Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series) (12 page)

Similarly,
strangling or stabbing the Commander, while effective, would inexorably result
in his own death.

There
had
to be a better way.

The
slave finished up his cleaning task and slid the chair into place neatly behind
the desk. He stiffly straightened up and gathered his supplies.

And
there it was on the desk.

He
slowly dabbed his forehead and yawned to cover his growing fascination with the
gray, steely object.

It was
a weapon, he decided, the twenty-fifth century equivalent of a handgun.

The
slave's fixation on the sidearm that was only one of many objects that
cluttered Rameau's desk was cut short when he heard the short-tempered
Commander clattering down the hallway.

He
clutched his supplies and hastily left.

Somehow,
he now knew, the weird weapon would figure in Rameau's impending death.

The
Desert Serfs watched the old vehicle with the Free City Grad students rumble
away.

Qadir
turned to Tariq, “We should have killed them, my friend.”

Tariq's
dark eyes narrowed at the comment by his workmate, “They are harmless. One
should not swat at every gnat that the wind happens to blow by.”

Qadir
persisted, “With luck, the foul-tempered Warlord whom we have hidden so well in
the caves will merely lash us for insubordination and not behead us for this
grave disobedience.”

The
vehicle receded from view.

Tariq
slipped the ancient leather strap of the rifle over his shoulder, “You worry
too much. We will not bother the Warlord with this minor anomaly.”

Qadir
stood taciturn for several seconds considering the words of his workmate; the
man seemed to know the Warlord far better than anyone. Perhaps he was right.

He
trotted after his companion as they resumed their sentry duty around the ruins.

The
two men walked for many minutes in silence through the dried oasis and out into
the narrow stretch of open desert that led to the caves.

Finally
Tariq spoke, “She is a beautiful woman.”

Qadir
nodded.

“This
last year spent only with men has caused me to forget how enchanting the fair
blossoms can be.”

Tariq
stopped suddenly and grinned, “If she returns, perhaps I will woo her.”

Qadir
laughed at his workmate, “A grimy EurAfrican Serf like you and a pretty little
Free City maiden? I think that you would have better luck with the mangy old
streetwalkers in Tunis.”

“Ah;”
Tariq smiled pleasantly, “it never hurts to try.”

• • •

Far to
the south, during a brief respite from the incessant icy wind that howls across
South Georgia Island, Keira hugged Seamus just in front of the little white
cottage perched above the harbor at New Grytviken.

He
kissed her cheek with his cold, thin lips, “Thank you, my dear for delivering
an old coot to his new home.”

Keira's
eyes were misty, “Take care of yourself, Seamus.”

As he
watched from the porch, Luis smiled at the two while they said their goodbyes.
They seemed almost like a revered grandfather and adored granddaughter, he
realized.

She
sniffled a bit and finally turned to trudge down the hill towards the landing
pad.

Seamus’s
shoulders slumped as he stood stiffly against the wind and watched the woman
board the patrol craft.

Luis
was quite certain that the old man would live out his final days in New
Grytviken.

With a
steadily building roar, the patrol craft lifted off and dashed away.

Seamus
waved halfheartedly to the receding ship and then hobbled back up the steps. He
stared pleadingly at Luis, “For the second time in my life, I've lost
everything. After I retired from work as the Chief Engineer on the
Billikin,
I had no one. I moved to Free City and eventually met a few nice folks.” His
shoulders slumped, “Now that's gone too.”

“Come
on inside,” Luis smiled to the downtrodden old man, “you'll always have me and
Moresby on South Georgia Island.”

• • •

There
had been some mention of an unusual new gun by Zmuda just before he'd left Free
City, the slave recalled. 'A strange new type of particle beam weapon,' the
Lieutenant had said. The Spy Master had shown him some drawings and a few fuzzy
snapshots of the mysterious gun.

The
slave dug around in the janitor's closet for supplies.

Officially
he was seeking some floor cleaner so that he'd be able to mop the long hallway,
but in reality he hoped to find something that would aid in his efforts to kill
the Commander.

