The Impossible Future: Complete set by Frank Kennedy (mini ebook reader .txt) 📕

He moved along, finding something to hit – clothes, hairstyle, Newcastle (jokes about the nearest metropolis were low-hanging fruit inside the prefecture). At last, in minute twenty-five of his act, Michael reached Finnegan Moss. He needed to act fast.

Moss sat stoic amid the laughter, his stern jawline a relic of his early years. Decades of post-Guard genetic recursion therapy did little to disguise the sadistic warrior they trained him in childhood to become. Yet Michael saw a hint of the reason the equity movement wanted to protect him.

“He bends the arrow,” Rikard said. “He wants to stand apart from the hardliners. He sends them a sign whenever he’s in public.”

“So, he’s with us?” Michael asked.

“No. I doubt he knows who we are. Or cares. We need to change that dynamic. If he survives the night, we have a new angle.”

Moss highlighted his jelled jet-black hair with a streak of silver below his left temple. The same decorative dash dotted the edge of his left brow. Men of his stature considered the style an insult to the accepted norm.

Michael knew Moss would be a hard sell, but he needed the Chancellor to play along. The delivery of the bleeder couldn’t be forced, so he took a chance.

“Now here’s a guy who knows how to walk on the wild side,” he said, pointing to Moss as the spotlight loomed over them. “I figure either you got a mad streak of cool, or you’re really a hundred years old and you missed a spot.”

The chuckles were polite – from the women nearby. Moss sat rigid, as if daring Michael to probe further. He did.

“No, seriously. I’m all in, dude. I mean, look at me. I tie my hair in knots. So, when I see a Chancellor trying something new, holy shit on a stick! I reckon I’m not the only dumbass on the planet. Am I right?”

The punchline hit. This time, he heard the laughter of men. Moss forced a half-smile. Michael went in for the kill. He extended his right fist, the backs of his fingers exposed, his signature move.

“Fist bump, dude. Let me have it.” Moss hesitated. “I got nowhere else to be. Whatdya say? Bump it! Bump it!”

Moss’s features softened. He complied. The impact lasted but a second. Long enough – Michael hoped.

“You’re a beautiful man. Don’t let these other assholes tell you different. We’ll hook up later. Party for the cool kids at your place.”

He moved along, his act wrapping a couple minutes later.

The applause was steady, business-like. He never expected a raucous sendoff, unlike his performances at less elite venues.

The stage lowered. Michael jumped off before it completed its descent. He grabbed the flask, took more than a small swig, and raced past the other performers – including the opera singer who had offered motivation.

He followed the predesignated route, hoping his extended act did not throw off the timing. Once Moss left for a private landing, everyone else needed to be in position.

Aside from a few of the club’s private guards – stacked chests meant former peacekeepers for sure – the sublevel was clear of all but Solomon staff. At the weapons check kiosk, just inside the rear staff entry, Michael tapped his amp and fingered his licensure data into a new holocube. He aligned his eyes against an inset retinal probe and waited for confirmation. A pleasant voice accompanied a green flash above the probe.

“Stack data verified. Cooper.Michael.Invidia.3-9-64.Onyx. Public armory license, established SD152, SY5355. Solomon exemption status. Item: Ingmar Pulse Gun, Model 16. Maintain your weapon with prudence and have a safe night.”

A dispensary opened, and Michael’s sidearm ejected. He tucked it inside his jacket and ventured toward the kitchen, though he was not authorized to have a weapon beyond the check kiosk.

After a few twists and turns, he entered the kitchen. Entilles was one of the few entertainment venues offering fresh-prepared food rather than automated kiosks using nutritional algorithms. Michael set his eyes on the sous chef, one of two inside informants.

Rikard said this woman was their key operative. She spent eight years at Entilles and knew every inch of the facility, often catering directly to the private landings. The bearers of food and drink moved through the club without suspicion. Though Chancellors found many creative ways to assassinate each other during the war, they did not bother with poisoning because simple holocube analytics scanned every consumable for lethal chemicals or compounds.

The sous chef oversaw meal prep, presentation, and deliveries. She also monitored credit transfer holocubes, a vital link to securing each host’s name and party guests. Per Chancellor tradition, the host paid only fifty percent the cost of food or facility, unless all present belonged to the same descendancy. Club policy required the host to register guests before receiving service.

When the chef saw Michael, she turned to a colleague and pointed to food being prepared on the line then excused herself. She walked past Michael as if he weren’t there and disappeared into a back room. Michael played it cool, got a few sniffs of the food, offered a cook the thumbs-up, then followed his informant.

When he entered the club’s hydroponics farm, the chef motioned him past three rows of tomatoes, greens, and eggplants. She threw open a holographic window and punched up the reservations for Finnegan Moss.

“You have thirty seconds,” she told him. “This had best work.”

“Tell me about it.”

Michael had yet to master every stream amp function, often stumbling on matters of data transfer protocols. He had struggled enough with first-Earth algebra; memorizing basic stream algorithms eclipsed such fundamental math. Matthias – Rikard’s husband – spent hours tutoring Michael on the transfer technique.

Only Chancellors or fully educated Solomons could launch a holocube and manipulate a data swipe by hand. Thus, Michael relied on