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

“He’s a clever man – maybe too clever. But he’s also ex-Guard. He understands the mindset of the Admiralty.”

“Too clever? What do you mean? You don’t trust Finnegan?”

“I trust that he’s powerful, has countless contacts and influence. I don’t trust how he’s become so close to us and the movement so quickly. Chancellors are cautious people, at best. Finnegan Moss showed no public preference in the civil war or toward the Solomons until you saved his life. Now, he keeps us in the loop about everything.”

Michael’s neck hairs stood. “I get your speed. Chancellors are nobody’s best friends.”

“Look, sweetie, I’m sure he’s sincere about helping us, but he almost certainty has a personal agenda. Just keep it in mind.”

“With Chancellors, nothing gets past me anymore.”

He didn’t want her to go, but it wasn’t his call. Michael understood how pivotal this conference would be in moving the dial closer to Solomon equity. Sam’s intel suggested one of the world’s biggest hardliners planned to attend, which was either a remarkable coup or trouble riding in on long knives.

The woman’s name was Celia Marsche, a Scandinavian who claimed descendancy all the way to the founding fathers of the Chancellory. Her money and influence towered over the Pynn and Moss names combined.

“They say the regional Sanctum in the Scandinavia Consortium is a puppet show,” Sam said, “because Celia Marsche is the governing body. She never leaves the consortium, has never travelled to space, and is rarely seen in public. If there’s even a chance she’s had a change of heart after watching our system implode, we need her voice to be heard. They say no one has ever defied her.”

Michael thought for a moment, looked for a punchline, but gave up. “Sounds like a narcissistic battle-ax. You be careful.”

“I will. And remember, sweetie, I’ve set you up with a backchannel feed to your stack. After it’s over, you can unlock every word. I don’t think a Solomon has ever had so much access.”

He appreciated the insider pass but also realized the risk she was taking. She wasn’t the first Chancellor to subvert protocol this way, but she was also the least influential to attend. If they caught her, there’d be hell to pay. Nonetheless, Finnegan insisted the backchannel program would avoid detection. He’d given the same tech to Rikard for improved surveillance.

Sam refused to leave the compound without spending a few minutes with her newest guests. The twins – Rosalyn and Brayllen Helmut – arrived six days ago after completing their assimilation tests. Although they adjusted well to direct sunlight, gravity remained a stubborn enemy. They had enough energy to push through short bursts – perhaps three hours of normal activity – before exhaustion required medication and a nap. Their gravmod boots helped but also acted like training wheels on a bike – sooner or later, the twins would have to wean off them.

Michael thought the children were well-adjusted considering all they’d been through. They kept their words cautious, to the point, but they smiled more often than not. Michael cracked a few jokes, but they reacted with confusion, not laughter. No one dared tell them about their parents’ likely fate.

Sam and Michael found them in the observatory. The chief gardener – a Solomon who worked for the Pynns almost thirty years – was showing them examples of local flora. Rosalyn, as it turned out, loved working in the greenhouses on the Ark Carrier Newton, where they lived above the colony G’hladi.

“I wish I had more time to spend out here,” Sam said as she interrupted their lesson. “I don’t appreciate all this like I should.”

Niles Javert, the head gardener, winked. “You sound like your mother, Miss Pynn. I remember once, after I’d been employed here five years, Grace confessed she forgot my name. After that, she took a greater interest. But Chancellors are very busy people.”

“Not too busy to appreciate true beauty.” She focused on the girl. “Rosalyn, how does it feel to know you can take these plants outside and stick them in the ground under the sun?”

“It’s still very hard to take in,” the girl said, looking up through the glass dome. “I can’t get used to all the space. We’re used to walls everywhere.”

“It’s the smells.” Brayllen piped up. “Everything smells different, even the same plants we grew on Newton. I keep sneezing and our nurse keeps handing me wipes. It’s crazy, Samantha. Your place is certifiably nutsacks.”

Sam laughed as she winked. “Nutsacks, huh? You’ve been listening to Michael?”

“Hey, you know,” Michael said. “Got to get the kids up to speed with the latest hip.”

He raised an open palm, and Brayllen high-fived. Rosalyn rolled her eyes. She hadn’t taken to Michael. That she referred to him as a proto-African within two hours of their arrival did not set their relationship on the proper footing. He thought of responding with snark, asking “just how white are the Ark Carriers?” He knew she would appreciate neither the subtlety nor the irony. Brayllen, on the other hand, was like kids he used to know in middle school: Hand always raised high, questions leading to more questions. Aggravating then, endearing now.

Both children were tall, stretching a couple inches above six feet, but they bore none of the tell-tale signs of Chancellors on the brink of adulthood. Neither was muscular, their faces were cherubic – to Michael’s eyes, about right for seventh grade. Their voices lacked the deep, guttural rhythm of older Chancellor children. He suspected they represented what Chancellory hardliners feared most about generations post-brontinium extract: They were ordinary.

“Listen, you two,” Sam said. “I have to be off. I won’t be gone but a day. I promise. The staff will take great care of you, and Michael, well …” She held back a snicker. “I’m sure he won’t fill your head with too much nonsense.” Michael punched her. “But