He
spotted a clear jug that contained a thin yellowish liquid. The slave glanced
down the hallway before he opened the receptacle. The contents exuded a sharp,
acidy stink. Petroleum distillates of some sort, he decided, perhaps naphtha or
paraffin oil. Both had been used for centuries to remove tar and grease stains.

He
capped the jug and set it aside.

Most
of the rest of the cleaners and disinfectants in the closet were water-based
and therefore useless for what he had in mind.

Near
the back of the closet was a small and tattered box that was labeled with a fat
red exclamation point to warn off the illiterate. It contained small soft white
granules that resembled laundry detergent. He detected a distinct odor of
ammonia and urea.

The
slave spent several seconds examining the labeling on the box. Much of it was
written in the odd and indecipherable new language called
rEn sprak
or
People
Speak
that was spreading throughout AmerAsia.

He
slowly smiled when he spotted the molecular formula near the bottom of the
backside:
CH5N3O4/(NH4)(NO3)/Filler:
CaCO3/
Trace:H2O.

This
smelly, soapy powder and the yellowish liquid would make up the majority of
what he would need.

• • •

Several
hours later the slave had perfected the crude explosive in his tiny room in
Housing Block 43.

As he
had occasionally done in the past, he had taken several short walks out amongst
the deserted landscape that made up this corner of the base. When he was
certain that no one was around, he had set off tiny test explosions.
Fortunately none were much louder than a single firecracker and of course they
were barely noticeable compared to the incessant noise of the firing range a
kilometer or so away.

Now he
carefully cobbled together a small bomb.

The
yellowish liquid caused the soapy powder to clump together into a grainy and
oily blob. He estimated that he would need a quantity about the size of a small
chicken egg.

Shortly
he would add the final two key elements: A pea-sized piece of Y28 plastic
explosive detonator that resembled a reddish-brown clump of chewing gum and a
tiny glass bulb that contained two wires and a bead of mercury.

The
bulb was called a Mercury Displacement Switch, although it reminded him of a
single miniature Christmas tree light from his youth.

Both
had been carefully hidden in his sandals many months ago by the CRAMP before he
began his life as a slave in Mogadishu. He smiled a bit at the clever
deception, stowing explosives in shoes had been commonplace during the
twenty-first century but apparently no one had yet conceived of it in the mid
twenty-fifth century.

The
Mercury Displacement Switch was an absurdly simple device: Laid on its side,
the silvery liquid metal was well away from the wire leads inside of the glass
bulb. But if it was tipped upright, the Mercury connected the two wires
together to complete the circuit. It would allow a spark to jump through the
lump of detonator material and set off his homemade bomb.

The
effort was not only likely to kill Rameau but also would destroy the unusual
handgun.

He set
aside his small cache of improvised explosives and retrieved the tiny radio
transmitter hidden in the pair of pants that dangled from the clothesline.

The
slave methodically tapped out a new message: ATMPTNG2KILDOG.

If the
first effort to murder Rameau went either very well or terribly wrong, the
slave ruminated, this could easily be his final message sent with the tiny
transmitter.

He
activated the device.

In
about three hours he would endeavor to murder the Commander.

• • •

“There
he is!” Lev reported from the driver's seat of the rusty off-road vehicle.

Jasper
and Mixion strained to spot the Lieutenant as they were jostled about in the
backseat.

Zmuda
sat in the dappled shade provided by a few old palms next to a similar old
vehicle with the motor access hatch propped open.

Lev
pulled next to the apparently malfunctioning machine.

The
Lieutenant trotted up to greet them, “How did it go?”

Mixion
smiled and held up her well-wrapped arm. “It took longer than we expected and
for a few minutes I thought that we might be shot in the back but we made it.”

“Good,
good,” Zmuda helped the woman from the backseat. “Let's see what you picked up.”

For
the next hour the Lieutenant repeatedly pealed back small sections of the wrap
and painstakingly swabbed the freshly uncovered sections of the woman's hand
and arm.

