Thank you all for reading my novel, Square One: A Tale of New New York. It took many months to write this book and I can easily say, I really enjoyed writing it. At times I look back at it and want to dive back into the editing process, but I feel it is a snapshot of both myself and the world in which it was written.
If you want to own this, you can download a digital copy or soft cover here:
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/square-one/4499107
Thanks again for reading!
I have more writing to come but I won't be releasing things in this way again. I think that its hard to quantify the value of posting it this way.
-Matt Powers
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Epilogue
Susie rolled over in bed, her brown hair spilling across her face. She gathered the sheets modestly around her breasts. The sun played warmly across her back. It was nearly noon and Josh was still fast asleep and snoring softly. He lay on his back. His mouth hung open limply framed by his shaggy black beard. Susie scooted so she was inches from his face and then tugged lightly on his beard. Josh snorted and jerked awake.
“What? What….. Yeah, mm hmm, okay, what?” he murmured still not fully awakle.
Playfully, Susie said, “Guess what?”
“What?” clipped Josh in the abrupt language of the half asleep.
“C’mon guess? I bet you’ll never guess,” said Susie in a mischievous voice that made Josh wake up a little more, and begin to take stock of the situation.
“What?” he asked a little afraid by her knowing smile. Women made him nervous when they looked at him like that, a cat eyeing a mouse. “What did you do?” He was almost fully awake now.
“Hmm hmmm,” she laughed softly. “You did it.”
“I did what?” he asked, knowing now that he was definitely in trouble.
“I’m pregnant!” she squealed happily and jumped up onto his knees bouncing the bed and pulling the sheets off of him.
“What?” said Josh numbly, at a loss for words. He suddenly felt a chill flash across his body. He managed to smile weakly.
“I’M PREGNANT!” yelled Susie at the top of her lungs. Her head thrown back. She let the blankets fall and spread her arms majestically.
Momentarily taken by her naked form, Josh forgot what she’d said, and then returned to himself and stuttered, “But…but…”
Pointing a finger at Josh, she said, “And you’re gonna be a daddy.”
“Oh vap,” breathed Josh with dread.
Today was the last day. They’d promised. Today, they’d remove his body cast. Jack Wendleton twitched with excitement. The nurses had been thoroughly on guard, patching him up daily and preventing any sort of escape. Jack wondered if they were briefed daily on his progress or merely trained initially for body cast victims. The news was finally unedited. Since he was deemed not contagious and all his nodes removed, he was moved from the military compound to the small, cheaply run Chinatown outfit, he’d been watched less and less and no effort was made to alter his surroundings to fit his mind-frame. They gave him plenty of painkillers intravenously and he enjoyed a variety of foods in liquid form. He wondered often if Professor Tell had survived the blast that had destroyed most of Manhattan. Tell had never visited him after his transfer. He probably was too deeply entrenched in the Pregnancy Plague, either that or he’d been atomized along with everyone else. His thoughts carried him through the day until it was time.
Jack was shocked to learn from the doctor that he was going to saw him out of his cast. Jack recognized the saw for what it was, a bone saw. He yelped in fright and thrashed unsuccessfully in his fixed form to get away, but only succeeded and getting put under for the whole ordeal.
When he came to, he was completely from his torso up. His hips and legs were in a new plastic and Velcro cast that looked like it could be easily removed. His skin was pink with a freshly scrubbed look to it. They bathed me, thought Jack in shock, without my permission. Offended, Jack decided to escape on the grounds of wounded dignity, and he began to prepare for the journey. He wrapped the thin white cover sheet around him with much fidgeting and squirming. He knotted it at the base of his right shoulder. It was dignified in a Roman sense Jack thought to himself. He located his wheel chair that he was supposedly to use for his restroom visits but never had the opportunity and instead opted for wetting the bed, because half the time the nurses were attractive and the cleanup afterward often provided the stimulation that got him through his day. With grunts and muffled yelps of pain, Jack finally positioned himself into the chair and experimentally moved around the room. He soon discovered that he was still tethered intravenously to his morphine dispenser which he was quite fond of. He considered fashioning it into some type of spear or staff of ceremonial importance but decided time was too short for that and instead tipped it over enough that he could retrieve the two IV bags and stuffed them into his shirt. Examining himself in the mirror it appeared like he’d gained mammary glands which didn’t jive with his afternoon shadow. He considered that the effectiveness of the morphine dispensation would be affected by their altitude, so he set about devising a hat of sorts like they use at the baseball games for beer. Jack snatched his pillows from the bed and yanked the pillow cases off. He tossed them back on the bed and covered them with the quilt, a lame semblance of himself sleeping. He then tied the two pillow cases together and slipped the IV bags into them. He knotted the opening off into a ring that he placed onto his head like a crown with tubes protruding from it. Jack wheeled his new wheelchair out the door hesitantly canvassing the hallway for hospital enforcers. Finding it devoid of authorities, he slipped out and attempted to act casual. He found his chair to be a pleasantly smooth ride. He wondered if perhaps all the swinging had made the morphine dispensation rate increase. She smiled at a visitor who looked at him wide eyed. He made it to the elevator unscathed, without even a question asked. He was on his way out without a hitch. The elevator doors opened and he had a clear line of sight to the outside world. The automatic doors were opening and closing smoothly admitting and releasing people indiscriminately. Jack wheeled his chair nonchalantly. He waved and smiled at people like a king. They all smiled back.
Outside the world was much as he remembered it. The sky looked strange, a halo of low clouds, and the sun looked strange, more yellow than orange. Must have something to do with that shield the anchors were all blabbing about, thought Jack. He didn’t waste time taking it in. He instead pumped with all his might away from the hospital that had kept him hostage for so many long months. He was no longer contagious. He was no longer a threat, and now he was no longer a prisoner.
He made three blocks before the cops picked him up.
Sly Louie sipped at his maté latte experimentally. He made a screwed up face in disgust. Terra laughed at the wrinkles it made across his scalp. She’d never dated a bald man and it was surprisingly expressive. He was a well-known crime lord and a gentleman. The combination had initially intrigued her and now she was thoroughly snared. At some point, she’d decided that she could turn him from his life of crime into an upstanding citizen. So far at least to her knowledge he had, for the most part. The battles for control were won by cunning and lethal strength, but control was quickly released and placed in elected hands. Crime was for the moment dormant in New New York. As head of Square One, Terra was a figurehead of progress and survival. The AG dome was a Square One accomplishment. Order and peace were a Sly Louie success. Together they were a well received and talked about couple. Strangely enough, both their names were on the ballot for mayor. The interim city government was headed by the district heads that had been lucky enough to be on home turf when the shield went up, and they were the ones who’d proposed the elections and were overseeing it, not to mention running in it themselves. Sly Louie was unconcerned with the outcome or at least that’s how he appeared. She took a sip of her own mate latte. It was delightful. It wasn’t authentic. The rainforests that produced the original crop had long grown wild and too dangerous to cultivate. The product probably still existed in some form naturally, but synthetic was still at treat, no matter how the unacquired tastes interpreted it.
“How do you drink this vile concoction?” asked Louie, still making a face, as he loudly chewed a croissant to rid himself of the flavor of dirt and grass that came to mind.
“You’ll get used to it,” laughed Terra. She leaned back in her chair and looked out over Chinatown, which was the main body of New New York, or as Louie put it New York. From his building’s balcony, they could see the length and breadth of the entire city.
“What makes you think I’ll ever try it again?” asked Louie with a smile.
“It’s good for you, so you’re going to drink it instead of that black goop you guzzle every twenty minutes!” said Terra in a mock warning voice.
“You mean coffee?!” asked Louie incredulously, his eyebrows arching and his eyes widening.
“I’ve already talked to the staff about it and they got rid of it all except the box that’s out. I’m gracious enough to let you wean yourself off it,” said Terra, fighting back a smile.
“WHAT?! MY COFFEE!” exclaimed Louie in shock, “Which one of them helped you! They’re all fired as far as I’m concerned! I’m the one who pays them. I can’t stand any more betrayals. First I’m not a criminal anymore, then I’m a interim chief of police, and now I’m holly jolly mayor of-“
“You’re not firing anyone. That’s not your job. It’s the wife’s job to handle the help,” said Terra pedantically.
“Wife? Who said anything about a wife? I-“
Terra leaned over the small table and planted a kiss on Louie’s lips, interrupting him. As she pulled back, she said, “I accept your gracious offer. I’ll marry you.”
With a sheepish grin, Louie blushed and said, “When?”
Real Estate Classified Section of the New York Times
Frederique Guillard’s Gallery has finally closed. LeMon Diamdemonde, the infamous artist who fled the country recently, held his last show there, killing any hope that its patron, Jean Guillard, of a home or a future here in New York. The famous entrepreneur’s son has left New York for good along with, rumor has it, the balance of the infamous and ghastly artwork that bankrupt him. Though purchases were scarce, there are reports that certain private anonymous collectors maintain some of his older pieces and at least one of the latest. The lot right at the cusp of the AGS Shield has a fantastic view of what used to be the rest of New Manhattan. It is now part of the desirable Waterfront District on Henry and West 2nd St. It has two floors (1000 sq. ft. each) and a basement (900 sq. ft.), glass front window and a backyard complete with real grass and two live trees. It is up for sale to the highest bidder. The auction will be held at the Buddha Bakery on Canal and West Broadway Tuesday March 15th at 11 am.
On the day of his baptism, Roto had been extremely enthusiastic. He hadn’t had a drink or a stimulant in 2 months. He’d been on the right side of the shield when the bombs hit. He couldn’t have been happier. His fiancée, Margaret Chadwick, had been rehabilitated and already baptized and through the temple. She had been just waiting on him to make that leap of faith, and as Roto dawned the white and was plunged into baptismal waters he truly felt converted. It was only later that he had grown concerned.
“What do you mean the ‘Reformed’ church?” he asked the Bishop testily, or as testily as he was willing to be to the highest ranking member he knew.
“Well, I’m no history teacher, but a long time ago there was a break in the church and we had to create some reforms. For instance, forced plural marriage that was something the original church was against but that’s why we created the reforms. There’s other stuff too, like Joseph Smith being part of the godhead-“
“I knew it!” cried Roto. “How could a man, even a prophet become part of the godhead! It makes no sense! No other prophets were made Step-Brother of Jesus! It’s madness!”
“Now Brother Roto you are bordering on blasphemy. If you recall,” the Bishop waggled his finger under Roto’s nose, “you signed a contract forfeiting your discretion, increase, and property. Sir, we are now in charge of what’s best for you. And what’s best for you right now is to obey your wives. Now if you want to have a rational open conversation with Margaret, Janice, Geena, Anne, Sariah, Beth, Vivian, and Tiffany, by all means bring them on down, but until that time quit your name calling and blasphemy or we’ll put you into re-education so fast your head will spin.” Smiling kindly, the Bishop made a shooing motion.
“One more thing, Bishop. What ever happened to the original church?”
“They’re around, an outpost of them survived across town, why?” the man’s eyes thinned shrewdly.
“No reason. Always had an interest in history,” said Roto dejectedly.
“Well let’s not let it grow into a passion. Stay away from those Latter Day Saints now, and stick to our version of the scriptures and listen to your wives and you’ll survive alright. You hear?”
Roto left the office convinced that he must escape what had become the most cunning counterfeit. He wondered how he could get eight simultaneous annulments and a dissolution of his forfeiture contract. He just had to find the real church. He started away from the church at a fast trot. By the end of the block, he was sprinting.
Joseph sat on an overturned paint can surrounded by a large gang of street thugs. A month ago, he’d been a scared child separated from his family, but now he was much, much more. His team, as he liked to call it, was slowly consolidating power in the Docks, effectively keeping the Makros zombies and fanatics out. The last thing they needed was a group of them asking questions or taking people off. John Makros was in charge by all accounts. Superficially, he looked to be as good as his word, but Joseph knew better. The man masquerading around as John Makros was as much the man as he was. It was the same zombie that’d led him to the Docks to be jumped only a short while ago. Joseph didn’t know why he’d decided to do that, but he knew he wasn’t a friend of his, and he knew as long as he was somewhere where the Makros cult thrived he would not be safe. That’s when he decided to persuade some others to join him. The others became more and more. Some even joined out of free will. Joseph hadn’t even had to convince them mentally. It was a measure of how much better Joseph’s methods were than John’s. He’d never remove someone’s self, he’d only show them how it was in their best interest. Smiling coldly, Joseph told them all mentally that he was thankful for their coming and their strength in the face of evil. He told them as he told them time and time again that what had happened those several months ago was not a revolution, only a power struggle between two different forces of evil. They were fighting to see who would dominate us entirely, and now we know who will try: John Makros.
President Walton stepped off the craft with as much dignity as he could muster. His staff followed after him hesitantly. Prof. Strongold’s AG craft was not made to specifications as he ordered, but it was a mechanical marvel nonetheless. Before leaving he’d been able to get the racing stripe removed and a small American flag embossed on the side. The patriotic flair was not lost on those that greeted him as he landed. ‘America the Beautiful’ was being played by a string quartet somewhere out of sight. Walton beamed at President Muenster broadly and shook his hand heartily. The man smiled at him like an old friend, and rest a hand on his shoulder in a friendly way. Things were starting off on the right foot.
Coasting over the jungles of Brazil, Albert scanned for the telltale signs with an eager light in his eyes. When he’d stopped to eat a mango for breakfast, he’d smelled the thick acrid scent of ozone. The jungle that he’d read about as wild and dangerous was tame and silent as if the strange animals and giant insects had all fled. It was eerie, but exciting. Albert knew he was close. Once during his breakfast he’d heard a bird cry. It was a solitary sound in an empty world of lush green and vibrant colors reds and yellows. He felt that he was nearing it now.
Five minutes later the undulating jungle gave way, to nothingness, true nothingness. It was as appalling as it was breathtaking. If Nietzsche could only see this, thought Albert in awe. The undoing of creation. The reverse of light. The opposite of matter.
Albert was so taken in his did not see the small aerial droids, even when it passed over him, because by that point there was nothing to see.
“What? What….. Yeah, mm hmm, okay, what?” he murmured still not fully awakle.
Playfully, Susie said, “Guess what?”
“What?” clipped Josh in the abrupt language of the half asleep.
“C’mon guess? I bet you’ll never guess,” said Susie in a mischievous voice that made Josh wake up a little more, and begin to take stock of the situation.
“What?” he asked a little afraid by her knowing smile. Women made him nervous when they looked at him like that, a cat eyeing a mouse. “What did you do?” He was almost fully awake now.
“Hmm hmmm,” she laughed softly. “You did it.”
“I did what?” he asked, knowing now that he was definitely in trouble.
“I’m pregnant!” she squealed happily and jumped up onto his knees bouncing the bed and pulling the sheets off of him.
“What?” said Josh numbly, at a loss for words. He suddenly felt a chill flash across his body. He managed to smile weakly.
“I’M PREGNANT!” yelled Susie at the top of her lungs. Her head thrown back. She let the blankets fall and spread her arms majestically.
Momentarily taken by her naked form, Josh forgot what she’d said, and then returned to himself and stuttered, “But…but…”
Pointing a finger at Josh, she said, “And you’re gonna be a daddy.”
“Oh vap,” breathed Josh with dread.
Today was the last day. They’d promised. Today, they’d remove his body cast. Jack Wendleton twitched with excitement. The nurses had been thoroughly on guard, patching him up daily and preventing any sort of escape. Jack wondered if they were briefed daily on his progress or merely trained initially for body cast victims. The news was finally unedited. Since he was deemed not contagious and all his nodes removed, he was moved from the military compound to the small, cheaply run Chinatown outfit, he’d been watched less and less and no effort was made to alter his surroundings to fit his mind-frame. They gave him plenty of painkillers intravenously and he enjoyed a variety of foods in liquid form. He wondered often if Professor Tell had survived the blast that had destroyed most of Manhattan. Tell had never visited him after his transfer. He probably was too deeply entrenched in the Pregnancy Plague, either that or he’d been atomized along with everyone else. His thoughts carried him through the day until it was time.
Jack was shocked to learn from the doctor that he was going to saw him out of his cast. Jack recognized the saw for what it was, a bone saw. He yelped in fright and thrashed unsuccessfully in his fixed form to get away, but only succeeded and getting put under for the whole ordeal.
When he came to, he was completely from his torso up. His hips and legs were in a new plastic and Velcro cast that looked like it could be easily removed. His skin was pink with a freshly scrubbed look to it. They bathed me, thought Jack in shock, without my permission. Offended, Jack decided to escape on the grounds of wounded dignity, and he began to prepare for the journey. He wrapped the thin white cover sheet around him with much fidgeting and squirming. He knotted it at the base of his right shoulder. It was dignified in a Roman sense Jack thought to himself. He located his wheel chair that he was supposedly to use for his restroom visits but never had the opportunity and instead opted for wetting the bed, because half the time the nurses were attractive and the cleanup afterward often provided the stimulation that got him through his day. With grunts and muffled yelps of pain, Jack finally positioned himself into the chair and experimentally moved around the room. He soon discovered that he was still tethered intravenously to his morphine dispenser which he was quite fond of. He considered fashioning it into some type of spear or staff of ceremonial importance but decided time was too short for that and instead tipped it over enough that he could retrieve the two IV bags and stuffed them into his shirt. Examining himself in the mirror it appeared like he’d gained mammary glands which didn’t jive with his afternoon shadow. He considered that the effectiveness of the morphine dispensation would be affected by their altitude, so he set about devising a hat of sorts like they use at the baseball games for beer. Jack snatched his pillows from the bed and yanked the pillow cases off. He tossed them back on the bed and covered them with the quilt, a lame semblance of himself sleeping. He then tied the two pillow cases together and slipped the IV bags into them. He knotted the opening off into a ring that he placed onto his head like a crown with tubes protruding from it. Jack wheeled his new wheelchair out the door hesitantly canvassing the hallway for hospital enforcers. Finding it devoid of authorities, he slipped out and attempted to act casual. He found his chair to be a pleasantly smooth ride. He wondered if perhaps all the swinging had made the morphine dispensation rate increase. She smiled at a visitor who looked at him wide eyed. He made it to the elevator unscathed, without even a question asked. He was on his way out without a hitch. The elevator doors opened and he had a clear line of sight to the outside world. The automatic doors were opening and closing smoothly admitting and releasing people indiscriminately. Jack wheeled his chair nonchalantly. He waved and smiled at people like a king. They all smiled back.
