KINRU

  KINRU

  by

  Stuart J. Whitmore

  Copyright © 2016 by Crenel Books

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between any elements in this work and anything in real life is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9961258-5-7

  ISBN-10: 0-9961258-5-X

  UUMIN: E#385a10bb-8361-4d7a-b88e-fb80976db201

  Connect with the author and subscribe to his newsletter at: StuartWhitmoreAuthor.com

  For Emily

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  Corlane Deryala looked past his Rann colleagues and out through the conference room window to gaze at the traffic streaming by. The mesmerizing stream of hover transports, all evenly spaced and synchronized, was a suitable distraction from the police commissioner's maundering excuses. The old man should have retired years ago, Corlane thought. The city might finally make some progress catching the troublesome anarchist if that retirement happened now. Or if a convenient accident occurred, Corlane thought darkly.

  "So what you're saying," Corlane spoke up into the awkward silence when Commissioner Wurly stopped speaking, "is that despite all of the staff and technology you could hope for, with surveillance essentially embedded into every corner of this metropolis, you still have no idea who this man is, what he wants, or when or where he might strike again. Or, to put it succinctly, despite having every resource to not be in the dark, you are in the dark. And so are we."

  "Rann Deryala," Commissioner Wurly said, his voice taking on a whining note that reminded Corlane of his nickname for the man, Commissioner Whiny, "as I told Rann Yussar, we have collected information but I did not deem it necessary to bring it with me today."

  "Because," Corlane said, "it is of no value, as your whitewashed overview of the problem amply demonstrates. I can collect useless information too--"

  "Rann Deryala," another man, seated at the head of the table, spoke up, "as the junior member here, it might be best if you listen and learn rather than interjecting your frustration. We all want to catch this anarchist and end the mayhem he is causing, but bickering with our talented law enforcement forces will not move us closer to that goal."

  Corlane wanted to ask Rann Yussar when they might get to meet the talented police forces, but he knew it would be unwise to be outwardly insubordinate to Rann Yussar. The police commissioner would not pose any future threat to his political aims, but Alluk Yussar was another matter entirely. "Yes, Rann Yussar," Corlane acknowledged. It was time to tune out the rest of the meeting. Listening was pointless, there was nothing useful to learn from people making excuses or patting themselves on the back for non-accomplishments.

  Corlane returned from the conference room via a water refill station to top off his puraflask, and he took a long drink when he arrived at his cubicle. It was the best tasting water one could ever hope for, but water is water, not exciting. Corlane waved his hand over the activation circle on his desk. A soft tone let him know he could proceed.

  "Remind me when I am at home to put a package of Nu-tasty in my pack," he said. A two-tone, low-high response let him know that the task was completed. "That is all." Another soft tone sounded.

  "Rann Deryala," he heard a female voice behind him.

  Corlane turned. "Rann Pillane," he said with a nod of greeting. Sertea Pillane was a tall brunette who never had problems attracting men, unless the problem was attracting them too easily, but for some reason Corlane never felt that sort of attraction himself. He was pretty sure she also held no such interest in him. This did not limit their friendship, however; if anything, it enabled it. "Any good word for me this afternoon to help ease my impatience with bureaucrats?"

  Sertea laughed lightly. "Such disdain for your future position in life."

  Corlane snorted. "Bite your tongue."

  "Did you hear that Rann Huisar was re-elected?"

  Corlane's eyes grew wide for a moment. "Are you kidding? I thought for sure that she would lose this time. One scandal after another, yet she keeps her position."

  Sertea nodded. "I think one leads to the other. She stays in power and retains access to all the temptations that lead her into scandal, and her scandals entertain the masses, even if the masses would be quick to deny it. Maybe," she said with a wink, "you and I should have a scandal or two when it's time for our re-election."

  "Oh, sure," Corlane said. "All in the name of duty to my constituents, of course."

  "Of course. Say, you were supposed to have an appointment with your medoc yesterday. How did that go?"

  Corlane shrugged. "As ambiguous as every other visit. Healing apparently is one part billing and one part keeping patients in the dark so they don't realize how badly they're being over-billed."

  Sertea arched an eyebrow. "Don't start ranting about medocs," she scolded him lightly. "My father is one and I dare say he never overbills his patients."

  Corlane gave a little laugh. "And I dare say you never missed out on any holidays as a child."

  "If you're going to be rude..."

  He waved his hand dismissively. "You know I'm teasing. Okay, mostly. I would love to get to the bottom of my troubles, though, rather than the bottom of my bank account. I feel like the latter will happen before the former."

  "Do you want to talk to my father?" Sertea asked seriously. "He's not a sleep disorder specialist, but he might be able to give you a second opinion, or at least validate what your medoc is telling you. Or, I suppose, if there's something wrong with what yours is doing or saying, I'm sure he'd be honest enough to say so. I could introduce you, and get you a family discount. If he doesn’t feel qualified, he can at least give you a referral to someone he personally knows and trusts."