He
would then pass the collected specimen to Jasper who would insert it into an Erie
Instruments Chromosomal Comparator.

Lev
stood guard on a low ridge about fifty meters away.

Six
minutes after sliding the eleventh sample into the machine, a cheery 'ding'
announced conclusive results.

Zmuda
joined the big Australian and the two contemplated the message on the
Comparator's display screen.

“Definitive
Match. Margin of error > .001%,”
lazily flashed on the display.

“Just
as we suspected;” Zmuda noted, “the Desert Serfs come into regular contact with
Daniel Kufuzu, the recently recloned and still very well hidden Warlord of
EurAfrica.”

“Do
you need anymore samples?” Mixion wondered.

“No;
we've certainly found what we were looking for.”

The
woman nodded and removed the long plastic strip from her arm.

Jasper
stowed the Comparator, whistled loudly to Lev and beckoned him to join them.

When
the three junior spies had gathered around the Lieutenant, he produced an
ordinary looking bottle of what appeared to be conventional sun block lotion.

“This
is a particularly potent toxin custom tailored to kill
only
Daniel
Kufuzu.”

Lev
stared at Zmuda in disbelief.

“The
CRAMP has been working on variations of this for a few years now,” the
Lieutenant lectured the young man. “Mixion used an earlier form to kill off
Dimitri Verhovnyi at the Warlord's palace on Titan about a year ago.”

The
woman recoiled at the mention of Verhovnyi; “I had to repeatedly stroke the
bare flesh of that pig to get enough of the toxin onto him.”

Lev
tipped his head in dismay, “How are we going to do that with Daniel Kufuzu? The
Desert Serfs are certainly not going to reveal where he is.”

“No
need;” snorted Jasper, “that earlier stuff was the x-pathogen.” He tapped on
the bottle, “This is a much more virulent version called the y-pathogen.”

Zmuda
nodded, “All that you have to is to put a small amount on your hands and
especially your fingertips just before you meet up with the Desert Serfs again.
Try to touch them or any of their possessions as much as possible.”

“Like
ants returning to the colony with poisoned bait,” Jasper continued, “the Serfs
will bring the toxin to Kufuzu.”

“In
short order he will die of what appears to be a lethal bout of pneumonia.”

Lev
stroked his chin in thought for several seconds, “What if they just reclone him
again?”

“It
won't help,” Mixion grinned. “Since the Serfs will become unwitting carriers
for life, they will spread the Kufuzu-specific y-pathogen wherever they go. It
will lay dormant for centuries. If another clone is produced, he too will die
within days.”

“Mmm;”
Lev stared at the bottle, “hopefully no one ever cooks up a Lev Fesai
variation.”

• • •

In the
middle of his desk, an oil-stained note was laid haphazardly on top of the
small particle beam weapon.

Rameau
glared at the message, 'Fred, Why was this side arm left on your desk? Lock it
up at once! Major Gen SJLeBoc.'

“Friggin'
bastard!” Fredric growled. He did not appreciate his direct superior meddling
in his matters.

Rameau
set the note aside.

A
sharp, acidy urine-like smell caught his attention.

Yellow
liquid had formed a tiny pool just below the handle of the irreplaceable
weapon.

Perhaps,
Rameau reasoned, Bowie or one of the other Goons had damaged one of the
internal components.

He
gingerly gripped the barrel and lifted the gun.

Rameau
tipped the weapon to peek at the underside.

Just
inside the handgrip the inexorable chain of events took only a fraction of a
second to run its course.

The
change in orientation caused the miniscule bead of mercury to flow over the two
bare wires completing the circuit. A 90-volt spark arced through a pea-sized
lump of Y28 plastic explosive detonator producing a small pop and a great deal
of heat. The flammable mixture containing naphtha molded around the detonator
instantly ignited. Fanned by the oxygen-rich powdered nitrates, the oily glob
exploded.

The
small explosion shattered the antimatter power cell that had supplied the
initial charge in the handle of the weapon.