Outside the world was much as he remembered it. The sky looked strange, a halo of low clouds, and the sun looked strange, more yellow than orange. Must have something to do with that shield the anchors were all blabbing about, thought Jack. He didn’t waste time taking it in. He instead pumped with all his might away from the hospital that had kept him hostage for so many long months. He was no longer contagious. He was no longer a threat, and now he was no longer a prisoner.
He made three blocks before the cops picked him up.
Sly Louie sipped at his maté latte experimentally. He made a screwed up face in disgust. Terra laughed at the wrinkles it made across his scalp. She’d never dated a bald man and it was surprisingly expressive. He was a well-known crime lord and a gentleman. The combination had initially intrigued her and now she was thoroughly snared. At some point, she’d decided that she could turn him from his life of crime into an upstanding citizen. So far at least to her knowledge he had, for the most part. The battles for control were won by cunning and lethal strength, but control was quickly released and placed in elected hands. Crime was for the moment dormant in New New York. As head of Square One, Terra was a figurehead of progress and survival. The AG dome was a Square One accomplishment. Order and peace were a Sly Louie success. Together they were a well received and talked about couple. Strangely enough, both their names were on the ballot for mayor. The interim city government was headed by the district heads that had been lucky enough to be on home turf when the shield went up, and they were the ones who’d proposed the elections and were overseeing it, not to mention running in it themselves. Sly Louie was unconcerned with the outcome or at least that’s how he appeared. She took a sip of her own mate latte. It was delightful. It wasn’t authentic. The rainforests that produced the original crop had long grown wild and too dangerous to cultivate. The product probably still existed in some form naturally, but synthetic was still at treat, no matter how the unacquired tastes interpreted it.
“How do you drink this vile concoction?” asked Louie, still making a face, as he loudly chewed a croissant to rid himself of the flavor of dirt and grass that came to mind.
“You’ll get used to it,” laughed Terra. She leaned back in her chair and looked out over Chinatown, which was the main body of New New York, or as Louie put it New York. From his building’s balcony, they could see the length and breadth of the entire city.
“What makes you think I’ll ever try it again?” asked Louie with a smile.
“It’s good for you, so you’re going to drink it instead of that black goop you guzzle every twenty minutes!” said Terra in a mock warning voice.
“You mean coffee?!” asked Louie incredulously, his eyebrows arching and his eyes widening.
“I’ve already talked to the staff about it and they got rid of it all except the box that’s out. I’m gracious enough to let you wean yourself off it,” said Terra, fighting back a smile.
“WHAT?! MY COFFEE!” exclaimed Louie in shock, “Which one of them helped you! They’re all fired as far as I’m concerned! I’m the one who pays them. I can’t stand any more betrayals. First I’m not a criminal anymore, then I’m a interim chief of police, and now I’m holly jolly mayor of-“
“You’re not firing anyone. That’s not your job. It’s the wife’s job to handle the help,” said Terra pedantically.
“Wife? Who said anything about a wife? I-“
Terra leaned over the small table and planted a kiss on Louie’s lips, interrupting him. As she pulled back, she said, “I accept your gracious offer. I’ll marry you.”
With a sheepish grin, Louie blushed and said, “When?”
Real Estate Classified Section of the New York Times
Frederique Guillard’s Gallery has finally closed. LeMon Diamdemonde, the infamous artist who fled the country recently, held his last show there, killing any hope that its patron, Jean Guillard, of a home or a future here in New York. The famous entrepreneur’s son has left New York for good along with, rumor has it, the balance of the infamous and ghastly artwork that bankrupt him. Though purchases were scarce, there are reports that certain private anonymous collectors maintain some of his older pieces and at least one of the latest. The lot right at the cusp of the AGS Shield has a fantastic view of what used to be the rest of New Manhattan. It is now part of the desirable Waterfront District on Henry and West 2nd St. It has two floors (1000 sq. ft. each) and a basement (900 sq. ft.), glass front window and a backyard complete with real grass and two live trees. It is up for sale to the highest bidder. The auction will be held at the Buddha Bakery on Canal and West Broadway Tuesday March 15th at 11 am.
On the day of his baptism, Roto had been extremely enthusiastic. He hadn’t had a drink or a stimulant in 2 months. He’d been on the right side of the shield when the bombs hit. He couldn’t have been happier. His fiancée, Margaret Chadwick, had been rehabilitated and already baptized and through the temple. She had been just waiting on him to make that leap of faith, and as Roto dawned the white and was plunged into baptismal waters he truly felt converted. It was only later that he had grown concerned.
“What do you mean the ‘Reformed’ church?” he asked the Bishop testily, or as testily as he was willing to be to the highest ranking member he knew.
“Well, I’m no history teacher, but a long time ago there was a break in the church and we had to create some reforms. For instance, forced plural marriage that was something the original church was against but that’s why we created the reforms. There’s other stuff too, like Joseph Smith being part of the godhead-“
“I knew it!” cried Roto. “How could a man, even a prophet become part of the godhead! It makes no sense! No other prophets were made Step-Brother of Jesus! It’s madness!”
“Now Brother Roto you are bordering on blasphemy. If you recall,” the Bishop waggled his finger under Roto’s nose, “you signed a contract forfeiting your discretion, increase, and property. Sir, we are now in charge of what’s best for you. And what’s best for you right now is to obey your wives. Now if you want to have a rational open conversation with Margaret, Janice, Geena, Anne, Sariah, Beth, Vivian, and Tiffany, by all means bring them on down, but until that time quit your name calling and blasphemy or we’ll put you into re-education so fast your head will spin.” Smiling kindly, the Bishop made a shooing motion.
“One more thing, Bishop. What ever happened to the original church?”
“They’re around, an outpost of them survived across town, why?” the man’s eyes thinned shrewdly.
“No reason. Always had an interest in history,” said Roto dejectedly.
“Well let’s not let it grow into a passion. Stay away from those Latter Day Saints now, and stick to our version of the scriptures and listen to your wives and you’ll survive alright. You hear?”
Roto left the office convinced that he must escape what had become the most cunning counterfeit. He wondered how he could get eight simultaneous annulments and a dissolution of his forfeiture contract. He just had to find the real church. He started away from the church at a fast trot. By the end of the block, he was sprinting.
Joseph sat on an overturned paint can surrounded by a large gang of street thugs. A month ago, he’d been a scared child separated from his family, but now he was much, much more. His team, as he liked to call it, was slowly consolidating power in the Docks, effectively keeping the Makros zombies and fanatics out. The last thing they needed was a group of them asking questions or taking people off. John Makros was in charge by all accounts. Superficially, he looked to be as good as his word, but Joseph knew better. The man masquerading around as John Makros was as much the man as he was. It was the same zombie that’d led him to the Docks to be jumped only a short while ago. Joseph didn’t know why he’d decided to do that, but he knew he wasn’t a friend of his, and he knew as long as he was somewhere where the Makros cult thrived he would not be safe. That’s when he decided to persuade some others to join him. The others became more and more. Some even joined out of free will. Joseph hadn’t even had to convince them mentally. It was a measure of how much better Joseph’s methods were than John’s. He’d never remove someone’s self, he’d only show them how it was in their best interest. Smiling coldly, Joseph told them all mentally that he was thankful for their coming and their strength in the face of evil. He told them as he told them time and time again that what had happened those several months ago was not a revolution, only a power struggle between two different forces of evil. They were fighting to see who would dominate us entirely, and now we know who will try: John Makros.
President Walton stepped off the craft with as much dignity as he could muster. His staff followed after him hesitantly. Prof. Strongold’s AG craft was not made to specifications as he ordered, but it was a mechanical marvel nonetheless. Before leaving he’d been able to get the racing stripe removed and a small American flag embossed on the side. The patriotic flair was not lost on those that greeted him as he landed. ‘America the Beautiful’ was being played by a string quartet somewhere out of sight. Walton beamed at President Muenster broadly and shook his hand heartily. The man smiled at him like an old friend, and rest a hand on his shoulder in a friendly way. Things were starting off on the right foot.
Coasting over the jungles of Brazil, Albert scanned for the telltale signs with an eager light in his eyes. When he’d stopped to eat a mango for breakfast, he’d smelled the thick acrid scent of ozone. The jungle that he’d read about as wild and dangerous was tame and silent as if the strange animals and giant insects had all fled. It was eerie, but exciting. Albert knew he was close. Once during his breakfast he’d heard a bird cry. It was a solitary sound in an empty world of lush green and vibrant colors reds and yellows. He felt that he was nearing it now.
Five minutes later the undulating jungle gave way, to nothingness, true nothingness. It was as appalling as it was breathtaking. If Nietzsche could only see this, thought Albert in awe. The undoing of creation. The reverse of light. The opposite of matter.
Albert was so taken in his did not see the small aerial droids, even when it passed over him, because by that point there was nothing to see.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Chapt 19
Alvin Baask had watched the President wake this morning. He ran a large black hand over his patchy, graying beard in anxiety. It was clear. There was no longer any options left. The President of the United States was clinically insane. He’d written up his official reports and sent them via B.I.R.D. earlier that morning before the sun even began to lighten the night sky.17 Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he wondered how long it would take to go through the hierarchy and what they’d do when they decided upon his removal. An animatron could easily replace him, but then public appearances would be out of the question. At least he wouldn’t have to appear for reelection. The vice president was squirreled off somewhere in a dirt mound island south of Appalachia and who knows his mental status. Alvin shuddered at the thought of monitoring another president with possibly worse symptoms. Massaging the bald spot in his short-cropped black hair, Alvin decided this was most definitely the last. He’d resign. He’d earned it. A vacation and a semi-permanent retirement were in order.
Just then there was a knock at his door. A most unlikely occurrence as his door was behind a bookshelf in the Presidential library and unknown to all of the members of Air Force One. A cold sweat spread evenly over his whole body. He was instantly soaked. Who could it be? He quickly switched his cameras and jumped as he saw the entire library full of armed men, service men. They’re slim, suited forms lithe and violent in their unassuming stances. Checking chargers and safeties. Loading weapons. He watched as they knocked again. He felt himself shrink in terror. He knew they knew he knew perfectly well. This is how it comes around, thought Alvin, with a gun. He pressed the release button on the door and lifted his arms up and closed his eyes in anticipation of a hail of bullets and a blinding of lasers.
Instead a cool, steady voice said, “Sir? Alvin Baask? You are the Presidential Psychiatrist, right?” The young man looked worried but held his gun casually like a prop.
Blinking in relief and finally breathing again, Alvin licked his lips, “Yes I am. I… I assume you got my reports via the NSC?”
“Of course, sir. We are all on a need to know basis and we were instructed to your whereabouts only recently, sir.” This time the young man saluted when he finished. Others close to him did the same. His little army. The President’s own personal guard no less. His paranoia would probably in the end be all proven right. How ironic.
Pointing a long black and pink finger at the young man with pale white skin, nearly translucent, and closely cropped orange hair, Alvin said, “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Johnson, sir. At your service.” He saluted again.
Alvin made no move to salute back. He thought the whole idea of saluting him ridiculous as he had no military experience or rank. He was a psychiatrist, and no more. He didn’t even think he could manage to fake one of those stiff handed salutes. Instead he said, “We must arrest the president, alive if possible, and detain him for medical treatment. I need to get on the phone to the NSC pronto and secure a replacement Presidential Council. I assume that you all are qualified to handle this on your own so I will stay out of the way and let you go to work.”
The men saluted as one and filed out of the library. Alvin felt dirty and soiled as he watched their freshly washed and smartly dressed forms leave the room. He needed a shower and a shave. He needed a drink and a full night’s rest. He would get none of these things. The fate of the United States government rested on his shoulders and he needed to make some very important phone calls.
Nicola Kerova stared out from the exposed office wall of the Portland Birthing Centers. They’d done it. The prophecies had been fulfilled. The old man had been right. Now she herself would lead the all the Northern Tribes when her father passed away. She had proved her valor this day and killed many men, resorting to hand to hand combat more often than not. Lasers and projectile weapons ungainly and inaccurate, she found her knives were faster than most men’s fingers. All except one who managed to singe her shoulder. A green biopack was suctioned to it now and she could feel the uncomfortable sensation of flesh knitting itself back together. Within the week it would be good as new. It was more than most could say. She’d lost nearly half her men and women. It was a great day for heroes. Without the turncoats, Makros provided, it would have failed. She met the man midafternoon and wondered at his stern, unrevealing nature. Quite a powerful sense of control in his face. It was shocking to know after all these years: John Makros, alive and well. His entire operation was a manifestation of his mother’s and now he’d freed himself and all his members only to discover that none of them want to leave him since they claim it was he they were following in the first place. They called him, The Savior. A romantic notion thought Nicola, but helpful in their case, without them it would have been a close thing, very close.
A man in a caribou hide limped over to her. Rudon, a bear of a man, with beefy mitts for hands and a grizzly beard that hung in braids halfway down his chest. His piercing gray-blue eyes held her. He offered her a beaten metal cup. Silently she accepted it and toasted to the open air drinking the coarse vodka down in one swift gulp. It burned something vicious but it was good. It was real and raw like the day itself. She returned the cup with a grave expression. Now the real challenge: the rebuilding and the talking, which was always harder than fighting. You could always lose fighting and all that would happen would be you’d die but with words anything could happen.
Bertrand Velour woke that morning with a gun to his head, literally. It was the muzzle of a glass and lightweight carbon Z5000 Laser, EU government-issue, and he knew without waiting to hear his rights read to him by the commanding officer of the arresting party that they were EU secret police and that he was under arrest for the attempted assassination of the President of the European Union. His life, fortune, and lands were all forfeit. He vaguely wondered as they hog tied him and threw him into a plastic mesh sack if they’d make a decent profit off of his house. He’d just renovated the Southern Wing with its greenhouse and sunbathing room complete with up-to-date UV filtration windows. He almost felt inclined to mention it. It was as if he’d made it ready for them, ripened the cherry for the plucking. He wondered if it was the assassin who bungled, but no, it couldn’t be. Those men don’t make mistakes or talk. They kill or die. There is no inbetween. And then it came to him like the sun from behind a cloud: Spain. That Mendoza and his beautiful minx of a daughter. His anger quickly faded. He was in no position to do anything about it at all. He didn’t even have the luxury of anger. It was a waste of emotion. He contented himself to watching the light come through the cracks in the meshing. It looked like stars or sunlight through your favorite worn out t-shirt. It reminded him of his childhood in Nice where he’d swum in the ocean before it was too polluted for his body. He felt himself hauled into a vehicle of some sort and darkness descended. He wondered how long they’d keep him in this sack. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. It was the hogtying that got to him. He couldn’t scratch himself anywhere, but at least the mesh was abrasive enough that he could itch his face. Itches elsewhere else were less important. Probably the nerves. Whole lot of nerves in your hands and face. Always feeling and receiving. No way to turn them off.
For a while, Velour tried to sleep. He knew that his career was at an end and he was already working on accepting that. What he was struggling with subconsciously and it was causing him some distancing and detachment, was the possibility of losing his life. Treason worldwide was a capitol offense, punishable by death, always and everywhere. He knew that, but somehow, he felt that he’d be jailed. That he’d still be Bertrand. He’d still have something going. Not his house or backyard or vacation home in the Alps. No more mistresses and bottles of wine from distant decades before authentic wine became a rarified art. He dreamed himself a loophole to freedom. He imagined himself years from now even being released. People then saw how he’d simply had the EU’s best interest at heart. It was reasonable.
When at last he was lifted out of the vehicle and carted off to his next destination, Bertrand Velour was convinced that he could talk his way out of any sort of real punishment. He may lose his money and his power, but he’d still have his greenhouse, new sunbathing room, and his wine cellar. No one could appreciate it like he would. He knew Hans Groelmech was a good man, a man’s man. The practical sort that would show amnesty and graciousness when necessary. He’d learned his lesson. A trip in a sack would do that. Bertrand was a receptive guy. He saw it all now. The great vision of Muenster. The EU would be raised to a full-fledged global giant perhaps the first world government. Hans was right, and he’d been wrong. He saw that now.
Bertrand was dropped roughly to the floor. This momentarily perturbed him, but he then thought that maybe it was an accident. The man had obviously slipped. The sack opened and was dragged off of him. He blinked in the harsh light. He was in a square squat room with a low ceiling. There were three men before him and two guards on either side of him. They must have carried him all the way from his home.
He was about to thank them for their efforts when a booming voice interrupted his thoughts. The center man before him with his arms crossed in front of his barrel chest shouted, “BETRAND VELOUR YOU ARE HEREBY CHARGED WITH TREASON BY YOUR PEERS AND IN REVIEW OF THE EVIDENCE IT IS CLEAR YOU ARE GUILTY. I VOTE FOR NO TRIAL!”
The other two men boomed in unison, “NO TRIAL!!”
Bertrand gulped and was truly frightened for the first time that day. What was this all about, no trial? He tried to speak and was again interrupted by the frowned square headed center man with the protruding lower lips and squat flat nose, “THE PENALTY FOR TREASON IS DEATH!! I VOTE FOR DEATH BY THE ROPE!!”
“BY THE ROPE!!” came the response.
This time Bertrand found his voice and shrieked, “NO NO NO!! You’ve got it all wrong. Let me talk to Hans. I-“
“SILENCE!!” boomed the center man and the guard on Bertrand’s left clamped a hand over his mouth to quiet him while the man on the right fitted him with a muzzle. ROPE!! ROPE!! WHAT THE HELL WAS HE TALKING ABOUT!!! Bertrand Velour squealed shrilly and bucked wildly against his bindings but was held fast. He was hardly aware of their final words, “TO BE CARRIED OUT IMMEDIATELY!!”
This time there was no sack to hide him from the reality. Bertrand was dragged by the shoulders between the two guards past rooms of various torture and execution devices. A cold awareness came over him and he realized that he was completely in the right to try and overthrow this kind of man, that though his ways were underhanded he was never one to systematically control and torture a populace into order. His thoughts returned to Africa and he felt a thrill of fear and sympathy for its inhabitants. He’d never felt anything for the members of that continent before. In fact, he’d thought them backwards and subhuman, but now he longed to warn them. This man would stop at nothing and would and will destroy anything and everything in his path. Reminded again of his own demise, Bertrand struggled against his bonds and chewed viciously at the rubber gag in his mouth to no avail. The guards held his arms in vice-like grips. They dragged him to a room at the end of the hall. A single loop of a rope hung from the ceiling and chair sat below it. Bertrand failed to see the threat. He even grew slightly hysterically, hiccupped and laughed against his gag as the guards untied him and lifted him onto his feet. He swayed unsteadily and leaned on their thick arms. His legs were cramping and the return of blood to the muscles made them ache and burn. He worked his fingers and he reached for his gag only to have his arms bound again behind his back.
