Assassination Anxiety (The McKenzie Files) Read online

  Jim was about to turn away when the cargo bay door began to open with its usual noisy hum. He expected to face Baylor and the other three men in the cargo bay, but was instead greeted by the Deltan, now standing instead of lying inactive on the cargo bay floor. The Deltan’s left hand was still clutched the control module cylinder. Its thin lens eye, formerly black and dead, now glowed bright red. The same red glow radiated from the barrel of its plasma gun arm rising to meet Jim Norton’s face.

  Shocked at the sight of this monster standing before him, Jim staggered back as his heart fluttered with panic. What the hell is this? They said this thing was dead. Where the hell are the others?

  Loud thuds came from the Deltan’s feet as it took two steps toward him. The tip of its plasma weapon hovered inches away from Jim’s face as he heard a deep, gravelly voice order, “Stop!”

  The Deltan did not move, but kept its plasma gun aimed at Jim’s face. Jim was too frozen with fear to even think about looking for the source of the mysterious voice.

  The voice boomed out again, “We have need of this one.”

  The Deltan lowered its plasma gun and took a step back. Looking past the mechanical monster, Jim saw the bodies of Baylor, Jamison, Moyer and Wardell lying on the cargo bay floor. Streams of black smoke rose from large holes that were burned though Moyer and Wardell’s helmets.

  The voice blared out again, this time addressing Jim. “You will not bother to return to your base. I’m giving you a new destination.”

  Jim’s first theory was that the voice was coming from the Deltan. Then he realized that its source was the cylinder that the Deltan was carrying.

  The cylinder continued to speak. “Your current mission has reached its conclusion. Now I’m giving you a new one – to aid me in the final destruction of the United Protectorate.”

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  Chapter 2

  Standing on the wooden stage plastered with posters displaying her smiling face and that of her running mate, Vice President Paul Zona, United Protectorate President Sandra Drennan stood before the podium, giving her campaign speech to residents of Kendridge on the planet Tacoma Three. Vice President, Paul Zona, a youthful looking man with blond hair, smiled behind Drennan as she spoke into the twin tubular microphones on top of the podium, her crisp voice booming from the six-foot-tall speakers at either side of the stage. She gripped the podium with authoritative energy, her red dress bright against the backdrop of the requisite dark suits and shades worn by Secret Service Agent Mike Stevers and five others scanning the multitude of faces in the crowd.

  In addition to the Secret Service team, Drennan had protection from a kinetic repulse shield generated by four flat cables on the stage floor. The protective energy configuration resembled a cube of thick blue glass. The shield would provide her with a large degree of protection against small arms fire and would have limited strength against explosives. In spite of this added security measure, Agent Mike Stevers felt that this was a bad location to hold a campaign speech – at the edge of a park, across the street from a federal courthouse. Drennan was completely out in the open with only a few trees behind her. The courthouse and a row of other buildings provided a tempting sniper perch. Still, they tried to cover all the bases.

  Earbuds allowed Mike and the other agents to keep in touch with each other and receive security status updates. Small remote keypads on their belts enabled them to switch channels and communicate with different parties. Mike watched the huge crowd, observing their cheers and applause to Drennan’s address. He felt confident no one here would present a threat to the President’s security. Everyone attending this rally was walked through a tight security checkpoint. Everyone underwent a full physical scan for any weapons, as well as chemical and biological agents. All bags and accessories were searched. Electronics were scanned to determine if they could be disguised weapons. Both sides of the street leading to this area were blocked off by the police. The airspace over the entire city was restricted during Drennan’s visit, and patrolled by police assault shuttles. Mike watched as one of these shuttles made a slow pass several feet overhead, its long black tubular body ending in a sharp point. The cylindrical engines mounted on the sides had broad triangular wings attached to them. Mounted underneath each wing was a long-barreled laser cannon and a large rectangular launcher that carried six Hellstrike missiles. Protected by thick armor and a deflective energy shield, this was one of five police shuttles that patrolled the airspace while at the same time keeping a close watch on the ground with their scanners.

