bribe the director, I don't care. Make it happen. This one's from Nexus." …
"You promised your last segment would display private security contractors in a favorable light. You spent half the segment on the counter position. I expect you to keep your promises, lest I make good on mine."…
The Communicator waved his arms and all the screens went blank. He leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples.
His finger touched a scab over his eye. He inspected his hand. The wound had reopened; his fingers were stained red.
He sighed deeply and tapped his desk. A screen emerged. It turned on and showed footage of a troubled Amy sitting in a garden under an olive tree. The Communicator watched her claw at the sand around her.
The view went white. The Communicator gasped and frantically tapped the screen. He looked up – every screen in the room was a bright and empty white. He leapt to his feet, knocking his chair to the ground.
A shadow appeared on the white screen. It lingered.
Slowly, a figure stepped into the frame: a familiar man with spiked hair and a silver suit. He adjusted his tie. "Communicator."
The Communicator growled. "King."
King fumbled with his wristcuffs. "What have you been up to, Dolphus? Sitting in that chair and spamming threats across the Solar System?"
The Communicator snorted. "Better than sniffing red rock alone in a bedroom. Careful, you might stain that blazer."
King twisted one of the buttons on his suit. "Your girl has been misusing her new toys. Playing with them outside of the sandbox."
The Communicator stared into the screen in front of him.
"You had a job," King said. "It was to keep your bitch on a leash, and yank when I said heel."
The Communicator scowled.
"You've had your bit of snooping. I can't trust you to keep your personal life away from your professional one. You're off the case: you're abolished of any contact, cooperation or resources of Kingmaker Industries."
The Communicator snorted. "I have plenty toys of my own, King."
King gripped his right lapel. "You fancy yourself a subvert, Dolphus. I invented this industry. You are effectively banned from the G-Hub. Any device that has ever been linked by you isn't to touch any Galactic communications. My agents will strip and de-bug that entire satellite office, as well. You have failed your duty, and I am taking away your vices. This damned raconteur is now my issue to deal with, Dolphus."
The Communicator punched the desk. "King," he seethed. "She'll run the stories. She isn't a problem."
"No," King said. "But you are. Everything that happens to her, from this point, is on you. You knew what would happen if she tried to crawl around in my business."
"You baited her." The Communicator spat. "You druggie nutcase."
King stared, deadpan. "Keep digging. Soon you'll have yourself a grave."
The screens went black. One screen sparked – a flash of blue. Then another. The hair on the Communicator's arms and neck stood on end as electricity surged through the walls. The screens sparked, cracked, and burst. Glass crashed and scattered across the ground. After several moments, the room was black again.
The Communicator stood in the darkness, teeth clenched.
Chapter 23
Jack & Torrie: Third Party
Near-Earth Orbit
"Hello, Mrs. Silver, is it?" Torrie Longham greeted the woman under an olive tree.
"Yes," Amy replied. "Last names will do. You must be Ms. Lancaster." She eyed the man next to Torrie. "Thought you were coming alone." Torrie's guest was clad in a black suit, black glasses, and wearing a black glove on one hand.
"Tom," Jack nodded.
"Sorry, Mrs. Silver. This is my editor and…security, I must admit. One can never be too careful these days, as I'm sure you know." Torrie opened her hand, "So, would you happen to have the…"
Amy shot a look at her.
Torrie cleared her throat. "Why don't we take a seat?"
The three walked up a path in the garden to an area of tree stumps and large rocks that served as tables and chairs. They seated themselves around a moss-covered boulder.
Amy crossed her arms and legs. "So, which publication do you work for again?"
Torrie smiled. "Officially, no publication directly. I'm a third party—or, more often than not, a fourth party—that is contracted out to obtain sensitive data like this. I'm sure I'm being patronizing, explaining my job to a person of your caliber."
Amy snorted. "No worries." She uncrossed her arms. "I get it."
Torrie's smile widened.
Amy exhaled and stretched her shoulders back. "So, the only thing you didn't mention was your angle. What do you have against our… mutual friend?"
Torrie smile drooped. "In all honesty, Mrs. Silver, I am solely a collector. My client says you have sensitive information on a cube that is relevant to my their interest. As far as I'm concern—"
"Oh, come on." Amy rolled her eyes. "Who's gonna see this once I give it to you? Who are your affiliations?"
Torrie flicked her thumb across her lip. "My client will be delivering it to the largest independent blogs across the Galaxy. Second only to yours, of course. Being said, that is a pressing concern to my client. Why are you not publishing this yourself? Surely a journalist of your caliber—"
"You exposed corruption in the Public Senate, but you're passing the buck on this one?" Jack chimed in.
Torrie glared at Jack. She craned her neck at Amy and continued. "Right, you could easily run this yourself. In all honesty, it's suspicious that you aren't."
Amy stared down. She bit her lip. After a moment, she uncrossed her legs and looked up. "My source is too close to me. For their safety and mine, I have to pass this off."
Torrie smiled. "Fair enough." She slid across an open hand, palm-down. "I get that." She nodded, chewing her tongue.
Amy reached into her pocket with a smile.
Chapter 24
Ramir: Rock the Vote
Cairo, Capital Building
The seats of the Galactic Legislature were packed. Women and men in their best dress filled the stands of the tiered balconies, above the seated Senators and Councilors. Dozens of black bug-bots, large autonomous cameras, buzzed around the floor and through the stands, approaching citizens for interviews.
One approached a younger man with half his head shaved. "Hello, citizen. What are your thoughts on today's legislative proceedings?"
"Bout damn time. We've let those Martians do their own thing for way too long. They've forgotten they're part of the human race! We can't have split a civilization, with different rules. One Galaxy, one people!"
The camera beeped. "Thank you." It buzzed over to am elderly woman dozing off, her neck and eyelids twitching to fight sleep. The camera shook its wings and and made a loud buzzing noise. The woman stirred. "Hello, citizen. May I have your thoughts on today's legislative proceedings?"
The woman rolled her eyes. "Let them do what they want. They'll come to realize what's right and what's wrong. We don't need guns to enforce morality. We're just gonna get a bunch of kids killed." She swatted at the camera. "Now, piss off."
The camera beeped. "Thank you."
The camera buzzed toward a suited man in the very back of the stands, under the shadow of the balcony above. "Hello, citizen. What happens to be your thoughts on today's legislative proceedings?"
The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of black glasses. He gestured in front of his eyes, then touched the side of the camera. The camera's whirring stopped, and its lens drooped toward the floor. The man gestured again: the camera's whirring slowly returned, and its lens lifted back up. The man pointed. The camera floated into the balconies above, taking a center view of the Legislature's floor below.
Ramir pressed his ear. "Alright, King, do you have a visual?"
Chapter 25
King: Prepared
Office, Martian Highrise
On Mars, Johnny King sat at a chrome desk, flanked by two screens. Displayed on the left screen was the garden where Jack and Torrie sat negotiating with a troubled Amy Blackstone. The right screen showed the chamber of the Galactic Legislature, seats packed with citizens looking down upon an empty podium.