They hoisted him up onto the chair by his elbows, and that is when Bertrand realized the function of the rope and the chair. He ducked and tried to dive away from the two men, but one of them punched him in the solar plexus right below the rib cage and knocked all the air out of him. Bertrand struggled to breath through his nose and around the gag. It was difficult and he panicked. He felt the course rope around his neck tighten and then he felt the gag as it was removed. He gasped sweet air and felt a wave of relief.
That’s when they kicked the chair out from beneath him.
Joseph walked with the guard down a large road filled with panicky people. He knew it was a road because he’d heard about such things in Sunday school. They’d existed in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Sodom, and Jericho. Pa Jo had said he’d make a fine teacher when he was older. It made him sad to think about Pa Jo and how he wouldn’t be there when he returned home. He was distracted from this thought by the people who were saying all sorts of crazy things. ‘Shot him in the face!’ What did that mean? City police are rallying near Town Hall! The battle between the Makros Order and the government, Joseph gathered. The sites and sounds of the city were eye popping and jarring to Joseph. He’d not seen any of it on the way in, and now he was dizzy and disoriented with the overload. His guide did not seem to notice, though Joseph distantly thought that John Makros most certainly did. He ogled. There were women and men with yellow hair and blue eyes. He held himself back from pointing. Some men and women leaned out of doorways with nothing on but open-faced robes. They smiled invitingly and beckoned to Joseph. He hurried his step and tried not to look too closely. He gulped a large knot in his throat. What would his mother say?
The guard said mechanically, “It’s a left here right down to the water. A boat will be waiting. I have other things that require my attention and I need all my people present. I hope you will be able to operate the controls, it is rather self explanatory.”
Controls? thought Joseph, what does that mean? “I can handle a boat,” said Joseph confidently, “I’ve was raised on the water and that’s where I’m at home. I… Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I should be thanking you. It was your mind that saved me from my mother. Now I have the opportunity to right all the wrong she’s done. I wish I could do more, but until that time, farewell.” This time the man did raise his hand and waved it jerkily. He did not smile but his eyes followed Joseph as he walked away.
Joseph felt relieved to be away from his guide but at the same time lost amid the bustle of the street life. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Growing up in a small village where everyone knew each other’s name made it easy to feel safe. Here he knew no one, but soon he would be free of it. He glanced back towards the man, but he was already gone. Judging by the buildings in this area he guessed they must all be very wealthy. Garbage and refuse lay over everything. Someone must be coming to clean it up for them soon or they certainly wouldn’t leave it that way. He was amazed. A large furry animal screeched and ran out from under a large square refuse container by the smell. Joseph jumped and a soft voice next to him said, “S’arright, just a cat.” Joseph jumped again and even gasped a little as he saw the largest man he’d ever seen loom over him, resting a paddle sized hand across his back, “What’s you so jumpy about anyhow? Boy like you, strong beefy shoulders. Imagine you could lick the lot of us. He he.” That’s when Joseph noticed the rest of the men. Joseph got the immediate impression that this was definitely not the ‘good’ or safe part of town and that his ‘guide’ had led him astray purposefully, but why? thought Joseph suddenly. He could have killed me right then and there and I- The thought was squished right there. They all drew to a halt simultaneously.
Joseph stared up into the large black eyes perched in a hatchet face and seated around a large pointed nose with thick black hair poking out the nostrils. He was so large that Joseph could see the pores in his nose even at the distance of several feet. The men were all laughing, and Joseph was frightened because he knew that what was funny was not funny. A small flame of anger deep within Joseph arose. These men. These were the same as the snake man. The same as the one who killed his grandpa. Joseph balled his fists as the gigantic paw closed over his neck and fiercely closed his eyes.
“Haw haw,” he heard the coarse voice boom inches from his face. He could smell the stale, sour breath of the man. Joseph reached out and grasped both sides of the man’s head.
Immediately, his surroundings changed. He was still in the alley, but it was not the alley. It was all aglow in a purple light there was only him and a little boy with a big nose and black eyes. He stared at Joseph in awe and fear. Joseph took a step towards him the boy who cringed and shrank backward, dropping to a knee.
“Please don’t hurt me,” whimpered the boy.
Joseph said, “I won’t hurt you on one condition.”
“Anything,” pleaded the boy through bubbling lips. His eyes were closed firmly and tears leaked out through the corners.
“Protect me and help me at all costs,” Joseph said.
The boy opened his eyes and smiled in reverent gratitude, “I will.”
Joseph released his hands from the man’s face. His name was Deedum and he’d been born in a back alley two blocks away. He was a professional bully and he made good money at it. He looked Joseph in the eyes judging him, weighing him with respect and even a little fear in his features. He placed him on the ground and said to his gang, “Leave him alone. I know who he is. Mix up. He’s one of us.”
“One of us? What are you talking about?” piped up Ewan, a skinny, bald kid with bad teeth and bags under his eyes. “He’s not one of us! What’s friggin up in your head?”
Deedum back handed Ewan casually lifting him off his feet into a bunch of other boys behind him. “Shove it off. Down now. He and I are going for a walk. Get lost all of you.” Putting a protective mitt on Joseph’s shoulders, Deedum guided Joseph away from the bewildered gaggle of men staring after them with anxious and confused looks on their faces.
“Deedum I need a boat,” Joseph said once they were out of earshot.
“A boat? No problem. How big? Or uh... How far are you going? That’s a better question,” he patted Joseph on the shoulder like an old pal, though Joseph was sure the man would have throttled him if he hadn’t been coerced. Strange, was this how John Makros did it? But this man wasn’t a robot now. He wasn’t a piece of me, empty of himself. He was still him.
“I’m going to the Rockies. Do you know where that is? Or how far?” Joseph felt safe knowing that Deedum was his guide. He could trust him. He’d seen his mind and now he knew him, more than any other human being could ever know him.
“The mountains?” Deedum asked incredulously.
“Yes, that’s where I’m from. I need to get back to my family,” Joseph said matter-of-factly.
“Uh… Well, about that.”
“What about them?” Joseph stopped and faced Deedum.
Looking embarrassed, Deedum looked anywhere but Joseph. He rubbed his giant nose with a giant finger. He said cautiously, “They’re not really there anymore. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but…”
“Let me see,” Joseph said and he reached with his hands towards Deedum’s face.
Sighing in defeat, Deedum hoisted him and held him like a baby before himself and let Joseph touch his face. Both men gasped as the connection between minds was made.
Joseph saw the mountains explode, all the mountains, and a great green mushroom cloud rise from the ruins and block out the sun. His heart ached and he cried out. Deedum echoed his cry and dropped Joseph as he collapsed from the intensity of Joseph’s pain. He passed out cold on the pavement, twitching. Joseph looked around wildly. Home. Home. Home. Where was home? Green smoke!! His family was gone!! His mother! His sisters! His brothers! ALL GONE!! Where could he go? All he had in the world was a giant bully and a man who controls people’s minds and now he can somehow do the same thing… kind of.
Joseph felt nauseous and upended a large amount of bile on the filthy pavement. He then realized it had been a long time since he last ate and he felt the pain of hunger gnaw at his belly. Crying over the loss of his family, home and friends, Joseph struggled to understand how he could possibly be hungry at a time like this.
Just then there was a knock at his door. A most unlikely occurrence as his door was behind a bookshelf in the Presidential library and unknown to all of the members of Air Force One. A cold sweat spread evenly over his whole body. He was instantly soaked. Who could it be? He quickly switched his cameras and jumped as he saw the entire library full of armed men, service men. They’re slim, suited forms lithe and violent in their unassuming stances. Checking chargers and safeties. Loading weapons. He watched as they knocked again. He felt himself shrink in terror. He knew they knew he knew perfectly well. This is how it comes around, thought Alvin, with a gun. He pressed the release button on the door and lifted his arms up and closed his eyes in anticipation of a hail of bullets and a blinding of lasers.
Instead a cool, steady voice said, “Sir? Alvin Baask? You are the Presidential Psychiatrist, right?” The young man looked worried but held his gun casually like a prop.
Blinking in relief and finally breathing again, Alvin licked his lips, “Yes I am. I… I assume you got my reports via the NSC?”
“Of course, sir. We are all on a need to know basis and we were instructed to your whereabouts only recently, sir.” This time the young man saluted when he finished. Others close to him did the same. His little army. The President’s own personal guard no less. His paranoia would probably in the end be all proven right. How ironic.
Pointing a long black and pink finger at the young man with pale white skin, nearly translucent, and closely cropped orange hair, Alvin said, “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Johnson, sir. At your service.” He saluted again.
Alvin made no move to salute back. He thought the whole idea of saluting him ridiculous as he had no military experience or rank. He was a psychiatrist, and no more. He didn’t even think he could manage to fake one of those stiff handed salutes. Instead he said, “We must arrest the president, alive if possible, and detain him for medical treatment. I need to get on the phone to the NSC pronto and secure a replacement Presidential Council. I assume that you all are qualified to handle this on your own so I will stay out of the way and let you go to work.”
The men saluted as one and filed out of the library. Alvin felt dirty and soiled as he watched their freshly washed and smartly dressed forms leave the room. He needed a shower and a shave. He needed a drink and a full night’s rest. He would get none of these things. The fate of the United States government rested on his shoulders and he needed to make some very important phone calls.
Nicola Kerova stared out from the exposed office wall of the Portland Birthing Centers. They’d done it. The prophecies had been fulfilled. The old man had been right. Now she herself would lead the all the Northern Tribes when her father passed away. She had proved her valor this day and killed many men, resorting to hand to hand combat more often than not. Lasers and projectile weapons ungainly and inaccurate, she found her knives were faster than most men’s fingers. All except one who managed to singe her shoulder. A green biopack was suctioned to it now and she could feel the uncomfortable sensation of flesh knitting itself back together. Within the week it would be good as new. It was more than most could say. She’d lost nearly half her men and women. It was a great day for heroes. Without the turncoats, Makros provided, it would have failed. She met the man midafternoon and wondered at his stern, unrevealing nature. Quite a powerful sense of control in his face. It was shocking to know after all these years: John Makros, alive and well. His entire operation was a manifestation of his mother’s and now he’d freed himself and all his members only to discover that none of them want to leave him since they claim it was he they were following in the first place. They called him, The Savior. A romantic notion thought Nicola, but helpful in their case, without them it would have been a close thing, very close.
A man in a caribou hide limped over to her. Rudon, a bear of a man, with beefy mitts for hands and a grizzly beard that hung in braids halfway down his chest. His piercing gray-blue eyes held her. He offered her a beaten metal cup. Silently she accepted it and toasted to the open air drinking the coarse vodka down in one swift gulp. It burned something vicious but it was good. It was real and raw like the day itself. She returned the cup with a grave expression. Now the real challenge: the rebuilding and the talking, which was always harder than fighting. You could always lose fighting and all that would happen would be you’d die but with words anything could happen.
Bertrand Velour woke that morning with a gun to his head, literally. It was the muzzle of a glass and lightweight carbon Z5000 Laser, EU government-issue, and he knew without waiting to hear his rights read to him by the commanding officer of the arresting party that they were EU secret police and that he was under arrest for the attempted assassination of the President of the European Union. His life, fortune, and lands were all forfeit. He vaguely wondered as they hog tied him and threw him into a plastic mesh sack if they’d make a decent profit off of his house. He’d just renovated the Southern Wing with its greenhouse and sunbathing room complete with up-to-date UV filtration windows. He almost felt inclined to mention it. It was as if he’d made it ready for them, ripened the cherry for the plucking. He wondered if it was the assassin who bungled, but no, it couldn’t be. Those men don’t make mistakes or talk. They kill or die. There is no inbetween. And then it came to him like the sun from behind a cloud: Spain. That Mendoza and his beautiful minx of a daughter. His anger quickly faded. He was in no position to do anything about it at all. He didn’t even have the luxury of anger. It was a waste of emotion. He contented himself to watching the light come through the cracks in the meshing. It looked like stars or sunlight through your favorite worn out t-shirt. It reminded him of his childhood in Nice where he’d swum in the ocean before it was too polluted for his body. He felt himself hauled into a vehicle of some sort and darkness descended. He wondered how long they’d keep him in this sack. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. It was the hogtying that got to him. He couldn’t scratch himself anywhere, but at least the mesh was abrasive enough that he could itch his face. Itches elsewhere else were less important. Probably the nerves. Whole lot of nerves in your hands and face. Always feeling and receiving. No way to turn them off.
For a while, Velour tried to sleep. He knew that his career was at an end and he was already working on accepting that. What he was struggling with subconsciously and it was causing him some distancing and detachment, was the possibility of losing his life. Treason worldwide was a capitol offense, punishable by death, always and everywhere. He knew that, but somehow, he felt that he’d be jailed. That he’d still be Bertrand. He’d still have something going. Not his house or backyard or vacation home in the Alps. No more mistresses and bottles of wine from distant decades before authentic wine became a rarified art. He dreamed himself a loophole to freedom. He imagined himself years from now even being released. People then saw how he’d simply had the EU’s best interest at heart. It was reasonable.
When at last he was lifted out of the vehicle and carted off to his next destination, Bertrand Velour was convinced that he could talk his way out of any sort of real punishment. He may lose his money and his power, but he’d still have his greenhouse, new sunbathing room, and his wine cellar. No one could appreciate it like he would. He knew Hans Groelmech was a good man, a man’s man. The practical sort that would show amnesty and graciousness when necessary. He’d learned his lesson. A trip in a sack would do that. Bertrand was a receptive guy. He saw it all now. The great vision of Muenster. The EU would be raised to a full-fledged global giant perhaps the first world government. Hans was right, and he’d been wrong. He saw that now.
Bertrand was dropped roughly to the floor. This momentarily perturbed him, but he then thought that maybe it was an accident. The man had obviously slipped. The sack opened and was dragged off of him. He blinked in the harsh light. He was in a square squat room with a low ceiling. There were three men before him and two guards on either side of him. They must have carried him all the way from his home.
He was about to thank them for their efforts when a booming voice interrupted his thoughts. The center man before him with his arms crossed in front of his barrel chest shouted, “BETRAND VELOUR YOU ARE HEREBY CHARGED WITH TREASON BY YOUR PEERS AND IN REVIEW OF THE EVIDENCE IT IS CLEAR YOU ARE GUILTY. I VOTE FOR NO TRIAL!”
The other two men boomed in unison, “NO TRIAL!!”
Bertrand gulped and was truly frightened for the first time that day. What was this all about, no trial? He tried to speak and was again interrupted by the frowned square headed center man with the protruding lower lips and squat flat nose, “THE PENALTY FOR TREASON IS DEATH!! I VOTE FOR DEATH BY THE ROPE!!”
“BY THE ROPE!!” came the response.
This time Bertrand found his voice and shrieked, “NO NO NO!! You’ve got it all wrong. Let me talk to Hans. I-“
“SILENCE!!” boomed the center man and the guard on Bertrand’s left clamped a hand over his mouth to quiet him while the man on the right fitted him with a muzzle. ROPE!! ROPE!! WHAT THE HELL WAS HE TALKING ABOUT!!! Bertrand Velour squealed shrilly and bucked wildly against his bindings but was held fast. He was hardly aware of their final words, “TO BE CARRIED OUT IMMEDIATELY!!”
This time there was no sack to hide him from the reality. Bertrand was dragged by the shoulders between the two guards past rooms of various torture and execution devices. A cold awareness came over him and he realized that he was completely in the right to try and overthrow this kind of man, that though his ways were underhanded he was never one to systematically control and torture a populace into order. His thoughts returned to Africa and he felt a thrill of fear and sympathy for its inhabitants. He’d never felt anything for the members of that continent before. In fact, he’d thought them backwards and subhuman, but now he longed to warn them. This man would stop at nothing and would and will destroy anything and everything in his path. Reminded again of his own demise, Bertrand struggled against his bonds and chewed viciously at the rubber gag in his mouth to no avail. The guards held his arms in vice-like grips. They dragged him to a room at the end of the hall. A single loop of a rope hung from the ceiling and chair sat below it. Bertrand failed to see the threat. He even grew slightly hysterically, hiccupped and laughed against his gag as the guards untied him and lifted him onto his feet. He swayed unsteadily and leaned on their thick arms. His legs were cramping and the return of blood to the muscles made them ache and burn. He worked his fingers and he reached for his gag only to have his arms bound again behind his back.
They hoisted him up onto the chair by his elbows, and that is when Bertrand realized the function of the rope and the chair. He ducked and tried to dive away from the two men, but one of them punched him in the solar plexus right below the rib cage and knocked all the air out of him. Bertrand struggled to breath through his nose and around the gag. It was difficult and he panicked. He felt the course rope around his neck tighten and then he felt the gag as it was removed. He gasped sweet air and felt a wave of relief.
That’s when they kicked the chair out from beneath him.
Joseph walked with the guard down a large road filled with panicky people. He knew it was a road because he’d heard about such things in Sunday school. They’d existed in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Sodom, and Jericho. Pa Jo had said he’d make a fine teacher when he was older. It made him sad to think about Pa Jo and how he wouldn’t be there when he returned home. He was distracted from this thought by the people who were saying all sorts of crazy things. ‘Shot him in the face!’ What did that mean? City police are rallying near Town Hall! The battle between the Makros Order and the government, Joseph gathered. The sites and sounds of the city were eye popping and jarring to Joseph. He’d not seen any of it on the way in, and now he was dizzy and disoriented with the overload. His guide did not seem to notice, though Joseph distantly thought that John Makros most certainly did. He ogled. There were women and men with yellow hair and blue eyes. He held himself back from pointing. Some men and women leaned out of doorways with nothing on but open-faced robes. They smiled invitingly and beckoned to Joseph. He hurried his step and tried not to look too closely. He gulped a large knot in his throat. What would his mother say?
The guard said mechanically, “It’s a left here right down to the water. A boat will be waiting. I have other things that require my attention and I need all my people present. I hope you will be able to operate the controls, it is rather self explanatory.”