  Corlane was quiet for a moment as he considered it. "I may take you up on that," he finally replied. "I don't want this thing holding me back and somehow I could see a future challenger pointing out my health problems as a reason people shouldn't support me."

  Sertea was about to say something more, but a distinctive pattern of chimes from behind Corlane caught both of their attention. One low, three high, three times in a row. That didn't directly mean bad news, but they never announced good news urgently. Corlane turned and waved his hand over the activator.

  "Main display, incomm one," he said. A section of wall that previously blended in with the surrounding wall turned black and then became an image of the city government's logo and a message telling them to wait.

  "How much do you want to bet he's struck again?" Sertea commented softly, her eyes on the screen.

  "Bet? With our politically-protected police taking their sweet time investigating? I'd consider it a sure thing. The only thing worth betting on is how much damage he did and how disruptive it was."

  "Or what the point of it all might be," she commented.

  "Point?" he asked, glancing back at her briefly. "He's an anarchist, he doesn't need a point, he just wants to cause trouble, disrupt things, impose chaos over order, that sort of nonsense."

  Sertea made a soft humming sound. "Maybe," she said.

  Before Sertea could elaborate, the display changed. They saw the face of ol-Rann Keanet in her office. The old woman looked to be far beyond any reasonable retirement age, but the one time Corlane had met her in person, one on one, she left no doubt in his mind that she was still a force to be reckoned with.

  "Triple-A has managed another atta
ck," ol-Rann Keanet said, using the pseudonym the anarchist had assigned to himself in his very first attack.

  With each attack, he left three uppercase A letters arranged in a pyramid, usually acid-etched on some surface where investigators would be sure to find it if the attack was in the physical realm, or in some obvious digital form for cyber attacks. The first time, he had also used a permanent marker to leave a simple note with the etching, which had been done on a transit stop just outside of the front entrance of the main headquarters building of the city police.

  "Since you're not especially quick-witted, I'll explain to you that this is pronounced Triple-A. I will also explain that you will see it again. Yours in chaos, Triple-A."

  Analysis of the writing had determined it was written by a bot, and all surveillance of that location had mysteriously failed at just the optimal time to avoid offering any clues. This, authorities would find out later, would be a recurring feature of Triple-A's attacks.

  "Luckily," ol-Rann Keanet continued, "there were again no human casualties, although he managed to destroy fifteen service bots, with a damage estimate well exceeding four million ceets. This was apparently not his primary target, however, as the bots were working to unload and sort cargo on Pier 465-C. That pier was destroyed. The cargo in question was low-value food, so the primary loss is that of the functionality of the pier. As you know, this comes at a time when 465-C was being used heavily during maintenance at other piers. Teams of investigators are on station. This concludes this briefing."

  The screen went blank, and moments later faded into the surrounding wall. Corlane turned to Sertea.

  "A shipping pier? That's almost... boring, don't you think?"

  Sertea smiled faintly, shaking her head. "I don't think he's looking for excitement," she said. "This is a functional attack on our infrastructure as well as a political blow, as the odds are higher that this event will be noticed by the general public."

  "You underestimate the cover-up machine. So, you think he's calculating what to hit, rather than doing things at random?" Corlane asked, sounding skeptical.

  "That would be my bet," she said with a wink. "It looks like I have work to do, though, as do you."

  Corlane gave a soft snort. "Of course. If we can't have effective police, we can at least have effective propaganda. See you later, Rann Pillane."

  Chapter Two

  "Just a little while longer, my bureaucratic friends," Anhukarr said as he watched the nightly wavecast news. "Just a little while longer." He laughed without joy. The press conference on the news was no surprise, nor very interesting. They always said similar things after he managed to bypass their safeguards and sow a little mayhem. If they saw the larger pattern they might be more concerned, but he wasn't even sure of that. Maybe they were only ever concerned about having their names come out on top in the farcical elections.

  No, the words being spoken didn't mean much to Anhukarr, but two of the faces pulled in to boost the public's confidence that everything was under control mattered more to him. Rann Deryala, shunted off to one side as a junior Rann, and looking particularly peeved. And Rann Pillane, on the far side of group, but a known good friend of Rann Deryala. That friendship bothered Anhukarr. It bothered him deeply.

  "I know your politically-connected father twisted your mind," Anhukarr said, his gaze focused on Rann Pillane, "but I am confident that you are not like the other money-grubbing paper pushers. I believe you are smart enough to grasp reality when it is shown to you. But like the others, you also have only a short while longer to wait before I can make myself fully known to you. Then you can decide for yourself...”

  His voice trailed off as his mind departed further from the wavecast of government-polished infotainment. There was so much he wanted to say to Rann Pillane.

  “Well, enough of this,” he said as his thoughts returned to the press conference. “It pains my heart to see you so, standing with the other fools. Especially Deryala. I should prepare some more excitement to keep things moving along."

