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

“If we don’t stop her and she blows away Moss, we got a shitload more to worry about. Don’t forget, it was your bright idea to set up this noose instead of warning Moss directly.”

Rikard didn’t respond. If this turned into a disaster, the blowback would fall on him.

“Look, dude. This shit is real. I’m gonna double-back to the kitchen. I doubt she’s still there, but it’s worth a try.”

“OK, Michael. But if you’re wrong and she’s still there, do not shoot her. Hold her until our asset arrives, but do not kill her.”

“Sure thing, dude. Alise the chef sends in her goons after me, but I’m going to talk sweet nothings to her. Got ya.”

He tucked his attackers’ weapons inside his jacket and kept his own partially hidden in a side pocket, ready to unveil. The kitchen continued to work as if nothing happened. They wouldn’t have heard the muzzled pops from this distance.

Michael didn’t see the sous chef. He kept his cool and straddled up alongside one of the line cooks.

“Who are you?” A grizzled old Asian man said as he stirred soup. “This is no place for …”

“Just looking for Alise. You ain’t seen her around?”

“She is making deliveries. You need her, you wait outside.”

“The sous chef does service, too?”

“We all serve. We rotate. Club policy. You smell foul. Get out of here before I call security.”

Only when he stepped outside the kitchen did Michael realize another missing element. He stuck his head back inside and asked:

“Where’s the head chef? What’s his deal?”

The cook dropped his soup spoon and threw up his hands.

“Chef is not here tonight, and neither are you. Get out.”

Michael’s mind stirred the possibilities, juiced the scenarios with a dose of paranoia, and realized he might have screwed up. He made a dash for the staff lift to the private landings.

“Rikard, I have a bad feeling we forgot about somebody else. OK. Shit. Maybe I did.”

He rounded a bend and saw Alise pushing a dinner cart into a lift. Their eyes caught; she rushed inside. He sprinted, determined to worry about his back later. He caught the door and aimed.

“Here’s how we play it,” he told her. “If I’m wrong, one of us is gonna be dead in a few seconds. If not, you need my sorry ass to stay alive. What’s it gonna be, Alise?”

He couldn’t see her hands, both hidden behind the cart. Silver domes covered what he assumed were meals.

“We cannot be seen together,” she said. “If anyone links me to the movement, I’ll be out of a job. Now go.”

He stepped inside and allowed the door to close. “No worries. You taking that to Finnegan Moss?”

“What?” She raised her hackles. “No. What are you …?”

“Where’s your boss? The head chef? Is he off tonight?”

“Yes. A family emergency.”

“Look, does he have full access to guest profiles, landing menu requests, secure loops, the whole shit and kaboodle?”

“The shit and what …? He’s our manager. Of course he …”

He double-blinked. “You getting all this, Rikard?”

“I am,” Rikard said. “Listen, I heard what you said. You were right. I caught up with Moss’s security chief. I’ve relayed the threat. They’re swarming around Moss’s landing. Our asset should be close. Stay with Alise and protect her.”

The lift opened to level five, the sous chef’s destination. Michael insisted they go back down, but Alise pushed the cart out.

“Moss is on Level Four. Whatever else is going on, I need to do my job. I cannot break my cover.”

Michael understood. He stepped out into a wide, ornately designed corridor which played the softer melodies of Sibelius, one of the Collectorate’s most popular composers.

“OK, so here’s the play,” he told her. “You serve, and I’ll keep a safe distance. Anybody asks, you don’t know me, and they ought to call security. Sound good?”

She nodded. “I knew this operation would be more trouble than it was worth.”

He watched Alise push the cart to the fourth landing. There, she pressed a greeter and waited for a response. The double-door pixelated and disappeared. She entered, offering Michael a grin as she vanished inside.

“She’s in,” he told Rickard.

He waited in the corridor, wondering how long before a gaggle of high-and-mighties arrived by lift to party and powwow. Yet the hall remained quiet save for Sibelius. The excitement dwindling, Michael focused again on his burning back. He was glad Sam was off-world; he wouldn’t be able to lie his way out of this.

“We’re good down here,” Rikard announced. “Moss’s team has secured him, and we have identities on the women. Regional Sanctum reps. He was going to negotiate tidewater variances for an offshore farming enterprise, if you can believe it. Probably some bribes involved, but nothing out of the ordinary. At this point, no one can get to him. They’re arranging a cordon now, and we’ve begun a search protocol for Head Chef Patroon.”

He sighed. “Good. I reckon. But wait … hold the phone.”

He looked at Landing 508, where Alise was working. Silence. How long does serving take? He felt like ten minutes had passed.

“Rikard, what’s the landing number for Moss?”

Rikard hesitated just long enough for Michael to worry.

“408,” the voice in Michael’s head rang out.

“Oh, fuck. She’s on top of you. Get everybody out of there pronto. Hear me, dude?”

Michael moved closer and heard a low rumble. The floor shook. Then a whistle, like fireworks launched from their berths.

The door pixelated. Michael raised his Ingmar in his right hand and a dead man’s gun in his left.

The dinner cart rolled across the corridor, slamming into the far wall. Michael recognized the distraction too late. Brilliant green flashes erupted from inside, and a moving dark shadow cut through the madness. Alise the sous chef came