Controls? thought Joseph, what does that mean? “I can handle a boat,” said Joseph confidently, “I’ve was raised on the water and that’s where I’m at home. I… Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I should be thanking you. It was your mind that saved me from my mother. Now I have the opportunity to right all the wrong she’s done. I wish I could do more, but until that time, farewell.” This time the man did raise his hand and waved it jerkily. He did not smile but his eyes followed Joseph as he walked away.
Joseph felt relieved to be away from his guide but at the same time lost amid the bustle of the street life. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Growing up in a small village where everyone knew each other’s name made it easy to feel safe. Here he knew no one, but soon he would be free of it. He glanced back towards the man, but he was already gone. Judging by the buildings in this area he guessed they must all be very wealthy. Garbage and refuse lay over everything. Someone must be coming to clean it up for them soon or they certainly wouldn’t leave it that way. He was amazed. A large furry animal screeched and ran out from under a large square refuse container by the smell. Joseph jumped and a soft voice next to him said, “S’arright, just a cat.” Joseph jumped again and even gasped a little as he saw the largest man he’d ever seen loom over him, resting a paddle sized hand across his back, “What’s you so jumpy about anyhow? Boy like you, strong beefy shoulders. Imagine you could lick the lot of us. He he.” That’s when Joseph noticed the rest of the men. Joseph got the immediate impression that this was definitely not the ‘good’ or safe part of town and that his ‘guide’ had led him astray purposefully, but why? thought Joseph suddenly. He could have killed me right then and there and I- The thought was squished right there. They all drew to a halt simultaneously.
Joseph stared up into the large black eyes perched in a hatchet face and seated around a large pointed nose with thick black hair poking out the nostrils. He was so large that Joseph could see the pores in his nose even at the distance of several feet. The men were all laughing, and Joseph was frightened because he knew that what was funny was not funny. A small flame of anger deep within Joseph arose. These men. These were the same as the snake man. The same as the one who killed his grandpa. Joseph balled his fists as the gigantic paw closed over his neck and fiercely closed his eyes.
“Haw haw,” he heard the coarse voice boom inches from his face. He could smell the stale, sour breath of the man. Joseph reached out and grasped both sides of the man’s head.
Immediately, his surroundings changed. He was still in the alley, but it was not the alley. It was all aglow in a purple light there was only him and a little boy with a big nose and black eyes. He stared at Joseph in awe and fear. Joseph took a step towards him the boy who cringed and shrank backward, dropping to a knee.
“Please don’t hurt me,” whimpered the boy.
Joseph said, “I won’t hurt you on one condition.”
“Anything,” pleaded the boy through bubbling lips. His eyes were closed firmly and tears leaked out through the corners.
“Protect me and help me at all costs,” Joseph said.
The boy opened his eyes and smiled in reverent gratitude, “I will.”
Joseph released his hands from the man’s face. His name was Deedum and he’d been born in a back alley two blocks away. He was a professional bully and he made good money at it. He looked Joseph in the eyes judging him, weighing him with respect and even a little fear in his features. He placed him on the ground and said to his gang, “Leave him alone. I know who he is. Mix up. He’s one of us.”
“One of us? What are you talking about?” piped up Ewan, a skinny, bald kid with bad teeth and bags under his eyes. “He’s not one of us! What’s friggin up in your head?”
Deedum back handed Ewan casually lifting him off his feet into a bunch of other boys behind him. “Shove it off. Down now. He and I are going for a walk. Get lost all of you.” Putting a protective mitt on Joseph’s shoulders, Deedum guided Joseph away from the bewildered gaggle of men staring after them with anxious and confused looks on their faces.
“Deedum I need a boat,” Joseph said once they were out of earshot.
“A boat? No problem. How big? Or uh... How far are you going? That’s a better question,” he patted Joseph on the shoulder like an old pal, though Joseph was sure the man would have throttled him if he hadn’t been coerced. Strange, was this how John Makros did it? But this man wasn’t a robot now. He wasn’t a piece of me, empty of himself. He was still him.
“I’m going to the Rockies. Do you know where that is? Or how far?” Joseph felt safe knowing that Deedum was his guide. He could trust him. He’d seen his mind and now he knew him, more than any other human being could ever know him.
“The mountains?” Deedum asked incredulously.
“Yes, that’s where I’m from. I need to get back to my family,” Joseph said matter-of-factly.
“Uh… Well, about that.”
“What about them?” Joseph stopped and faced Deedum.
Looking embarrassed, Deedum looked anywhere but Joseph. He rubbed his giant nose with a giant finger. He said cautiously, “They’re not really there anymore. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but…”
“Let me see,” Joseph said and he reached with his hands towards Deedum’s face.
Sighing in defeat, Deedum hoisted him and held him like a baby before himself and let Joseph touch his face. Both men gasped as the connection between minds was made.
Joseph saw the mountains explode, all the mountains, and a great green mushroom cloud rise from the ruins and block out the sun. His heart ached and he cried out. Deedum echoed his cry and dropped Joseph as he collapsed from the intensity of Joseph’s pain. He passed out cold on the pavement, twitching. Joseph looked around wildly. Home. Home. Home. Where was home? Green smoke!! His family was gone!! His mother! His sisters! His brothers! ALL GONE!! Where could he go? All he had in the world was a giant bully and a man who controls people’s minds and now he can somehow do the same thing… kind of.
Joseph felt nauseous and upended a large amount of bile on the filthy pavement. He then realized it had been a long time since he last ate and he felt the pain of hunger gnaw at his belly. Crying over the loss of his family, home and friends, Joseph struggled to understand how he could possibly be hungry at a time like this.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Chapt 18
Avery lay on a bed of thatched grasses with a high fever. He was dying. His shirt was ripped open and his chest exposed. It was covered in red welts and sores. They’d done the unthinkable. They’d defeated the Appalachian Air Force, but at such a high price. Almost all the men had succumbed to radiation poisoning after their return to the New Mexican airstrip and day’s ride out to the abandoned caves. Stewie had been the first to go. His old body had stopped working nearly a day afterward. They weren’t even sure it was the radiation that got him, just pure exhaustion. Too many G’s. He looked at rest when he passed. Now it was days later and all of them were showing signs: bleeding gums, blindness, dermatological nightmare’s, high fevers, vomiting, diarrhea, and aching joints and muscles. Avery knew he was dying.
It was during the night that a messenger arrived with the news. The Rockies had been attacked full force and there was nothing left. A strange neon green cloud hovered above the remaining rocks and ridges like a warning: radiation. So, they weren’t the only ones who’re going to be poisoned. It’ll be millions before it’s over. Maybe even more. A neon glow? That’s got to be so much more than normal, because he’d only heard of that as a penumbra directly around nuclear material and never a part of a nuclear blast. They must have loaded it with all they had, filthy. Oh, well, he’d done his part. He wouldn’t live to see the rest. That means his wife was dead too. Sarah. If she’d only come here where it was safe. She was always headstrong. Tears leaked out the sides of his eyes but the two young ladies tending him did not notice; it mixed in far too well with his sweat.
I can die now. He thought. I no reason to stay. No children. No wife. I’ve served my purpose and now I can die.
Within the hour Avery Pratt died.
Terra sat across from Sly Louie in his apartment’s office. The receptionist had been unsurprised by her request for a meeting and she’d swiftly admitted her after a brief intercom conversation subvocalized through throat mics. Interesting, thought Terra, I must get myself some of those. The receptionist waved her in with a comforting smile on her cold face. It almost looked unnatural, but she shed that thought. Smiling she strode in confidently. This was going to work.
The short, thick bald man waited momentarily behind his desk appraising her and then marched out from behind it and presented her his hand. She shook it vigorously and noticed that he, despite his obvious strength, did not overpower her with his grip nor did he limp-fish her. That was a good sign, a sign of respect. He smiled like a cat. Terra became conscious of her appearance at that moment for the first time in several years. Her hair was no longer in braids secured by piercings into her skull. It was thick and unruly: an unmanageable mess somewhere between nappy and frizzy (she’d never been able to decide which). She wore no makeup, no bra, only a man’s t-shirt, rubber wader overalls, and thick seal-top boots. He was looking her over. It was shocking but complimentary too. Terra fought back a blush in the first few moments of their encounter.
The period of silence stretched awkwardly for Terra, but Sly Louie soon filled it, “I should hug you, you know.”
Blinking in surprise and feeling off balance, Terra said, “Why?”
“Because you’ve solved so many of my problems so quickly and easily. The police, or the greater part of them, are gone. The government is in tatters. New New York is Old Chinatown now, and nothing else. The Europeans weren’t lying when they described their Erasure bomb. I have videotapes of what happened. All New New York disappeared down to the dirt, water and all within a milli-second and the surrounding water simply rushed in and filled the gap. I don’t know what this does to the scientific theory of matter. You know,” at Terra’s blank look, “Matter can neither be destroyed nor created. So they’ve either teleported it somewhere else or popped it out of existence I do not know, but you are the reason we survived and you hold the key to our continued survival.” He smiled again and released her hand. She hadn’t realized they’d been holding hands still. She did blush this time. What was wrong with her?!
Embarrassed, “Well Josh Brewer is the real reason we survived. That and Albert Strongold. Together they worked out the Anti-gravitational field. Well, Josh did the practical application of it and Albert supplied the Anti-gravity-“
“Eh.. Brewer? Nephew to the President?” asked Sly Louie with a shrewd look of infinite possibility on his face.
“Uh.. Yes, he’s been helping us for years. Albert Strongold even was under government protection or I should say incarceration for years before we freed him. Don’t think that just because he’s the nephew of the-“
Lifting his hands defensively with a wry smile of delight, Sly Louie said, “I wouldn’t dream of it. By the way, what is your name? I know where you are coming from because of my secretary, but she didn’t supply a name.”
“Terra.”
“Earth,” mused Sly Louie.
“What?”
“Your name it means earth, or home planet. Either way it is fitting that you are leader of Square One.”
Feeling it a ripe moment, she said, “That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Of course you did,” smiled Sly Louie unsurprised. “Who will rule the New New New York? Such a mouthful. I think I liked it better the original way: New York. Well not the original way, not Manahattanoes, but all the same: New York. How bout that? Easier isn’t it?”
“Y-Yes, but realistically, a democracy should remain in place and we should continue to be a part of the United States. That is once we assign a new government without NSC control and reinstate the election,” she hesitated at this point seeing that he watched her intently, waiting for something else, as if knowing her next words. “We will need law and order at some point, you know.”
“My dear Terra, I know all this and I’m expecting it. Anytime a criminal tries to rule overtly he gets killed, goes insane like our Mr. Brewer, or goes soft, and I desire none of these things. I understand you want to make a temporary partnership between my forces and Square One to reinstate the city power and structure, eradicate the remaining corrupt and loyal eunuch police officers, quietly yes, and bring order back to our fair city. Yes, is that right?”
Scrambling, Terra said, “Yes, but-“
“But what do I want? Yes… I want you,” he pointed a finger at her.
“Me?!” exclaimed Terra in shock. She took a step back.
“Yes, you for dinner tonight. I was all prepared to have myself exempt from all laws and regulations but that would defeat the fun of it. Right? Now let’s go out to dinner and celebrate. We’ll start fixing things in the morning, okay?” he held out his elbow for her to take.
“Okay,” mumbled Terra accepting his arm awkwardly. He was attractive in that bald, muscular sort of way.
As they went through the doors of his office, he said non-chalantly, “I really do think I’m not being too old fashion to want it back to New York. Simple. Easy. All this New New. Retro Retro. It’s all garbage. Repetition. You shouldn’t have to repeat New York. It’s New Friggin’ York for Chrissakes! See you later tonight Vera,” he waved to his secretary and then they stepped into the elevator and left.
“You’ll go,” the President of the United States said suddenly. His finger jabbed in Charles’ direction.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not sure that I am-“ began Charles.
“Nonsense! Modesty has no place here. You’re who I trust! Only you can convince this man of our supposed good will. You must get close enough to him. It’s the only way,” the President’s sunken eyes pierced him. He was no longer the vibrant and strong leader that he’d come to respect. He was a wasted husk of a man, aged before his time. His knuckles were knobby. Bags pouched under his eyes and spider webs of skin cracked around his lips and eyes. He was dying, and swiftly. There wasn’t much time left.
“I… I’ll do it, sir,” and then a warm, wave of confidence welled in his chest. “I can do it. You can count on me, sir.”
“Great,” he said with a pat on his back. Then he waved to his head physician as if he’d forgotten the whole encounter already. Charles waited a moment and then left to prepare for his journey.
The world undulated before her and the austere surroundings of her reception hall became a stinking morass of bog and sinkholes. Quickly sidestepping, Verithia screamed as she saw a hand protrude from depths she’d nearly missed. It was the pasty white color of death and it was contracted as if in pain. It was reaching, reaching for her. It swung blindly in her direction. She screamed again, and with it the hand gained strength and became an arm and an elbow. It gripped the mud around the lip of the sinkhole in fistfuls working its way towards her. Verithia stepped back against a tortured tree with a twisted blackened trunk like it’d been burned in a severe conflagration. Branches broke off at her touch and withered into ash before reaching the ground. She slipped and her ankle shot out within reach of the hand. Sensing the closeness of its prey, the hand whipped out and latched itself firmly to her ankle. She let out a shrill scream, the sound painfully ripping through her throat. The hand was icy cold and she felt frostbite creep around and up her leg. She struggled and kicked but the hand only gripped harder and she felt as if her bones would surely break. A head bobbed to the surface. Lank, black hair tangled over a hollowed out face with sightless fish belly white irises. She screamed in horror. She knew that face. It was her son’s face. Her dead son. The one she’d killed for money, for power, and in that moment she realized that she’d never wake from this nightmare, because it wasn’t a nightmare.
The figure stood before her now. Laughing with its head back. Its still sightless eyes staring towards the heavens because he knew. He knew her thoughts. Every realization, every pain, every fear, he knew and fed upon. He was the nightmare that she’d created.
“Yes, mother, that’s right. You’ve done this all to yourself,” the soft voice like slithering snakes uncoiled in her mind.
Unable to prevent herself, she screamed and screamed knowing that it was useless, completely useless.
Joseph sat watching the woman twitch, moan, cry and whimper on the floor in a heap for several minutes before he decided to leave. He chewed methodically at his bonds but found that he couldn’t even bite through the tiniest piece of the rubber. It was strange. His teeth felt loose from trying and he felt a moment of panic finally arise and he pulled and jerked against the bonds but couldn’t get further than an upright sitting position. He began to yell for help over and over. The twitching woman on the floor did not cease her convulsions. If anything they increased steadily. Her cries became louder into yelps of pain. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Just then the doors burst open and one of the guards that had captured and brought him here walked in. His eyes on Joseph he looked as if he didn’t notice the dark haired lady at all. She rolled over on her side into a tight ball, whimpering.
He spoke in a loud clear voice, “Joseph, I am not here to hurt you. My mother will not be able to hurt anyone ever again. I want to thank you for your help and set you free, but I first want to talk to you.” The man walked over in front of Joseph.
Joseph eyed the man suspiciously, “Why not free me first?”
“Well, I imagine you’d simply flee. I don’t think you’d listen as closely as you would now, unable to do or think of anything else. I don’t want to cloud your mind too much. I want to clearly communicate,” the man spoke in a fluid manner but did not have the body language to accompany his voice. It was as if his body was frozen rigid and couldn’t move. It gave Joseph the chills.
“Alright,” answered Joseph wearily.
“My name is John Makros. The woman on the floor is my mother. She started a religious order known as the Makros Order and used me, her only son, biological son, to further her own needs. She faked my death to make me a saint of a kind, a Buddha, and a martyr without a cause besides holiness. She is corrupt and I hope you know that what I do to her now is nothing compared to what she has done. She is behind almost every world conflict to date. She is responsible for more damage and suffering than anyone I have ever known. Know that she deserves what she gets and nothing more or less. But that aside I’d like to talk to you about your family and your home,” the numb face spoke these words tenderly but it was frightening coming from the emotionless zombie.
“My family?” asked Joseph skeptically.
“Yes, where are you from? You are not an ordinary American. Otherwise my mother would have had very little use of you and would not have taken the time to interview you herself. It was very fortunate that she did it herself indeed. Vicariously she is weaker and sometimes reverts to physical coercion which despite your amazing abilities, would have overcome you.”
“What abilities?”
“Hmm. You don’t even realize do you?”
“What abilities?” asked Joseph again, mildly annoyed. He tugged at his wrist bonds again with a jerk.
“I was not the one who forced my mother out of your mind nor the one who cut her off from the network. That was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You gave me the chance to reorganize the reception and direction of our mental network so that I was in the position of power and so I could control her instead of her controlling me.”
“Are you controlling this body right now?”
“Yes I am. His name is Boyd Straight and he was a police officer until he joined the Order, under powerful suggestion. My mother forced many into her ranks but most she just tempted with power and money that they never saw and never will. Their minds are all wiped out. Gone. The only ones with a chance are the ones running around with chips in their heads. Everyone else is zombied out and dead in the head. It is a shame but right now, I am overthrowing the city officials and government in the name of the Makros Order. Soon I will rid this city of all that seek to control it. The corrupt will be punished and the law abiding preserved. The police state and the slavery of the Makros Order will end. The truth must win out.”
“Why are you taking over the city?”
“Because it must be that way. In order to reestablish order the old order must be broken. Only then when all components are revealed and destroyed will the occlusion of the common man end.”
“A clue shun?”
“Blindness. A fancy word for blindness.”
“Who are you fighting?” “The people that worked with the Makros Order, the NSC, the military, and the government.”
“I don’t know who or what those all are.”
“Open your mind to me and I’ll show you.”
“No. My mind is my own. It’s private. You have no right to-“ “Yes yes. I understand Joseph. I wasn’t… I understand. I should have understood. Me most of all. Tell me of your home and your family. Where did you grow up?”
“In the Rocky Mountains, in our village. We didn’t have a name for it. It was ours. I don’t think we needed a name. There was no place to go other than home. It was the water. The cliffs. The mountains. The tents. The meeting halls. The boats and that’s it. We heard about other villages that had once been, long long ago, but none of us had every seen anyone else… Except for the Snake man from the tunnels but I don’t think he was a man like us. He was… different, sick in the head and the heart. He killed my grandfather. My father’s dead. I… I wonder how my family’s doing… I’m in charge of the fishing now and with Pa Jo gone it’s too much work for the little ones. I-“
“Did you drink the water growing up?”