  Police and Secret Service agents strolled through the crowd, on guard for anything that appeared to be suspicious. The President’s security was so tight that Mike had joked she would need a tracheotomy to breathe. What kind of fool would even think about challenging these security measures to try to threaten the President?

  A female voice addressed him through his earbuds. “Stevers, Sector Zero. What’s your status?”

  Sector Zero was his assigned area where the President stood. He pressed a button on his keypad and responded via the microphone built into the earbuds. “Stevers, Sector Zero all clear.” He listened briefly to the background chatter of status reports coming in from agents handling the other sectors. So far, all clear.

  As Drennan spoke, the crowd responded with roaring cheers to her words of defiance against the Brelac and victory in the war that they waged against humanity. She spoke of her vision to bring greater prosperity to the United Protectorate as it expanded to colonize new worlds. Mike caught few of Drennan’s words. His focus was on the diversity of faces within the crowd. Mike would like to think that a majority of the people here were good and loyal citizens of the Protectorate. But the mandate of the Secret Service dictated that he and the other agents be aware of any potential threat to the President’s safety. Lurking among this boisterous crowd of supporters could be one or more Vendetta agents waiting for a chance to strike.

  Looking to the sky again, Mike watched the police assault shuttle make a slow pass high above the heads of the crowd. Then it banked to the left and flew over the roof of a gray brick apartment building. Then to Mike’s surprise, the rear section of the shuttle exploded. Mike froze, helpless as he watched the now flaming craft spin out of control on its descent toward the street. Screaming people on the ground fled the area before the shuttle slammed into a parked silver car. The flaming explosion shattered windows of a nearby building and momentarily drowned the crowd’s panicked screams that rang through Mike’s ears.

  What the hell’s going on? What could have taken out that armored, shielded shuttle with such ease? The once peaceful rally turned into a chaotic mob of screaming people scurrying in different directions to escape the area. The state of disorder became even clearer to Mike as he listened to the round of male and female voices through his earbuds. “Johnson, Sector Three, to Sector Two. Do you see anything?”

  “Mitchell, Sector Two, reporting. We didn’t see any shooter. We’re still looking.”

  “Romans, Sector Five, reporting. No shooter in sight. Repeat, no shooter in sight. Everybody stay sharp.”

  A stern male voice addressed Mike over his earbuds. “Command to Sector Zero. Prepare for the President’s evac. Repeat: prepare for the President’s evac. Sectors One and Two are falling back to your position to get the President to her limo.”

  As Mike expected, Command was taking no chances. “Stevers, Sector Zero. Understood. We’re standing by.” At the first sign of trouble, the President was to be driven out of the area with an armed escort. It was the job of Mike and fellow agents here in this security sector to keep everyone back until the agents in Sectors One and Two arrived and formed an armed human shield around the President while they escorted her to her limousine parked at the side of the street, just a few yards to the left of the stage. Along with the five other agents, Mike drew out his Tempest 9 laser pistol and focused his attention on the crowd. He listened to the excited voices over his earbuds.

  “Done
gan, Sector Six. I’m moving through the crowd. I don’t see anything – too many people.”

  “Ortez, Sector Seven. I see a light.”

  A second later, Mike heard a man’s voice screaming in agony.

  “This is Donegan. What is that? Get those people out of here!” Several other agents joined the chatter, shouting orders or questions. Sector Seven, where Ortez had reported seeing a strange light, was located to Mike’s right, further down the street and past the courthouse. It’s got to be a weapon, Mike thought. Might be what took down the police shuttle.

  While shoving panicked people away from the stage area, Mike looked to his right and saw dozens of people running away from a bright red light. The light seemed to grow in size and intensity. Cars parked at the side of the street caught fire and exploded within the light’s aura. Horrified, he watched people caught within the light burst into flames. There was nothing that he could do to help them, as his duty was clear – remain at his position with his fellow agents at all costs, and protect President Drennan with his life.