  Anhukarr turned away from the wavecast and the display turned off automatically when it detected his inattention. Idly he wondered why they recorded the press conferences instead of casting them live. Several days always passed between his actions and any official excuses for their effects. Anhukarr guessed the recordings were made the day of the event. Perhaps, he pondered, they were released after a calculated delay with the goal of managing and minimizing public awareness that anything had happened at all. Anhukarr was determined to make this one more obvious than others, if for no other reason than to annoy those who were supposedly investigating his actions.

  "The pier made a splash," he said with a weak laugh at his own weak joke. "Now it's time to ramp up demand for the foods that won't be replenished anytime soon. All those carbohydrates sacrificed, floating in the harbor, but it's for a good cause. And maybe I’ll improve public health by accident."

  The grin on Anhukarr's face didn't reach his eyes. He strode over to his work board and passed one hand over the activator on one side. The board, one of the largest he could find, covered the majority of the wall. It took on a faint blue glow as it activated, but the wall behind it was still easily visible. As systems were initialized, icons and other shapes glowed to life in the display, and Anhukarr began his dance.

  There was no music, no beat, and no particular rhythm, but Anhukarr's fluid movements as he worked on the board hinted at the same determination and purpose that one might find in ballet. Probe this, exploit that, slide past this protection, launch that script. He moved quickly, keeping a separate list of systems that gave him more trouble for further analysis later. These sticking points were usually easily resolved with social hacking, but the risk of detection was far greater in that activity now than it had been in long-past golden years before his birth. Now it had to be a last resort, and he rarely needed to lean on it.

  When he was done, he deactivated the board and turned away from it with a sense of quiet satisfaction. Consumers would be flooded with advertisements across a broad swath of media, promoting the non-essential but highly popular goodies that he had sent swimming. Stores would empty promptly, leaving bare shelves that would stand out from the rest. Shelves were never empty anymore, with the entire production and distribution chain fully automated, and the sight of empty shelves could induce anything from mild curiosity to panic. Anhukarr hoped for the latter but wasn't particularly concerned. It was just a subtle message for the masses, and a pointed message to the self-proclaimed authorities.

  "Now, had I been even more clever," Anhukarr mused aloud as he slide aside the door of his perishables chiller, "I would have stocked up on some of those treats and then sold them for ridiculous prices after the stores were sold out." He pulled out a can of a locally-produced ale and slid the door shut again. "I suppose I could do that now, if I moved swiftly, but that might draw unwanted attention. My lack of greed saves me again!"

  With another laugh, he left the small corner of his apartment that served as a kitchen and returned to the wavecast display. Sensing his return, it activated itself minimally, awaiting instructions. He told it display a waterfall live feed, and after a brief display he was presented with a tall waterfall that appeared, judging from the flora around it, to be in a northern latitude.

  "More tropical," he said.

  The display shifted to another, shorter waterfall in a location that appeared to be near either sunrise or sunset. A small indigenous animal was at the edge of the small pool at the base of the waterfall. This display suited his tastes, so he requested no further refinements. Sipping slowly at his drink, he sat down on a soft chair and leaned back, willing his mind to relax and empty itself.

  He watched as the small animal waddled away from the water's edge. He was glad that it had not been attacked by a predator while it was vulnerable. Anhukarr was comfortable with the circle of life, but there was a time to witness it and a time to not think about it. When he was seeking a peaceful moment to
contemplate his plans, the random bloodshed of nature would not help shift his state of mind in the right direction.

  A soft chime to one side drew his reluctant attention to one of his earliest hardware projects, a notice board that would look merely decorative to anyone else. The patterns and colors of softly glowing lights against a matte black background could carry complex state information for things Anhukarr wanted to know about, while giving the appearance of subtle and unobtrusive art.

  "That is troubling," he said aloud, his tone bordering on anger. His desire to meditate on his plans would have to be denied a bit longer. "Wave government news three," he instructed his wavecast display. The waterfall scene disappeared, replaced by the official government news channel for matters regarding law enforcement and emergency response.

  "...of the counterfeit items," the male announcer said. "I have just received a bulletin," he continued, "that an individual who may be the anarchist known as Triple-A has been apprehended by a POTAR team in commercial district 37-B. The individual was observed smashing windows and using indelible markers to write anarchist slogans on walls in that sector." Anhukarr snorted but continued to listen. "While these are less sophisticated activities than those that have been claimed by Triple-A in the past, I am told that the individual in question was in possession of an acid etching kit, which could have been used to leave the mark that Triple-A has used in the past."

  "Waterfall!" Anhukarr snapped. He wasn't going to waste more time on the government's drivel. The tropical waterfall live feed reappeared.

  "That's not anarchy, that's just childish mayhem," he said after a moment, anger clear in his voice. "Possibilities... One, they could be lying, but it's a stupid lie even for them. Two, the person was a government agent, presumably tasked with giving the government something to do that would make them look like they might be effective, and try to diminish interest in me. Still stupid, and even they should know how wasteful that attempt would be.