“The water? Yeah, why? Sometimes it was too salty and we boiled it and caught the steam into whale bladders. That’s the best water. Oh, man. It’s a chore, but it’s worth it. I can remember-“
“You drank the water of the inland sea? Repeatedly?”
”Yeah, what’s with you. Yeah, I did. All day long. Okay? Anyway. What’s happening right now. In the fight?”
“It’s rather strange. Other people have arrived from the North. I have or I should say my mother had a contact with them whose now mine and I… Yes, we’re fighting together now. Now it will be easier.”
“Will you let me go?”
“Of course I will. I was just wondering if you needed any help getting home?”
“Umm…” Joseph stared at the impassive face, knowing that he did not want help from this man or the man controlling him but he did need some kind of help. “I just need a boat. That’s all, and someone to point me in the direction of my home.” “Easily done. I will start to make preparations,” as he said this the man walked up to the large machines to Joseph’s left and pressed a few keys on a rainbow key pad. His rubbery bonds released and retreated into the table itself. He felt and heard a soft click as the cords that connected to the base of his skull on either side released their hold and snaked back and out of sight. Joseph felt gingerly at the back of his skull and felt hard, metal circular holes in the back of his head.
“I wouldn’t put your fingers in there. New inputs, very sensitive, easily infected. You must leave them be. I’m sorry I can’t remove them. It’s an irreversible procedure. I really wish I could meet you in person, but I am not in the greatest of health and I will need time to recover. I will guide you to your boat as soon as you are ready.”
“I’m ready,” Joseph said eager to get as far from this new creature as fast as possible. It was something to be addressed from within his own head, but another entirely to be addressed by someone through another someone. Besides that, he felt somewhere deep inside him that John Makros was most definitely not his friend.
Walton hated not knowing the current situation. This Strongold fellow may have saved their hides, but Kirri had a point. He was crazy. This whole toy car business had people making jokes all over the grounds. It was enough. He was responsible for all his people, but he was also responsible for their dignity and this time it had gone too far. His newest gadget was over the line. Sacrilegious in intent and downright ridiculous. American Angels, indeed. Gurney Warwick was even swayed against him. It was time. The shield must be lifted. The funding pulled. It was time to rely on good old-fashioned reconnaissance and man to man combat. The pilots down south couldn’t all be wiped out and he bet that if they lowered the shield, Hal would pop out of the rocks and tell them what’s up. Settled on this course of action, Walton stood up from his desk with full intent to send his secretary on assignment to tell everyone just that, when he heard a knock at the door.
“Yes?
“Sir, it’s me,” Rheynoald Grevneck poked his pumpkin shaped head in the door. He smiled his plastic teeth.
“Yes, Rheynoald, what is it?” relaxed, jut Rhey.
“We have a visitor, upstairs waiting,” he smiled knowingly as if at a private joke.
Tiredly, Walton asked, “Who’s outside waiting?”
“A government man. A general, judging by his outfit. Came in on a personal jet. Just set her down upstairs like no to do either way,” he wiggled his eyebrows at that. Walton sighed. A general. Well… a politician would’ve been worse.
“Lower the shield get him in and send our reconnaissance people out. We’ll reopen everyday for fifteen minutes on the hour once a day shifting the hour each day to the next hour, so tomorrow will be starting at,” he glanced at his watch, 5:34, “Six o’clock. Got all that.”
“Most certainly, sir. Right away. Oh and sir would you be caring for your coffee sir?”
“When the general, if that’s what he is, comes in, and… keep an eye on him, keep close I don’t feel all that comfortable. Military, you know, not like us. They’re different.”
“Of course sir,” he winked and was gone.
It seemed like no time passed at all before a sturdy man in his early prime stepped into his office and shook his hand vigorously. He seemed a touch nervous which was to be expected. His eyes took in everything. It was a sign of anxiety and caution. Walton was trying to be just as cautious. Would Brewer send someone valuable to assassinate him, or merely to appraise? Would he think it would lure him into a sense of confidence or respect? Walton had very little idea of the mind of President Brewer. He only knew him by his works and they were sloppy and prideful. A mistake would reveal itself sooner if not later, hopefully not too late.
“I’m President Walton of the Twelve Elders of Square One. I welcome you to our humble abode. I’m sorry our accommodations are not the greatest but they serve us well,” Walton smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way.
“I am Charles Fahey, High General of the United States Government, cabinet member of the President of the United States, and assigned negotiator for the United States in the matter of conflict between Square One and the United States Government,” the man spoke as if by rote. He must have rehearsed it all day. Walton watched the man flex and stretch his hands. Nervous. He looked at his eyes. They darted. This man was dangerous. Dangerous indeed.
“Well, General Fahey, what are your terms for surrender?”
“Surrender?” the man was momentarily stunned, he blinked and looked at Walton straight on and said, “We’ve devastated all your forces here in the Midwest and the coasts. You have no leg to stand on. You alone here in this complex are all that remains of your Square One organization. I suggest you consider your position, realistically.”
“Au contraire my friend, I believe it is you who are in the poor position,” just then Grevneck chose to enter the room with a tray table covered with coffee cups, spoons, sugar bowl, milk pot, and coffee pot, all family heirlooms, and the general jumped up on his feet like he was spring loaded. Suddenly a gun was in his hand an anti-personal laser gun with a wide gray, gold muzzle. He moved it from side to side between the two of them.
Grevneck watched the gun and the man gravely still holding the tray and walked slowly towards Walton as if to place the tray down on his desk. Charles fired but did not fire to kill he simply burned off Rhey’s leg off at the knee. Grevneck fell and dashed the tray and all its accoutrements to the floor. President Walton rose to his feet in horror. His most beloved assistant and friend flailed and swore on the floor. Strange, he’d never heard the man swear in his life. He’d thought him incapable, but great pain brings out the strangest in a man. He then looked at the man from the government, this Charles Fahey. His face was white and the hand holding the gun trembled. It was his left hand. It was funny the things one noticed at times like these. It had been a good life. He’d served his country and its people well. He could die with that knowledge.
“I don’t want to do this, but I must. I am all there is left between destruction and America,” he spoke through gasps and clenched teeth. He raised the laser and lowered it for a moment and said, “I am sorry.”
A blue laser shot from in front of his desk out of the frame of Walton’s sight and lanced across Fahey’s midsection. In reflex, the general pulled the trigger on his own laser and sliced the desk, the floor and Walton’s legs in half. Landing hard on the cold concrete floor, President Walton cried out weakly. He felt something break upon landing, probably his hip. He was old, too old for something like this. The intense heat of the laser had cauterized his wound. He would not be bleeding to death, only in severe pain once his nervous system recognized the full extent of the damage done to him. He heard someone around the other side of his desk struggle to breath. President vaguely wondered where everyone else was. They must have known that he was meeting with a representative of the government. They must have known. His brain felt fuzzy and he wondered why he was crawling. A voice from somewhere in his mind said he was in shock. He heard the gurgle, winded noise again and remembered: Grevneck, old friend. He’s hurt. He rounded the corner of his desk to see his old friend in pieces. The laser had slashed not only the desk in half, but Rhey in half. His heart had been sliced and cauterized. It had a hole in it and still pumped. He was running out of blood in gushes. The square, squat head swiveled toward the sound of Walton’s gasp of horror. His eyes were bloodshot and mad. This was not the friend he always looked forward to each day. A laser, an assassin’s pocket style was gripped in his disconnected hand a few feet away. He made to grab it with his stump but couldn’t. He was weakly gurgling and grunting something over and over. Walton watched in horror as Rheynoald ground his teeth making a squeaking noise and sending spittle down his chin, and then he realized what he was saying, “KillKillKillKillKillKill” over and over. Who was this man who’d posed as his secretary? Finally, he looked away feeling burned and drained by the image. He saw Charles Fahey with his hands over his abdomen. His lower torso and his legs were off to his right looking like a discarded toy. He was definitely in shock. He was gasping again and again pushing the exposed parts of himself upward, trying to keep himself inside. He was shaking and twitching as he worked. The image was too much for Walton who fainted in horror and disgust and didn’t wake until he was safely tucked into his own bed hours later sedated and his legs biopacked.
“So do you think I’ll get pregnant?” asked Susie mildly amused. She sat across from Josh in a Chinese restaurant on Canal St. known as Louie’s, named for its owner, Sly Louie. She fished around in her Dim Sum with her chopsticks for any more pieces of tofu. A soft red light emanated from paper lanterns strung across the ceiling. The table was black polished metal.
Josh rested his elbows on the table as he ate. He took a moment to consider, “I guess it would be likely if the causes for the pregnancy plague remain. I could look into it if you’d like.”
Susie shrugged, “I don’t know. I think it might be nice to be a mom, you know.”
Josh choked on his noodles and covered his mouth with his napkin. He managed a strangled, “What?”
“Yeah, but I’d need a husband. The whole family unit you know,” she was looking into her soup now with a cocked eyebrow and a smile quirked on her lips.
“Uh… What?” asked Josh again, completely at a loss.
“Will you marry me?” asked Susie. This time she looked at Josh directly with a naughty look of mischief on her face.
“Um… Okay,” Josh said, food falling out of his open mouth. His eyes wide in worry. Was she kidding?
Susie squealed and yelled, “We’re getting married!!!” And then the entire restaurant yelled and howled, banging utensils and cups on the table, stomping the floor, and lifting glasses.
Josh felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead and his back and all he could say under his breath was, “Oh balls.”
It was during the night that a messenger arrived with the news. The Rockies had been attacked full force and there was nothing left. A strange neon green cloud hovered above the remaining rocks and ridges like a warning: radiation. So, they weren’t the only ones who’re going to be poisoned. It’ll be millions before it’s over. Maybe even more. A neon glow? That’s got to be so much more than normal, because he’d only heard of that as a penumbra directly around nuclear material and never a part of a nuclear blast. They must have loaded it with all they had, filthy. Oh, well, he’d done his part. He wouldn’t live to see the rest. That means his wife was dead too. Sarah. If she’d only come here where it was safe. She was always headstrong. Tears leaked out the sides of his eyes but the two young ladies tending him did not notice; it mixed in far too well with his sweat.
I can die now. He thought. I no reason to stay. No children. No wife. I’ve served my purpose and now I can die.
Within the hour Avery Pratt died.
Terra sat across from Sly Louie in his apartment’s office. The receptionist had been unsurprised by her request for a meeting and she’d swiftly admitted her after a brief intercom conversation subvocalized through throat mics. Interesting, thought Terra, I must get myself some of those. The receptionist waved her in with a comforting smile on her cold face. It almost looked unnatural, but she shed that thought. Smiling she strode in confidently. This was going to work.
The short, thick bald man waited momentarily behind his desk appraising her and then marched out from behind it and presented her his hand. She shook it vigorously and noticed that he, despite his obvious strength, did not overpower her with his grip nor did he limp-fish her. That was a good sign, a sign of respect. He smiled like a cat. Terra became conscious of her appearance at that moment for the first time in several years. Her hair was no longer in braids secured by piercings into her skull. It was thick and unruly: an unmanageable mess somewhere between nappy and frizzy (she’d never been able to decide which). She wore no makeup, no bra, only a man’s t-shirt, rubber wader overalls, and thick seal-top boots. He was looking her over. It was shocking but complimentary too. Terra fought back a blush in the first few moments of their encounter.
The period of silence stretched awkwardly for Terra, but Sly Louie soon filled it, “I should hug you, you know.”
Blinking in surprise and feeling off balance, Terra said, “Why?”
“Because you’ve solved so many of my problems so quickly and easily. The police, or the greater part of them, are gone. The government is in tatters. New New York is Old Chinatown now, and nothing else. The Europeans weren’t lying when they described their Erasure bomb. I have videotapes of what happened. All New New York disappeared down to the dirt, water and all within a milli-second and the surrounding water simply rushed in and filled the gap. I don’t know what this does to the scientific theory of matter. You know,” at Terra’s blank look, “Matter can neither be destroyed nor created. So they’ve either teleported it somewhere else or popped it out of existence I do not know, but you are the reason we survived and you hold the key to our continued survival.” He smiled again and released her hand. She hadn’t realized they’d been holding hands still. She did blush this time. What was wrong with her?!
Embarrassed, “Well Josh Brewer is the real reason we survived. That and Albert Strongold. Together they worked out the Anti-gravitational field. Well, Josh did the practical application of it and Albert supplied the Anti-gravity-“
“Eh.. Brewer? Nephew to the President?” asked Sly Louie with a shrewd look of infinite possibility on his face.
“Uh.. Yes, he’s been helping us for years. Albert Strongold even was under government protection or I should say incarceration for years before we freed him. Don’t think that just because he’s the nephew of the-“
Lifting his hands defensively with a wry smile of delight, Sly Louie said, “I wouldn’t dream of it. By the way, what is your name? I know where you are coming from because of my secretary, but she didn’t supply a name.”
“Terra.”
“Earth,” mused Sly Louie.
“What?”
“Your name it means earth, or home planet. Either way it is fitting that you are leader of Square One.”
Feeling it a ripe moment, she said, “That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Of course you did,” smiled Sly Louie unsurprised. “Who will rule the New New New York? Such a mouthful. I think I liked it better the original way: New York. Well not the original way, not Manahattanoes, but all the same: New York. How bout that? Easier isn’t it?”
“Y-Yes, but realistically, a democracy should remain in place and we should continue to be a part of the United States. That is once we assign a new government without NSC control and reinstate the election,” she hesitated at this point seeing that he watched her intently, waiting for something else, as if knowing her next words. “We will need law and order at some point, you know.”
“My dear Terra, I know all this and I’m expecting it. Anytime a criminal tries to rule overtly he gets killed, goes insane like our Mr. Brewer, or goes soft, and I desire none of these things. I understand you want to make a temporary partnership between my forces and Square One to reinstate the city power and structure, eradicate the remaining corrupt and loyal eunuch police officers, quietly yes, and bring order back to our fair city. Yes, is that right?”
Scrambling, Terra said, “Yes, but-“
“But what do I want? Yes… I want you,” he pointed a finger at her.
“Me?!” exclaimed Terra in shock. She took a step back.
“Yes, you for dinner tonight. I was all prepared to have myself exempt from all laws and regulations but that would defeat the fun of it. Right? Now let’s go out to dinner and celebrate. We’ll start fixing things in the morning, okay?” he held out his elbow for her to take.
“Okay,” mumbled Terra accepting his arm awkwardly. He was attractive in that bald, muscular sort of way.
As they went through the doors of his office, he said non-chalantly, “I really do think I’m not being too old fashion to want it back to New York. Simple. Easy. All this New New. Retro Retro. It’s all garbage. Repetition. You shouldn’t have to repeat New York. It’s New Friggin’ York for Chrissakes! See you later tonight Vera,” he waved to his secretary and then they stepped into the elevator and left.
“You’ll go,” the President of the United States said suddenly. His finger jabbed in Charles’ direction.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not sure that I am-“ began Charles.
“Nonsense! Modesty has no place here. You’re who I trust! Only you can convince this man of our supposed good will. You must get close enough to him. It’s the only way,” the President’s sunken eyes pierced him. He was no longer the vibrant and strong leader that he’d come to respect. He was a wasted husk of a man, aged before his time. His knuckles were knobby. Bags pouched under his eyes and spider webs of skin cracked around his lips and eyes. He was dying, and swiftly. There wasn’t much time left.
“I… I’ll do it, sir,” and then a warm, wave of confidence welled in his chest. “I can do it. You can count on me, sir.”
“Great,” he said with a pat on his back. Then he waved to his head physician as if he’d forgotten the whole encounter already. Charles waited a moment and then left to prepare for his journey.
The world undulated before her and the austere surroundings of her reception hall became a stinking morass of bog and sinkholes. Quickly sidestepping, Verithia screamed as she saw a hand protrude from depths she’d nearly missed. It was the pasty white color of death and it was contracted as if in pain. It was reaching, reaching for her. It swung blindly in her direction. She screamed again, and with it the hand gained strength and became an arm and an elbow. It gripped the mud around the lip of the sinkhole in fistfuls working its way towards her. Verithia stepped back against a tortured tree with a twisted blackened trunk like it’d been burned in a severe conflagration. Branches broke off at her touch and withered into ash before reaching the ground. She slipped and her ankle shot out within reach of the hand. Sensing the closeness of its prey, the hand whipped out and latched itself firmly to her ankle. She let out a shrill scream, the sound painfully ripping through her throat. The hand was icy cold and she felt frostbite creep around and up her leg. She struggled and kicked but the hand only gripped harder and she felt as if her bones would surely break. A head bobbed to the surface. Lank, black hair tangled over a hollowed out face with sightless fish belly white irises. She screamed in horror. She knew that face. It was her son’s face. Her dead son. The one she’d killed for money, for power, and in that moment she realized that she’d never wake from this nightmare, because it wasn’t a nightmare.
The figure stood before her now. Laughing with its head back. Its still sightless eyes staring towards the heavens because he knew. He knew her thoughts. Every realization, every pain, every fear, he knew and fed upon. He was the nightmare that she’d created.
“Yes, mother, that’s right. You’ve done this all to yourself,” the soft voice like slithering snakes uncoiled in her mind.
Unable to prevent herself, she screamed and screamed knowing that it was useless, completely useless.
Joseph sat watching the woman twitch, moan, cry and whimper on the floor in a heap for several minutes before he decided to leave. He chewed methodically at his bonds but found that he couldn’t even bite through the tiniest piece of the rubber. It was strange. His teeth felt loose from trying and he felt a moment of panic finally arise and he pulled and jerked against the bonds but couldn’t get further than an upright sitting position. He began to yell for help over and over. The twitching woman on the floor did not cease her convulsions. If anything they increased steadily. Her cries became louder into yelps of pain. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Just then the doors burst open and one of the guards that had captured and brought him here walked in. His eyes on Joseph he looked as if he didn’t notice the dark haired lady at all. She rolled over on her side into a tight ball, whimpering.
He spoke in a loud clear voice, “Joseph, I am not here to hurt you. My mother will not be able to hurt anyone ever again. I want to thank you for your help and set you free, but I first want to talk to you.” The man walked over in front of Joseph.
Joseph eyed the man suspiciously, “Why not free me first?”
“Well, I imagine you’d simply flee. I don’t think you’d listen as closely as you would now, unable to do or think of anything else. I don’t want to cloud your mind too much. I want to clearly communicate,” the man spoke in a fluid manner but did not have the body language to accompany his voice. It was as if his body was frozen rigid and couldn’t move. It gave Joseph the chills.
“Alright,” answered Joseph wearily.