  Mike received a message over his earbuds. “Sector Zero. Get ready for the President’s evac. Repeat: get ready for her evac.”

  Mike was relieved to see a group of ten men and women in black suits rushing toward his position. The agents of Sector’s One and Two had arrived, each toting a laser pistol. Mike looked back to the stage and saw Drennan, still encased within the protective energy cube, crouched down behind the podium as she watched the chaos. Mike took a small remote keypad out of his suit pocket. He pointed it at Drennan and pressed a key. The energy cube surrounding her faded away just as the group of agents stormed over the stage. “Move! Go! Go!” Mike shouted, pointing to his left toward the waiting limousine.

  The agents surrounded Drennan and escorted her off the stage. Just then, the building in front of the police shuttle crash site exploded. Huge chunks of flying masonry and broken metal beams hammered the area. Mike and the five other agents ducked down, raising their arms to protect their heads against airborne brick fragments. Mike caught the sight of a large metallic sphere being hurled into the air by the blast. It was heading for the stage. Mike dove down as the sphere hit the ground with a loud thud near the left side of the stage. Mike jumped back to his feet. In the distance, he could see the group of agents running with the President as they reached her limousine. Two red police cars with white side stripes, parked in front of the limousine, headed off with their light bars flashing. In the air above them, three of the police shuttles converged hovered in a triangular formation.

  Mike turned his attention back to the thing that was hurled out from the explosion. “Stevers, Sector Zero. We’ve got something here.” He moved past the other agents to get a closer look at the object that had embedded itself halfway into the ground as it landed. It appeared to be a large ball of metallic debris. Long, pointed shards of shiny metal covered the object. Mike rough estimate was that the object was five feet in diameter. And it also appeared to be moving. Mike jumped back when he saw a blue stream of energy burst from the object. His heart racing, he saw several more streams of energy shoot out from the thing like small electric arcs. The word bomb flashed through his mind. “Get down!” he shouted to the other agents.

  He ran and dove to the ground. A second later, a deafening blast went off near the stage. Sharp pain stabbed his left side. He was unable to move his left leg. He glanced down and saw several metal shards from the object embedded in his leg, back, and left arm. He groaned, feeling his blood soaking his clothes. Wearily he pushed up on his good arm and looked about to see that the other agents in the area were still on the ground. To his far left he saw a mangled body penetrated with shrapnel.

  A report came in through his earbuds. “We’ve got the President aboard. We’re heading out.” He heard more screams, and a woman’s voice cried out, “It’s coming! Look out! Shoot it! It’s coming!” Looking to his left, Mike saw the flashing blue and red lights of the two police cars leading the President’s motorcade down the street, away from the area. As the black limo and three black utility vehicles carrying Secret Service agents sped away, three police shuttles flew overhead to deal with threats in the air or on the ground. Mike shuddered as pain charged through his body. At least the President is safe.

  Trying to get a grip on the situation, he looked back toward what was left of the stage ripped apart by the blast. Thick black smoke rose in the air from the shattered remains. Behind the debris, he saw something moving – long, dark, and squirming, like a snake or a tail. He glanced at the exploded building partially obscured by a cloud of dust and smoke. Metal and stone debris littered the area. Through the dust cloud he saw something move, something that looked like a large person – very large, close to eight feet tall, wearing some sort of long flowing cape or a robe. The figure emerged from the dust cloud, brandishing thick, muscular arms with hands balled into massive fists. Behind it, a long tail thrashed from side to side.

  A tail? Instantly Mike recalled the other tail-like appendage he’d spotted near the wreckage of the stage. “Brelac!” he cried out. He repeated that word into his microphone. “Brelac! We’ve got Brelac in the area!”

