Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a fat bloke in the corner sitting on some woman’s body. I do hope she’s dead, because he’s not a small mammal. From another view, knowing he crushed a woman to death might help offset the shock when they tell him that isn’t claret he’s sucking from his chubby fingers.
You want someone quietly dead, hire an assassin. You want someone filled-with-projectiles dead, hire a contractor. You want everyone nearby dead, use a bomb.
“But,” I hear you think, “what about all that hypersec?”
And you’d be right. The ultra-rich and similarly paranoid wankers don’t get offed by assassins or contractors, and bombs only get to decorate the scenery with guests and staff. Same goes for any long-range fucking about. You might crack the crockery and torch the flowers, but you’ve got about as much chance of getting your mark as I have of waking up tomorrow next to anyone who isn’t still in my bed because of a stasis field.
No, the ‘cyborg soldier’ thing won’t work either. One mark dumped an ice bucket over a ‘killer robot’ and shorted the thing out. For that tactical hiccup, an ex-colleague found out it’s all fun and games until you get hung from an anti-grav platform by your intestines.
Closed environments, nano-filtration, force screens, the list goes ever on. It’s why the top-end of prospective targets are considered off limits. That’s what you’ll be told, anyway. The fact that they’re beyond conventional hit strategies won’t be mentioned. After all, you might be determined and rich. Hits get paid up front, with bonuses for success. Multiple attempts pay better than a completion fee, and you usually get to survive long enough to collect.
So, you want some hypersecured wanker ended? Either wait for them to die, or message my contact point. I’ll check you and your life out. If I don’t like the look of you, nothing will happen. If I think you’re bait, you’re going to die. Otherwise, we’ll have a chat. Then you’ll ship several tonnes of valuables to some obscure frontier planet. After that, you’ll wait.
The problem with being good at this is that the opposition aren’t fuckwits, either. Each novel killing method can only be used once.
Take tonight’s little get together: top-tier, whole space platform, private army, private space navy, no hired help, and nobody gets in without an invite.
Countess Pari Marchand had a discreet procedure six weeks ago. It all went very well. Lord Geoffrey Carnes had a rejuvenation, including replacement kneecaps, especially for tonight’s bash.
Which meant that neither had seen each other for nearly two months. Predictably, they slid away for some quiet time. The heat of passion is a useful thing. Elevated body functions can trigger all sorts of mischief implanted while being operated on by substitutes in my pay. The private room they retreated to let the resulting aristocratic goop ferment nicely. The closed environment circulated the vapour exactly where I needed it to be: everywhere.
Hallucinations and chronic polyphagia were the main effects of that bastard concoction, plus a few things to make people very enthusiastic about consumption. End result was that everyone at the party went berserk. They tried to eat everything, including each other. Most importantly, they ate Sir Douglas Stourbridge, my target.
I’m monitoring the emergency services feed. It’s being treated as the worst terrorist atrocity for twenty years: another invisible kill for my unseen tally. Nice. Never underestimate anonymity.
You need an atrocity to get the job done? Need extinction performed on an individual, nation, or planet? Got treasures to spare? Contact me.