“My name is John Makros. The woman on the floor is my mother. She started a religious order known as the Makros Order and used me, her only son, biological son, to further her own needs. She faked my death to make me a saint of a kind, a Buddha, and a martyr without a cause besides holiness. She is corrupt and I hope you know that what I do to her now is nothing compared to what she has done. She is behind almost every world conflict to date. She is responsible for more damage and suffering than anyone I have ever known. Know that she deserves what she gets and nothing more or less. But that aside I’d like to talk to you about your family and your home,” the numb face spoke these words tenderly but it was frightening coming from the emotionless zombie.
“My family?” asked Joseph skeptically.
“Yes, where are you from? You are not an ordinary American. Otherwise my mother would have had very little use of you and would not have taken the time to interview you herself. It was very fortunate that she did it herself indeed. Vicariously she is weaker and sometimes reverts to physical coercion which despite your amazing abilities, would have overcome you.”
“What abilities?”
“Hmm. You don’t even realize do you?”
“What abilities?” asked Joseph again, mildly annoyed. He tugged at his wrist bonds again with a jerk.
“I was not the one who forced my mother out of your mind nor the one who cut her off from the network. That was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You gave me the chance to reorganize the reception and direction of our mental network so that I was in the position of power and so I could control her instead of her controlling me.”
“Are you controlling this body right now?”
“Yes I am. His name is Boyd Straight and he was a police officer until he joined the Order, under powerful suggestion. My mother forced many into her ranks but most she just tempted with power and money that they never saw and never will. Their minds are all wiped out. Gone. The only ones with a chance are the ones running around with chips in their heads. Everyone else is zombied out and dead in the head. It is a shame but right now, I am overthrowing the city officials and government in the name of the Makros Order. Soon I will rid this city of all that seek to control it. The corrupt will be punished and the law abiding preserved. The police state and the slavery of the Makros Order will end. The truth must win out.”
“Why are you taking over the city?”
“Because it must be that way. In order to reestablish order the old order must be broken. Only then when all components are revealed and destroyed will the occlusion of the common man end.”
“A clue shun?”
“Blindness. A fancy word for blindness.”
“Who are you fighting?” “The people that worked with the Makros Order, the NSC, the military, and the government.”
“I don’t know who or what those all are.”
“Open your mind to me and I’ll show you.”
“No. My mind is my own. It’s private. You have no right to-“ “Yes yes. I understand Joseph. I wasn’t… I understand. I should have understood. Me most of all. Tell me of your home and your family. Where did you grow up?”
“In the Rocky Mountains, in our village. We didn’t have a name for it. It was ours. I don’t think we needed a name. There was no place to go other than home. It was the water. The cliffs. The mountains. The tents. The meeting halls. The boats and that’s it. We heard about other villages that had once been, long long ago, but none of us had every seen anyone else… Except for the Snake man from the tunnels but I don’t think he was a man like us. He was… different, sick in the head and the heart. He killed my grandfather. My father’s dead. I… I wonder how my family’s doing… I’m in charge of the fishing now and with Pa Jo gone it’s too much work for the little ones. I-“
“Did you drink the water growing up?”
“The water? Yeah, why? Sometimes it was too salty and we boiled it and caught the steam into whale bladders. That’s the best water. Oh, man. It’s a chore, but it’s worth it. I can remember-“
“You drank the water of the inland sea? Repeatedly?”
”Yeah, what’s with you. Yeah, I did. All day long. Okay? Anyway. What’s happening right now. In the fight?”
“It’s rather strange. Other people have arrived from the North. I have or I should say my mother had a contact with them whose now mine and I… Yes, we’re fighting together now. Now it will be easier.”
“Will you let me go?”
“Of course I will. I was just wondering if you needed any help getting home?”
“Umm…” Joseph stared at the impassive face, knowing that he did not want help from this man or the man controlling him but he did need some kind of help. “I just need a boat. That’s all, and someone to point me in the direction of my home.” “Easily done. I will start to make preparations,” as he said this the man walked up to the large machines to Joseph’s left and pressed a few keys on a rainbow key pad. His rubbery bonds released and retreated into the table itself. He felt and heard a soft click as the cords that connected to the base of his skull on either side released their hold and snaked back and out of sight. Joseph felt gingerly at the back of his skull and felt hard, metal circular holes in the back of his head.
“I wouldn’t put your fingers in there. New inputs, very sensitive, easily infected. You must leave them be. I’m sorry I can’t remove them. It’s an irreversible procedure. I really wish I could meet you in person, but I am not in the greatest of health and I will need time to recover. I will guide you to your boat as soon as you are ready.”
“I’m ready,” Joseph said eager to get as far from this new creature as fast as possible. It was something to be addressed from within his own head, but another entirely to be addressed by someone through another someone. Besides that, he felt somewhere deep inside him that John Makros was most definitely not his friend.
Walton hated not knowing the current situation. This Strongold fellow may have saved their hides, but Kirri had a point. He was crazy. This whole toy car business had people making jokes all over the grounds. It was enough. He was responsible for all his people, but he was also responsible for their dignity and this time it had gone too far. His newest gadget was over the line. Sacrilegious in intent and downright ridiculous. American Angels, indeed. Gurney Warwick was even swayed against him. It was time. The shield must be lifted. The funding pulled. It was time to rely on good old-fashioned reconnaissance and man to man combat. The pilots down south couldn’t all be wiped out and he bet that if they lowered the shield, Hal would pop out of the rocks and tell them what’s up. Settled on this course of action, Walton stood up from his desk with full intent to send his secretary on assignment to tell everyone just that, when he heard a knock at the door.
“Yes?
“Sir, it’s me,” Rheynoald Grevneck poked his pumpkin shaped head in the door. He smiled his plastic teeth.
“Yes, Rheynoald, what is it?” relaxed, jut Rhey.
“We have a visitor, upstairs waiting,” he smiled knowingly as if at a private joke.
Tiredly, Walton asked, “Who’s outside waiting?”
“A government man. A general, judging by his outfit. Came in on a personal jet. Just set her down upstairs like no to do either way,” he wiggled his eyebrows at that. Walton sighed. A general. Well… a politician would’ve been worse.
“Lower the shield get him in and send our reconnaissance people out. We’ll reopen everyday for fifteen minutes on the hour once a day shifting the hour each day to the next hour, so tomorrow will be starting at,” he glanced at his watch, 5:34, “Six o’clock. Got all that.”
“Most certainly, sir. Right away. Oh and sir would you be caring for your coffee sir?”
“When the general, if that’s what he is, comes in, and… keep an eye on him, keep close I don’t feel all that comfortable. Military, you know, not like us. They’re different.”
“Of course sir,” he winked and was gone.
It seemed like no time passed at all before a sturdy man in his early prime stepped into his office and shook his hand vigorously. He seemed a touch nervous which was to be expected. His eyes took in everything. It was a sign of anxiety and caution. Walton was trying to be just as cautious. Would Brewer send someone valuable to assassinate him, or merely to appraise? Would he think it would lure him into a sense of confidence or respect? Walton had very little idea of the mind of President Brewer. He only knew him by his works and they were sloppy and prideful. A mistake would reveal itself sooner if not later, hopefully not too late.
“I’m President Walton of the Twelve Elders of Square One. I welcome you to our humble abode. I’m sorry our accommodations are not the greatest but they serve us well,” Walton smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way.
“I am Charles Fahey, High General of the United States Government, cabinet member of the President of the United States, and assigned negotiator for the United States in the matter of conflict between Square One and the United States Government,” the man spoke as if by rote. He must have rehearsed it all day. Walton watched the man flex and stretch his hands. Nervous. He looked at his eyes. They darted. This man was dangerous. Dangerous indeed.
“Well, General Fahey, what are your terms for surrender?”
“Surrender?” the man was momentarily stunned, he blinked and looked at Walton straight on and said, “We’ve devastated all your forces here in the Midwest and the coasts. You have no leg to stand on. You alone here in this complex are all that remains of your Square One organization. I suggest you consider your position, realistically.”
“Au contraire my friend, I believe it is you who are in the poor position,” just then Grevneck chose to enter the room with a tray table covered with coffee cups, spoons, sugar bowl, milk pot, and coffee pot, all family heirlooms, and the general jumped up on his feet like he was spring loaded. Suddenly a gun was in his hand an anti-personal laser gun with a wide gray, gold muzzle. He moved it from side to side between the two of them.
Grevneck watched the gun and the man gravely still holding the tray and walked slowly towards Walton as if to place the tray down on his desk. Charles fired but did not fire to kill he simply burned off Rhey’s leg off at the knee. Grevneck fell and dashed the tray and all its accoutrements to the floor. President Walton rose to his feet in horror. His most beloved assistant and friend flailed and swore on the floor. Strange, he’d never heard the man swear in his life. He’d thought him incapable, but great pain brings out the strangest in a man. He then looked at the man from the government, this Charles Fahey. His face was white and the hand holding the gun trembled. It was his left hand. It was funny the things one noticed at times like these. It had been a good life. He’d served his country and its people well. He could die with that knowledge.
“I don’t want to do this, but I must. I am all there is left between destruction and America,” he spoke through gasps and clenched teeth. He raised the laser and lowered it for a moment and said, “I am sorry.”
A blue laser shot from in front of his desk out of the frame of Walton’s sight and lanced across Fahey’s midsection. In reflex, the general pulled the trigger on his own laser and sliced the desk, the floor and Walton’s legs in half. Landing hard on the cold concrete floor, President Walton cried out weakly. He felt something break upon landing, probably his hip. He was old, too old for something like this. The intense heat of the laser had cauterized his wound. He would not be bleeding to death, only in severe pain once his nervous system recognized the full extent of the damage done to him. He heard someone around the other side of his desk struggle to breath. President vaguely wondered where everyone else was. They must have known that he was meeting with a representative of the government. They must have known. His brain felt fuzzy and he wondered why he was crawling. A voice from somewhere in his mind said he was in shock. He heard the gurgle, winded noise again and remembered: Grevneck, old friend. He’s hurt. He rounded the corner of his desk to see his old friend in pieces. The laser had slashed not only the desk in half, but Rhey in half. His heart had been sliced and cauterized. It had a hole in it and still pumped. He was running out of blood in gushes. The square, squat head swiveled toward the sound of Walton’s gasp of horror. His eyes were bloodshot and mad. This was not the friend he always looked forward to each day. A laser, an assassin’s pocket style was gripped in his disconnected hand a few feet away. He made to grab it with his stump but couldn’t. He was weakly gurgling and grunting something over and over. Walton watched in horror as Rheynoald ground his teeth making a squeaking noise and sending spittle down his chin, and then he realized what he was saying, “KillKillKillKillKillKill” over and over. Who was this man who’d posed as his secretary? Finally, he looked away feeling burned and drained by the image. He saw Charles Fahey with his hands over his abdomen. His lower torso and his legs were off to his right looking like a discarded toy. He was definitely in shock. He was gasping again and again pushing the exposed parts of himself upward, trying to keep himself inside. He was shaking and twitching as he worked. The image was too much for Walton who fainted in horror and disgust and didn’t wake until he was safely tucked into his own bed hours later sedated and his legs biopacked.
“So do you think I’ll get pregnant?” asked Susie mildly amused. She sat across from Josh in a Chinese restaurant on Canal St. known as Louie’s, named for its owner, Sly Louie. She fished around in her Dim Sum with her chopsticks for any more pieces of tofu. A soft red light emanated from paper lanterns strung across the ceiling. The table was black polished metal.
Josh rested his elbows on the table as he ate. He took a moment to consider, “I guess it would be likely if the causes for the pregnancy plague remain. I could look into it if you’d like.”
Susie shrugged, “I don’t know. I think it might be nice to be a mom, you know.”
Josh choked on his noodles and covered his mouth with his napkin. He managed a strangled, “What?”
“Yeah, but I’d need a husband. The whole family unit you know,” she was looking into her soup now with a cocked eyebrow and a smile quirked on her lips.
“Uh… What?” asked Josh again, completely at a loss.
“Will you marry me?” asked Susie. This time she looked at Josh directly with a naughty look of mischief on her face.
“Um… Okay,” Josh said, food falling out of his open mouth. His eyes wide in worry. Was she kidding?
Susie squealed and yelled, “We’re getting married!!!” And then the entire restaurant yelled and howled, banging utensils and cups on the table, stomping the floor, and lifting glasses.
Josh felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead and his back and all he could say under his breath was, “Oh balls.”
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Chapter 17
As preparations were being made the next morning, Josh and Susie could not help but be distracted by each other. They kissed constantly and spoke in hushed tones. Everyone turned a blind eye, except Sam and Tripp who pointed, giggled, and aped their every action. Terra was unusually stern with everyone, though she’d been colder since Sister Fox’s death. She’d removed her scalp piercings and unbraided her hair. It now resembled a gnarly bush with semblance of previous cultivation. She no longer wore makeup.
Josh was speaking, “So again, for a moment the shield will be neither here nor there. I won’t be long enough for any of us to notice, but it will be noticeable on a molecular level. The walls and settings we’ve spent so much time on will react. It’s essential we have ourselves suited up and our fingers on both triggers. No mistakes. You feel the wall giving and you pull the pin. We can get you out. You’ll have plenty of oxygen. And if this does happen to any of you, remember do not panic. If you cannot inhale deeply enough for a full breathe, you won’t suffocate. It will be uncomfortable but temporary. Okay? Any questions?” Velvet Sun raised his hand. Of course, thought Josh. Susie squeezed his hand reassuringly.
“Why must the children participate?” his face was stony and his blonde hair unkempt, even for dreadlocks. His narrow eyes were narrower than usual, a sign of pent up anger. To be expected.
“There are not enough of us for all the tunnels. We’ve placed them on the safest tunnels below us, far from the crucial areas. We’ve double sealed those areas just in case. You saw to it yourself as I recall,” Josh said reasonably.
Tightening his jaw and swallowing excess saliva, Velvet said, “I know what I have done, but I do not trust you and your shield since your doubts. Only yesterday we called this off. Why the rush? Why now? Let’s wait. There is no reason to risk so much! Terra!? Do something! You are our leader! This action is ridiculous. Running around blindfolded with a knife in each hand with-”
Terra cut in, “It wasn’t my decision. Nor was it his. Or yours. It was all our decisions. A democracy is still a democracy. Don’t make me recite the Federalist Papers to you!”
Closing his eyes in anger Velvet Sun did not speak another word.
The city itself was not making any preparations for the coming assault. It was the joke of the day on Wall St. “The Socialist Revenge!” headlines read that morning with a large semi-animate cartoon of a bomb exploding over New New York and mustaches flying out to attack and attach to all the citizens faces. Somehow near midday, a large shipment of fake mustaches made its way into the financial district below New Greenwich Village and before long nearly everyone was wearing mustaches and making anti-EU jokes.
At noon lunch breaks extended abnormally long and most people did not return to work. No one seemed to notice. It was a day off in some ways. Most people didn’t believe anything would happen but still they believed they could avoid doing what they normally did as an excuse. The subways were clogged with wandering businessmen and bored housewives. Some had children with them. It was a beautiful day. Almost unreal in its warmth, ‘Early spring’ was the constant comment of the day. Strangers talked openly to each other and lovers walked hand in hand. Traffic cops were lenient. Cars double-parked on almost every street. Very few tickets were issued. There was a commensual day off and even the eunuchs ceded to it. Chinatown was brimming with life. The street vendors were making a winter weeks profits in a day. It was amazing. Many of the pregnant women even swindled their way out of their wards and found themselves gawked at liberally by pedestrians on the street. Doctors had assured everyone the entire week since the unexplained plague of pregnancy that it was not contagious yet people still shied away and covered their faces, especially the men.
At exactly 1:14, sections of downtown shifted slightly on their foundations. In the first newscasts, it was reported to be an earthquake of minimal importance and that all foundations under city control were undisturbed. Within minutes it was discounted and then the suppositions began. Chinatown was now under a large cloudy globe. It hadn’t done anyone harm directly. One survivor who’d actually experienced first hand the EU Separation and Quarantine Strike as it was quickly dubbed, actually was bounced outward from within the spectrum of the field and he suffered only minor scrapes and bruises. The main concern now, reporters said, was how to penetrate the wall before their oxygen ran out. One newscaster was heard to have said, “Well, it’s a nuisance, but Geiger no!16 It’s pretty lame for a weapon! It didn’t even kill anyone!”
President Brewer sat on his plush, authentic leather couch and watched the television in his doppelganger living room. Charles Fahey perched next to him uneasily. The rest of the staff and cabinet officials watched in horror. What does it mean? thought the President. How is this useful as a weapon? What is it?
“AGS,” somebody muttered off to his right. All eyes turned at once to Secretary of Defense Taylor Damson who jumped visibly. The President and Charles both rose to their feet swiftly.
“What do you mean? AGS?” asked the President with quiet horror in his voice and accusation in his eyes.
“Well, it sounds like the Anti-Gravitational Shield we had that Professor working on. The one who was kidnapped?” Taylor retreated a step and winced at the looks on the fierce faces around him.
“That Professor?!” screamed President Brewer and his eyelids receded far back into his skull revealed his full orbs of white.
On the tail of the president’s words, Charles issued in a cold, booming voice that he’d never used before, “ARREST THAT MAN!! TRAITOR TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!”
Taylor squealed and turned to flee but two secret service men held him fast in a blur of movement. He looked like a child in the hands of two college football linemen.
Shaking the President walked back to his couch. He was muttering and twitching like he was having an episode of some sort. Fahey divided his attention and tried to listen to both men. Taylor was saying he was innocent, something about a mistake and his mother. The President wasn’t making any sense from the few words he could pick out. Giving up on Taylor, and thinking the President his first and foremost responsibility he turned his full attention on the distraught man.
“Mr. President, sir? What’s wrong? Is it something else, sir? Sir? SIR?!”
The man’s face had frozen and he stared straight ahead in horror, and then Charles realized he was watching the television. Charles Fahey was raised without the luxury of television and thus was untrained in the art of television watching and its telltale signs of zombie-ism. The President was transfixed in horror and amazement at what he saw on television. It was a standardized test signal of some sort Charles realized. It was a spectrum of colors and a message marquee that marched across the bottom of the screen. Not something to be concerned about. Nothing to be shocked about. It was strange.