  Mike’s instinct was to open fire at this alien threat, but his hands were empty. He’d dropped his gun. Quickly he searched the ground and found it lying a foot in front of him. He reached for it as a shrill, continuous scream to right caught his attention. He turned and saw a man engulfed in flames running toward him. Already in pain, Mike yelped, horrified as the man collapsed just a few feet away. The heat and greasy-sweet stench of burning flesh so close by made him want to vomit, but that reaction quickly passed as he looked past the burning body and saw that strange red light. Another vehicle near the light exploded into flames. A police assault shuttle soared in and hovered over the area. The twin laser cannons on its wings fired crimson bolts down on the vicinity of the light, but the light kept moving toward Mike. Lying helpless on the ground, he could do nothing except scream out in pain under an intense heat as the sickening odor of burning flesh came from his own body.

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  Chapter 3

  Colin ran through the street littered with loose bricks and twisted metal beams that had fallen from the bombed-out buildings. The thundering booms of explosions behind him drowned out the rapid crunching of his black knee-high boots as he ran through debris. Cool drafts fanned through the holes torn in the knees and right shoulder of his green camouflage fatigues.

  An explosion went off to his right, hurling large chunks of rocks and dirt into the air. He ducked but kept running toward his target up ahead – a four-foot-tall rough triangular remnant of what used to be a gray brick wall sitting among a pile of stone rubble. It was the only semblance of cover, and hiding there might grant him a few more seconds of survival.

  Reaching the wall, Colin made a sharp right turn and skidded to his knees, sliding on his back as he fell in behind it. Instantly he saw he wasn’t alone. Diane Christy crouched behind the wall, wearing knee-high black boots and green camouflage fatigues like his, only without the holes torn in the shoulder and knees. She brandished a large laser rifle, its two-foot-long barrel pointed skyward. A strong gust of wind blew a cloud of dust past her, lifting her long black hair in billowing tendrils. Colin found himself momentarily mesmerized by the sight of her until a loud explosion nearby shook the ground beneath him. He flinched, but Diane remained steady.

  “Glad you could make it, Sarge,” she said, smiling. “I wouldn’t want to take on the entire Brelac army by myself.”

  Colin said nothing as he looked into Diane’s eyes. She reached out and grabbed hold of Colin’s shirt, pulling him close, with their faces just inches apart. Colin watched, entranced, as Diane’s lips parted. “One last kiss before we die,” she rasped, closing the distance between them. Their lips touched.

  * * * * *

  Colin yelped and sat up, startled awake in near total darkness. It took him a second to realize he was on his cot in his qu
arters and not back there ... with her.

  Breathing heavily, he swiped at the dampness on his brow and grumbled, “Another one of those crazy dreams.”

  As a sergeant, Colin was given the privilege of being assigned a private six-by-ten room in the back of the barracks building at the military installation on Maseklos Prime. There were no windows, and even keeping the door wide open provided no additional light. But light would shed no illumination on his personal dilemma. He sat in the darkness, stewing about the dream that had shocked him awake. I haven’t seen Diane in about two months, now here I am, dreaming about her. Romantically. Again. So far, this was the third time this week he’d dreamed about her. He was beginning to long for the nights when his dreams would be reruns of his day’s activities. This new pattern was disturbing. Maybe his subconscious was trying to make up for her absence in his life. But did he actually did have a subconscious mind like a normal human? Did he have a true mind at all? As a Reploid, his entire thought process was a part of a complex computer program – a program that was still a huge mystery to him. It was already clear that the program was designed to rerun images of his past activities while he slept – the Reploid’s equivalent to dreaming. But now the program and its dream sequences were starting to become creative. Too creative. This was a problem.

  Colin considered trying to go back to sleep, but knew his chances of success were slim, because he was now wide awake. He turned to his right and glanced at the small clock sitting in front of the lamp on his nightstand. It was so dark, he couldn’t see the lamp or the nightstand. All he could see was the numbers on the face of the clock glowing bright red, declaring it was 4:47 in the morning, two hours before he had to report for work as assistant supervisor at the military supply warehouse.