“Sir?” and that’s when he noticed everyone watching the screen with the same expression. Even the guards who were holding Damson paused. Damson himself was silent and still. What was it about this screen? thought Charles. And then he appealed to one of his new aides, a gift from the President from his own staff, a young, disheveled looking youth with pimples and an overlarge nose, “Drake?!” he grabbed the gawky kid by the collar and shook him, “DRAKE!! What?! What is it?!”
Coming out of it. His eyes refocusing on Fahey. He looked terrified and said, “The signal broke.”
“Yeah so?”
“It’s never broken. I’ve never heard of it ever being broken. I don’t know how it could be broken. It was…”
And that’s when a messenger came running in, his face red and sweaty, he screamed, shrill and unmanly, “New New York is GONE!! And ALL OUR SATELLITES ARE GONE!! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!! OH MY GOD!!!”
So Charles did the most sensible thing he could think of to do at that moment. He punched the messenger square in the nose and knocked him to the ground. In the momentary silence that followed his felt a great wave of satisfaction despite the direness of their situation. Outside of self-defense classes, Charles had never used violence to express himself. It felt good.
The boy lay on the metal initiation table strapped down with thick, black rubber bonds. It was cold. Verithia knew it was cold not because she’d ever experienced it, but because she’d felt what every ‘applicant’ as she liked to call them felt at this point. Two long serpentine cords were attached into the young boys skull behind the ears. They fed directly into the brain using nano circuitry that her son had mastered and then used on himself and her, only, he’d screwed it up and given her control. No one ever said he was a genius, just hardworking and sweet. Verithia to this day appreciated that last fact. It was why she was perhaps the most powerful woman in history. The boy’s name was Joseph. The name of Jesus’ father. Strange, though Verithia, he has in the wrong religion. Though he is not scared which is interesting for a boy his age and in his position. He’s not dumb, just ignorant. From what she could ‘see’ and ‘feel’ of his mind, the boy was raw determination with only a hint of anxiety. Perhaps he thinks he can escape somehow.
“There is no escape,” Verithia’s whisper boomed in the silence of the tall metallic chamber of machines and torturesque paraphernalia. Deep in the boys consciousness fear began to worm about gobbling up confident thoughts and crapping out doubt. Yes, it was rare that she dealt with such fragile minds, but they were just like stupid ones, underdeveloped. He would be easily coerced.
Into his mind she spoke, to further the unsettling, Tell me where you were going?
Aloud, Joseph shot back, “Who are you?”
Chuckling aloud and telepathically, Verithia said, “My name is of no worth to you. I am the Spider. Your mind belongs to me. I will be removing your will power soon enough. I simply want to know from the horse’s mouth. Where were you going?” she stalked up and down the space cleared for her in front of the initiation tables. Her heels sounded dull clunks on the thick metal flooring.
“I don’t know,” he answered truly.
Hmm, he’s telling the truth, Verithia decided. Telepathically, What do you know about Square One’s Plans?
“I… ah..” he gasped against the mental pressure. Verithia tightened her grip on his mind feeling for cracks and lies, the dark billowing lightenings that crackled across the commensual lapsum. The boy would talk, she thought fiercely. “I… I… Aghh!! Ak…” The boy was struggling against the controls This happened from time to time. Usually an unusually strong person, mentally, can resist up to a point. It was obvious this was one of those times. The boy was holding back.
Digging her nails into her pale white palms, Verithia squeezed her purple eyes shut and concentrated on a vice squeezing the child’s brain into submission. The essence of Joseph squirmed under her grip and glowed a light pink. That never happened before. “Tell me…” managed Verithia as she struggled to crush the mind of the child.
Sweat poured down Joseph’s face and his back muscles were so taut that he arched so that only his head, his hands, and his heels touched the table. Incredible, thought Verithia momentarily distracted by the situation itself. She felt oddly detached from the struggle. She distantly recognized this as a bad sign. Suddenly a neon light stretched across the bridge of Joseph’s mind and a low throaty hum rang from his mouth. Wherever the light touched Verithia’s tendrils of consciousness, she felt burned and pulled away in shock. She screamed and yelped as she watched with blind eyes her control quickly dissolve. Her face drained of blood. The boy was now sitting up and tugging at the restricting bonds watching her unruffled by their exchange. His eyes held no fear and she didn’t need to be in his mind now to know his thoughts. Quickly she tried to call one of the guards in. She found that she was blocked somehow. She could feel him just beyond her mental reach and she scrambled at that connection but to no avail, and she knew, he had control. This boy. This freak, thought Verithia, he was telepathic without electronic aids. He was a natural phenomenon, which was even more frightening since there was probably more like him back from whence he came. She slowly backed away from the table towards the exit.
Why are you leaving, Verithia? We have so much to talk about.
At that moment, Verithia chose to scream. She fell forward and banged her knees on the unforgiving floor. The voice she heard was not Joseph’s. It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years. It was the voice of her son.
Bertrand Velour slid the thick, black credit card across the cherry wood table in his study to the man in the mask and thick robes without a word. He was an assassin. The best kind. One that didn’t exist. He would be briefed via the credit card’s lock box and it was untraceable, thanks to Switzerland’s long standing neutrality and banking codes. No one could pry into the doings of any bank within Switzerland. That’s why several decades ago, all European banking became the business of Switzerland alone. For tax purposes and legal ease, everyone, great and small simply migrated all their money to Switzerland. Every EU country’s treasury resided there. All EU’s hard currency rested in the hands of the Swiss, and that’s just the way they liked it. The man, at least he was pretty sure he was a man, accepted the credit card with a graceful, gloved hand and a slow nod. Pleased Bertrand sipped his wine and smiled. By the time his wine left his lips, he was alone. Effective and invisible, the best.
Josh was speaking, “So again, for a moment the shield will be neither here nor there. I won’t be long enough for any of us to notice, but it will be noticeable on a molecular level. The walls and settings we’ve spent so much time on will react. It’s essential we have ourselves suited up and our fingers on both triggers. No mistakes. You feel the wall giving and you pull the pin. We can get you out. You’ll have plenty of oxygen. And if this does happen to any of you, remember do not panic. If you cannot inhale deeply enough for a full breathe, you won’t suffocate. It will be uncomfortable but temporary. Okay? Any questions?” Velvet Sun raised his hand. Of course, thought Josh. Susie squeezed his hand reassuringly.
“Why must the children participate?” his face was stony and his blonde hair unkempt, even for dreadlocks. His narrow eyes were narrower than usual, a sign of pent up anger. To be expected.
“There are not enough of us for all the tunnels. We’ve placed them on the safest tunnels below us, far from the crucial areas. We’ve double sealed those areas just in case. You saw to it yourself as I recall,” Josh said reasonably.
Tightening his jaw and swallowing excess saliva, Velvet said, “I know what I have done, but I do not trust you and your shield since your doubts. Only yesterday we called this off. Why the rush? Why now? Let’s wait. There is no reason to risk so much! Terra!? Do something! You are our leader! This action is ridiculous. Running around blindfolded with a knife in each hand with-”
Terra cut in, “It wasn’t my decision. Nor was it his. Or yours. It was all our decisions. A democracy is still a democracy. Don’t make me recite the Federalist Papers to you!”
Closing his eyes in anger Velvet Sun did not speak another word.
The city itself was not making any preparations for the coming assault. It was the joke of the day on Wall St. “The Socialist Revenge!” headlines read that morning with a large semi-animate cartoon of a bomb exploding over New New York and mustaches flying out to attack and attach to all the citizens faces. Somehow near midday, a large shipment of fake mustaches made its way into the financial district below New Greenwich Village and before long nearly everyone was wearing mustaches and making anti-EU jokes.
At noon lunch breaks extended abnormally long and most people did not return to work. No one seemed to notice. It was a day off in some ways. Most people didn’t believe anything would happen but still they believed they could avoid doing what they normally did as an excuse. The subways were clogged with wandering businessmen and bored housewives. Some had children with them. It was a beautiful day. Almost unreal in its warmth, ‘Early spring’ was the constant comment of the day. Strangers talked openly to each other and lovers walked hand in hand. Traffic cops were lenient. Cars double-parked on almost every street. Very few tickets were issued. There was a commensual day off and even the eunuchs ceded to it. Chinatown was brimming with life. The street vendors were making a winter weeks profits in a day. It was amazing. Many of the pregnant women even swindled their way out of their wards and found themselves gawked at liberally by pedestrians on the street. Doctors had assured everyone the entire week since the unexplained plague of pregnancy that it was not contagious yet people still shied away and covered their faces, especially the men.
At exactly 1:14, sections of downtown shifted slightly on their foundations. In the first newscasts, it was reported to be an earthquake of minimal importance and that all foundations under city control were undisturbed. Within minutes it was discounted and then the suppositions began. Chinatown was now under a large cloudy globe. It hadn’t done anyone harm directly. One survivor who’d actually experienced first hand the EU Separation and Quarantine Strike as it was quickly dubbed, actually was bounced outward from within the spectrum of the field and he suffered only minor scrapes and bruises. The main concern now, reporters said, was how to penetrate the wall before their oxygen ran out. One newscaster was heard to have said, “Well, it’s a nuisance, but Geiger no!16 It’s pretty lame for a weapon! It didn’t even kill anyone!”
President Brewer sat on his plush, authentic leather couch and watched the television in his doppelganger living room. Charles Fahey perched next to him uneasily. The rest of the staff and cabinet officials watched in horror. What does it mean? thought the President. How is this useful as a weapon? What is it?
“AGS,” somebody muttered off to his right. All eyes turned at once to Secretary of Defense Taylor Damson who jumped visibly. The President and Charles both rose to their feet swiftly.
“What do you mean? AGS?” asked the President with quiet horror in his voice and accusation in his eyes.
“Well, it sounds like the Anti-Gravitational Shield we had that Professor working on. The one who was kidnapped?” Taylor retreated a step and winced at the looks on the fierce faces around him.
“That Professor?!” screamed President Brewer and his eyelids receded far back into his skull revealed his full orbs of white.
On the tail of the president’s words, Charles issued in a cold, booming voice that he’d never used before, “ARREST THAT MAN!! TRAITOR TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!”
Taylor squealed and turned to flee but two secret service men held him fast in a blur of movement. He looked like a child in the hands of two college football linemen.
Shaking the President walked back to his couch. He was muttering and twitching like he was having an episode of some sort. Fahey divided his attention and tried to listen to both men. Taylor was saying he was innocent, something about a mistake and his mother. The President wasn’t making any sense from the few words he could pick out. Giving up on Taylor, and thinking the President his first and foremost responsibility he turned his full attention on the distraught man.
“Mr. President, sir? What’s wrong? Is it something else, sir? Sir? SIR?!”
The man’s face had frozen and he stared straight ahead in horror, and then Charles realized he was watching the television. Charles Fahey was raised without the luxury of television and thus was untrained in the art of television watching and its telltale signs of zombie-ism. The President was transfixed in horror and amazement at what he saw on television. It was a standardized test signal of some sort Charles realized. It was a spectrum of colors and a message marquee that marched across the bottom of the screen. Not something to be concerned about. Nothing to be shocked about. It was strange.
“Sir?” and that’s when he noticed everyone watching the screen with the same expression. Even the guards who were holding Damson paused. Damson himself was silent and still. What was it about this screen? thought Charles. And then he appealed to one of his new aides, a gift from the President from his own staff, a young, disheveled looking youth with pimples and an overlarge nose, “Drake?!” he grabbed the gawky kid by the collar and shook him, “DRAKE!! What?! What is it?!”
Coming out of it. His eyes refocusing on Fahey. He looked terrified and said, “The signal broke.”
“Yeah so?”
“It’s never broken. I’ve never heard of it ever being broken. I don’t know how it could be broken. It was…”
And that’s when a messenger came running in, his face red and sweaty, he screamed, shrill and unmanly, “New New York is GONE!! And ALL OUR SATELLITES ARE GONE!! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!! OH MY GOD!!!”
So Charles did the most sensible thing he could think of to do at that moment. He punched the messenger square in the nose and knocked him to the ground. In the momentary silence that followed his felt a great wave of satisfaction despite the direness of their situation. Outside of self-defense classes, Charles had never used violence to express himself. It felt good.
The boy lay on the metal initiation table strapped down with thick, black rubber bonds. It was cold. Verithia knew it was cold not because she’d ever experienced it, but because she’d felt what every ‘applicant’ as she liked to call them felt at this point. Two long serpentine cords were attached into the young boys skull behind the ears. They fed directly into the brain using nano circuitry that her son had mastered and then used on himself and her, only, he’d screwed it up and given her control. No one ever said he was a genius, just hardworking and sweet. Verithia to this day appreciated that last fact. It was why she was perhaps the most powerful woman in history. The boy’s name was Joseph. The name of Jesus’ father. Strange, though Verithia, he has in the wrong religion. Though he is not scared which is interesting for a boy his age and in his position. He’s not dumb, just ignorant. From what she could ‘see’ and ‘feel’ of his mind, the boy was raw determination with only a hint of anxiety. Perhaps he thinks he can escape somehow.
“There is no escape,” Verithia’s whisper boomed in the silence of the tall metallic chamber of machines and torturesque paraphernalia. Deep in the boys consciousness fear began to worm about gobbling up confident thoughts and crapping out doubt. Yes, it was rare that she dealt with such fragile minds, but they were just like stupid ones, underdeveloped. He would be easily coerced.
Into his mind she spoke, to further the unsettling, Tell me where you were going?
Aloud, Joseph shot back, “Who are you?”
Chuckling aloud and telepathically, Verithia said, “My name is of no worth to you. I am the Spider. Your mind belongs to me. I will be removing your will power soon enough. I simply want to know from the horse’s mouth. Where were you going?” she stalked up and down the space cleared for her in front of the initiation tables. Her heels sounded dull clunks on the thick metal flooring.
“I don’t know,” he answered truly.
Hmm, he’s telling the truth, Verithia decided. Telepathically, What do you know about Square One’s Plans?
“I… ah..” he gasped against the mental pressure. Verithia tightened her grip on his mind feeling for cracks and lies, the dark billowing lightenings that crackled across the commensual lapsum. The boy would talk, she thought fiercely. “I… I… Aghh!! Ak…” The boy was struggling against the controls This happened from time to time. Usually an unusually strong person, mentally, can resist up to a point. It was obvious this was one of those times. The boy was holding back.
Digging her nails into her pale white palms, Verithia squeezed her purple eyes shut and concentrated on a vice squeezing the child’s brain into submission. The essence of Joseph squirmed under her grip and glowed a light pink. That never happened before. “Tell me…” managed Verithia as she struggled to crush the mind of the child.
Sweat poured down Joseph’s face and his back muscles were so taut that he arched so that only his head, his hands, and his heels touched the table. Incredible, thought Verithia momentarily distracted by the situation itself. She felt oddly detached from the struggle. She distantly recognized this as a bad sign. Suddenly a neon light stretched across the bridge of Joseph’s mind and a low throaty hum rang from his mouth. Wherever the light touched Verithia’s tendrils of consciousness, she felt burned and pulled away in shock. She screamed and yelped as she watched with blind eyes her control quickly dissolve. Her face drained of blood. The boy was now sitting up and tugging at the restricting bonds watching her unruffled by their exchange. His eyes held no fear and she didn’t need to be in his mind now to know his thoughts. Quickly she tried to call one of the guards in. She found that she was blocked somehow. She could feel him just beyond her mental reach and she scrambled at that connection but to no avail, and she knew, he had control. This boy. This freak, thought Verithia, he was telepathic without electronic aids. He was a natural phenomenon, which was even more frightening since there was probably more like him back from whence he came. She slowly backed away from the table towards the exit.
Why are you leaving, Verithia? We have so much to talk about.
At that moment, Verithia chose to scream. She fell forward and banged her knees on the unforgiving floor. The voice she heard was not Joseph’s. It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years. It was the voice of her son.
Bertrand Velour slid the thick, black credit card across the cherry wood table in his study to the man in the mask and thick robes without a word. He was an assassin. The best kind. One that didn’t exist. He would be briefed via the credit card’s lock box and it was untraceable, thanks to Switzerland’s long standing neutrality and banking codes. No one could pry into the doings of any bank within Switzerland. That’s why several decades ago, all European banking became the business of Switzerland alone. For tax purposes and legal ease, everyone, great and small simply migrated all their money to Switzerland. Every EU country’s treasury resided there. All EU’s hard currency rested in the hands of the Swiss, and that’s just the way they liked it. The man, at least he was pretty sure he was a man, accepted the credit card with a graceful, gloved hand and a slow nod. Pleased Bertrand sipped his wine and smiled. By the time his wine left his lips, he was alone. Effective and invisible, the best.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Chapter 16
Roto Veritable sat in front of his holo-screen preparing to write his latest slander on the supposed survivors in their midst of Square One. Escapees that’d slipped through the claws of the Secret Police to infiltrate the ranks of public office and business elite alike. He sipped his drink of choice, a Gintonic, and nibbled on a spicy Hash cake that made his mouth burn as he sipped the Gintonic.
To the air he said, “Record: The fantasy is over. Square One has been unmasked and executed, but as in rebellions of the past the remaining criminals at large exist as a threat to all. Worried mothers clutch their children close. The public office has been infiltrated. No doubt this Verithia is the true name of the so-called Terra, or Earth, the leader of Square One, and was controlling our dear mayor through a microchip in his brain. The outraged public has demanded justice and to a degree they’ve been given it, but what of those who have escaped? They still provide a threat. Terrorism must find no mercy … at hands of … justice… hold us all sway… stop recording. Erase last sentence. There. Okay. Record: Terrorism has no place in this city. We have felt its effects. Our women. Our men… Stop recording.” Crap, why was he meandering. He sounded downright bombastic and hardly credible. He sipped at his Gintonic again, feeling strange and out of sync with himself. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his arms.
“Erase all. Close file,” what would it take to win back the public’s ear. He’d nearly sunk himself with that pro-Square One article and his apology almost buried him. They didn’t need the reminder. I guess the article had reached too many people for them to be reminded of the shame of it. It was a shame. They’d all been taken in, but then after that precinct went down and took a few blocks with it. Everyone who’d put in a good word was black listed, and Roto nearly with them. He’d only got off by saying it was the booze talking. Looking down at his left hand he stared at the Gintonic in his hand. Maybe it really was the booze talking, or the Hash cake he was nibbling on. Either way, maybe it was time to do something about it. Roto turned off his desk and grabbed his jacket and headed down to the front lobby.
Hailing a cab he asked for the nearest detoxification center, and found himself delivered to a humble looking building with a neo-modern looking design, rather quaint and out of a pre-flood America, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the run down slums of Old Chinatown. As he stepped out of the cab, vocally identifying his payment method and adding a tip, he read the welcome sign in front of the now recognizable church. He turned to call the cab back and saw that it was already around the corner. Probably headed uptown. Crap. Well you wanted to get clean.
With a dour look of resistance, Roto scrubbed his lank black hair with its green streaks out of his eyes and headed inside.
A clean-cut young man with a full suit and a nametag greeted him at the door with a wide smile on a mouth too big for his face, and said, “Welcome brother, my name’s Elder Frick. Please come inside. We were notified by the cab driver to your condition and a meeting is already in progress. Help is here, brother. What’s your name might I ask?” His cheery, blonde attitude was grating on Roto’s nerves, that and he was still mid-buzz from that first Gintonic, or was it his second he couldn’t recall. I guess I do belong here, he thought wryly.
“Roto, and I’m not here to convert. I’m here to get some perspective,” managed Roto.
The young man nodded sagely as if he understood, but judging by the pimple in the crevice of his nostril he most definitely did not understand.
He was escorted into a large room full of men in crumpled suits and drab work uniforms and haphazard women of tired faces and sad mouths. This is the pits, Roto thought. This is where I have ended up. The bottom rung of society. I’m in a Mormon church at an AA meeting. What could be worse. He sat down next to a young woman in a purple, plastic mini skirt and stretch top see through bra that left nothing to the imagination. She held a blanket balled up in her lap, probably provided by the missionaries to cover herself up, but she’d shed it upon entering the meeting. If she wasn’t all coated in a thick layer of makeup she might be attractive, thought Roto, then again she might have something. NP or NP2 or pregnant. Ugh. The thought made him a little sick but he still sat down next to her and glanced at her routinely. She did not once look up at him and listened to the speaker intently.
The speaker was an elderly gentlemen with a short, missionary haircut and a lined and scarred face, his voice was high pitched and brittle, “-used to be. That’s right used to be. Now look at me. Alive again. Living. Just like Christ. Reborn. You can do it too. I used to drink paint thinner and poke myself with used syringes from a hospital dumpster to get a kick out of anything. Course, I think that half the time whatever I got I ran into the cure eventually I tried so many of those damn things. But, for serious, I know the Lord was behind me the whole time guiding me to this very place. Saving me one moment at a time, for this moment. Now I’m married and I have a big family. Fine kids! All natural! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? At my age! Only through rehabilitation and the held of the church did I get my life back. I owe it all to them. I say all these things in the name of Joseph Smith the 12th and Jesus Christ, Amen.”
While Velvet Sun and his crew finished the final setup of the shield, the rest of Square One was mobilizing to each node in the circle. It would require every one of them even the kids to simultaneously set off the reaction that would evenly enlargen the shield to encompass the still intact Chinatown. It was a mark of Josh’s genius that he’d figured it out without any working examples as he needed every little capsule of AG fluid he had. Susie despite the need for her to be elsewhere asked to stay with Josh, but was turned down by Terra. Not surprising, Susie had some choice words for their leader, but she still obeyed. In fifteen minutes they’d all be in place. Over the com came Terra steady, cool voice, “If anyone experiences a break-in remember to just hit your waist band and you’ll be sealed in a balloon of air and the entire corridor will be foamed. We will get you back, don’t worry about that. Just worry about making sure we aren’t flooding our house and home. Got it?” A communal “Got it” issued over the com in response. Josh rubbed his hands together. It had to work. It theoretically worked, so it had to work. His palms were sweating and his heart was racing. What could happen instead of it working? Implosion? Unlikely but definitely possible. There was enough gravity present to create a miniature black whole a period of a few seconds, and that would be enough time to decimate NNYC and all of them easily, not to mention most of the Atlantic. Oh, what a time to be doubting, came another voice in his head. You couldn’t have calculated that out could you? Why is it you always think of the bad possibilities right before you do something incredibly dangerous.
“Josh? Do you read me?”
“Yeah,” Josh answered weakly.
“I’ve been calling you for the past 30 seconds. What’s wrong? I’m calling off the countdown,” she switched to the main line, “Calling off shield update. Calling off. Everyone back off. Josh needs help. Velvet Sun, get over there fast. Susie you stay put. He doesn’t need any distractions right now.”
Josh was vaguely miffed at the fact that the last bit went over the main line for all to hear. He sat down hard on the garbage packed floor in a former main tunnel off the meeting hall and began to hyperventilate.
Within moments Velvet Sun was there, holding him up and pouring water down his throat. Spluttering and choking on water, Josh turned on his side and hacked and coughed. When he lifted his head a small audience awaited him. Susie. Terra. Velvet Sun. Tripp. They all watched him expectantly. He said shakily, “I got scared. For a moment I got the feeling that we were gonna trigger a black hole or something and destroy half the earth.”
Terra unfazed sat down next to him, “Is that a possibility Josh?”
Josh nodded numbly, and mumbled, “Maybe.”
He rested his head against the floor and Susie was there, he could smell her hair and feel her soft touch his neck and side. From far away he heard Terra say, “We need more research. Call it off. Velvet Sun round up all the equipment in the tunnels. I don’t want any tinkering,” she looked at Tripp meaningfully, “and we’ll try this again later. Maybe tomorrow. We’re safe as it is, if bored, but alive and I intend to keep us that way. Let’s go. Leave him with her. She can handle him.” With that Josh closed his eyes and felt himself go limp in Susie’s arms.
Captured, fumed Joseph. Probably planned it this way. He stared daggers at Hal, if that was his real name. The man had obviously sold them out. After convincing them to come with him to meet with this President Walton in his flying ‘balloon’, looked like a giant blue whale’s bladder to Joseph, they’d shortly been attacked by more giant flying bugs. Hal had exclaimed ‘The Army!’ before he could stop himself and Joseph and Tom’s fears were confirmed: Hal was a fake. Now they road in the belly of one of the bugs bound hand and foot with metal hoops that would have been more useful for links in a fishing net. They felt strong enough to handle a shark’s bite. Poor Tom, they’d bashed in his head as soon as he’d revealed himself to be from the cliffs. I guess they’re guys who destroyed our village, thought Joseph. He tried to force down the rising tide of panic in his chest. Hal was being worked over methodically. They kept hitting him in the same spot over his left eye and in the stomach over and over. It made Joseph want to throw up. He must be some sort of criminal to these people. They kept asking him about some ‘Professor Strangled’ and ‘Square One’ and ‘the other missionaries’. Hal was taking it well enough, though he looked like an older man. He hardly cried out when they hit him. He never spoke a word, just accepted the beating. After they’d identified Joseph they’d shoved a round ball in his mouth and strapped a black stretchy leather cord around his head to keep in his mouth. It tasted horrible like a whale’s liver and sometimes the junk they found in a shark’s stomach, but at least he wasn’t food for the sea like poor Tom. They’d kicked his body out of the bug and they were so high up and the bug was so loud that Joseph never heard him land. Just kicked out of existence. I wonder if the Bishop’s council knew this was going to happen and that’s why they were so hesitant to let them look for the way out. I guess that bully, Barry, was right all along. He’d be the one to watch over everyone and bring the village back to the cliffs. Kinda sad, thought Joseph unable to pull his eyes from Hal slowly getting beaten to death, a whole village full of Barrys. He suppressed a shudder. Finally they stopped and strapped themselves into seats around the inside of the bug. The bug was shuddering and bucking and suddenly everyone was yelling and a white light enveloped Joseph’s sight. Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing. It burned and he felt his own scream claw from his throat to join the others.
“The bombs went off one by one, winding down the Rockies. It all looked normal until here. See the neon green lining to that cloud. Research has uncovered that this is a former location of a large depository of nuclear waste that filled this entire mountain. The former US regimes had decided to hollow out several different landmasses for storage of hazardous waste. This was the first and only one on American soil. Interestingly, the region known as Guam became the second depository but was engulfed during the Floods and was considered one of the larger causes of the Ocean Fallout. If we’d had time to properly plan this offensive this may have been discovered, but in my personal opinion it wouldn’t have been found as it is a historical anomaly and we had to dig pretty far to find out about it. Either way it’s pointless now since it’s done. We suggest that we warn New New York state, Capitol Island, and Appalachia since the radioactive cloud certainly will be reaching them within the next few days. As a precautionary measure we have moved Air Force One above the jet stream to avoid any contamination, but we have set up a Geiger counter field just incase and though we are behind a thick wall of lead infused glass, we can’t be too careful,” Francis Teedle nodded to the president and then the rest of his audience and retook his seat. The image of the remains of this particular mountain, and it’s neon green lined mushroom cloud, remained upon the wall. The president sat silently scrutinizing it. Looks like a fake to me, he thought, though I’m no expert. Don’t be the first to speak, remember that, always remember that. Maybe Damson’ll add a knot to his noose, the traitor. He nearly growled the last thought aloud but restrained himself.
Instead of his secretary of Defense digging himself a deeper grave, High General Charles Fahey stood up with a grave and serious face He said in a steady voice, “We are at war, and despite the consequences of my decision, I stand by my actions. Our livelihood is at stake. Our way of life, liberty, and freedom are being threatened from within and without. The EU is sending plague after plague in spite of international decree against chemical warfare. They show no signs of fair play or mercy. We should and will warn our people of the coming radioactive dust cloud, but I must say that no word, none, of warning should be passed on to our enemy. We will have to tell our own people at the last minute, to prevent awareness from spreading too fast, even so it might not work. We will have to enforce Warning Level: Red, the highest level of security and shut down the city itself, hours before arrival of the cloud. It will be close, but that is the only way. They want to play it dirty, well, we will oblige.” With that, Charles sat down slowly and stiffly. Quite a changed man from their first meeting, thought Brewer. He was good, cold and hard, just the kind of man Tarfit would have wanted for a replacement. As good as the great McCarthy even.
Standing the president addressed the ensemble, “Gentlemen, I believe the High General speaks for us all. Let no American suffer, but let those that make us suffer feel our wrath!” He raised his gloved fist to the sound of cheers. Now, we have a war.
“Tara “SpellBinding” Seaver, John Fredrisk Appletower’s wife joins the Makros Order today despite her husband’s comatose condition to show no hard feelings between the mayoral family and the Order. A representative today said, ‘John Makros himself was a kind man and he would never have condoned such an action. It is obvious to any observer that it is not the Makros Order at fault but another group interested in power and politics. The Makros Order would never suggest any such action nor would it take any such action. It is a peaceful and tranquil order created for the harmony of mankind.’ Rumor has it that Tara will be doing a centerfold for Playboy this spring and don’t be surprised if she does it wearing the robes of her new Order.”
“China invades Antarctica and The Brazilian United Front no more? Tune in at Eleven.”.
Jack winced through clenched teeth. He’d managed to pry loose a corner of his body cast. He was getting out of here as soon as possible. Tonight if he could manage it. When his dinner came he’d tear a whole in the lady’s suit and break her microphone link to the other nurses, or was it a mental implant. Best to assume it’s a mental chip, though those need to be downloaded and uploaded, they weren’t a free exchange of information. She’d have to concentrate though a call for help was probably easy to make. He’d have to incapacitate her somehow. Knock her out, but how. Looking around for a weapon, Jack could find none. He’d just have to use his hands he decided. His constant use of the remote control had to have built up some strength. This had to work. Wincing and letting loose a high-pitched whisper of a squeal, Jack tore loose another section, just below his ribs away in the suit. He ribs felt cold and tender, most likely still healing. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea… yet. Maybe… No, he needed to leave now before he got too strong and then they’d watch him more closely. Now they probably recorded and reviewed. Hardly a notice in the media. They’ve got bigger problems. Bigger fish to fry. Not little old me, cripple Jack, all fragments in a sack, but he’d show them. He’d show them all. The anchorman droned on.
“-bombing today at Capitol Island. Sources say it was localized and not a breach, I repeat not a breach of the Satellite defense system, Star Wars, but was most likely an attack by the terrorist group known only as Square One. Though little evidence is apparent these terrorists have rumored links to the Realization Groups of the early 90’s and authorities say that it is just a matter of time before the remainder of these criminals are rounded up and tried, judged, and jailed. As to the condition of Capitol Island, there are no witnesses and satellite feeds say it registers blank in all visual trackings. It appears that a new type of bomb has been created. The President appeared in the Oval Office today, despite its rumored destruction and his safe house condition, and said-“
Jack glanced up from his work. How could the President appear in the Oval Office if it was destroyed. They couldn’t build the White House back up in a day, nor would… Oh… I get it. The White House never was on Capitol Island. It must be somewhere hidden. Underground in some abandoned mineshaft. He probably was born there and raised. Never seen sunlight, paler than an albino, like a maggot under a rock. Probably all the presidents come from this shaft community. When they reach the proper age they become president and then they get a new identity and outfit and become an aide or a cabinet member. It was all a sham, and they’d just revealed it on air, live, for all to see. Or was this a mistake, were the editing boys getting sloppy and making compound sentences into mixed up messages. No too good, too perfect. A cave-in and the entire government would literally collapse. Jack couldn’t help himself but laugh. It only made his side hurt even worse and he yelped in pain and gripped his side. Within moments the canine nurse was there with her rough, thick-fingered hands roughly gripping him into place. The evil woman found his split body cast and resealed it with a belt device of hers. She’d been prepared. The entire time. She even took the time to tie down his hands, though she let him hold onto the remote control. She made a scratching motion on her arm and waggled her finger remonstratingly under his nose. No itching I get it, nodded Jack. At least she didn’t think I was trying to infect her and escape. At least. The man on the television with the frozen wave of blonde hair droned on.
President Muenster stood before the cameras red faced and shaking. This was the final insult. Mercy was gone. The American pigs doubted! DOUBTED! that the EU could bomb them through their network of Satellites. The fools they’d signed their own death warrant. Bertrand Velour would have his campaign. The bombings would really begin now. Even Spain somehow overnight was behind them. It was a miracle. Though Hans smelled a rat, a French one by the stench, and in the next few weeks he would be careful to watch his back. His job was usually threatened but was rarely endangered; now it was, along with his life. The African farce could be done away with in spite of its success. They’d pick up where they left off after the US was eradicated. The Middle Eastern Empire was doing quite well on its own and soon all American holdings in the world would be compromised and return either to the rightful owners hands or to the EU’s.
Finally after a long pause, and a few tattered breaths, the president of the European Union addressed his people and the world, soon-to-be his people, “My countrymen and women, we have suffered long under the yoke of oppression both economically and militarily. The tyrannical United States has finally met their match. By denying the reality of our strength, they welcome defeat. They fight against themselves while we prepare for a massive attack. We’ve destroyed their political epicenter, and now they’ve forced us, ironically, as the extinct and ancient country, Japan, forced the Americans into bombing them twice with the original Atom Bombs during World War II. We are forced now to bomb them twice with the Erasure Bomb of France’s Gerard Fachonde and of the former Russia’s Vladimir Petrovich. It is an amazing invention and one that is undetectable and we are so confident in its abilities that we are announcing its discovery and our intent to the world. Be forewarned President Brewer, we are not doing this to your people. You are. It is your foolish decisions and actions that have cost your citizens their lives. How many innocents will perish for you stupidity and selfishness?” And with a wry smile, Muenster said, “Your pride, President Brewer, is showing. We will give you twenty-four hours to surrender and if you have not by then, at exactly 1400 hrs Eastern American time, we will bomb New New York out of existence. We await your plea, but we fear for your people that none will be forthcoming.”
Unaware of world events because of the disruption caused by the AGS shield protecting Square One in NNYC, Josh worked hard into the night doing proofs and testing in his limited capacity, without the aid of live anti-gravity tests, trying to figure out whether the increase in AGS fluid within a limited circumference will cause it to expand or invert into a black hole. As of yet he could only prove himself right, which was both heartening and terribly worrisome, since the possibility of being completely right seemed impossible, possibly. Oh, crap, this is too much. Leaning into the chalk board, Josh hit his forehead against the cool hard surface until something soft and warm intercepted him and pulled him away from the chalky air around the board and into a warm passionate kiss. Oh, Susie, why do you care for me, thought Josh.
Then aloud, “I can’t think with all this making out left and right.”
“That’s not what you said last time,” chuckled Susie. “And I don’t think banging your head’s gonna make your brain work any quicker. Let’s get out of the lab for once and go eat with the others, and maybe visit your room. I’ve never actually been in there, you know.”
Eying her sideways, Josh said, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she responded playfully.
“What are we gonna do there? Sleep? That’s why I have a hammock here,” he gestured to the dirty limp half sack suspended in the air. Susie couldn’t help but laugh out loud, a full-bodied laughter that shook her head to toe until tears filled her eyes. Josh watched in fascination. What a strange girl.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are ridiculous,” said Susie matter-of-factly and grabbed Josh by the collar and hauled him out of the laboratory despite his string of pleas and excuses towards his room. She would interrupt him with a kiss every few feet, and shortly they were there.
Red faced and pop eyed, Albert Strongold spoke in clipped succinct words, “A child could master its operations within the hour.”
“We have no doubts to your in-depth knowledge of children,” acidly spoke Kirri Tandem, one of the most backwards of the twelve. An ancient man with knobby hooks for hands and worthless stick legs that didn’t support his gaunt frame. He would not survive the month, decided Albert.
Turning his two-tone eyes on Kirri, he replied coldly, “Strange I was referring to the aircraft itself as the matter at hand. Perhaps I should simplify my language. Chew it up a bit, make it easier to swallow. It’s hard with no teeth. I imag-“
“Albert,” the musical resonance of Gurney’s voice held none of the warning he intended, yet Albert held his tongue.
President Walton sighed heavily. This was going nowhere. They’d set an ultimatum for the man-child genius and what he comes up with is as fitting as his mind, genius, but ridiculous.
The one-person desk-size aircraft looked exactly like an early model automobile from 1900’s for a child, a fossil fuel powered anachronism with rubber tired and red with flames painted on the sides,. It was ridiculous looking. Not something to inspire terror or even respect. It was a toy, even if it was effective as a weapon.
Knowing that they expected him to speak as leader of the twelve, he issued a cough and spoke in his most kind voice, “Albert, we are grateful for all you have done for Square One and the people of the United States. No one person has risked more or given us as much advantage as you have,” Kirri scoffed, but Walton ignored him, “It’s just that we were hoping for something different. We will give you some men to try out your… What was its name again?”
“Motor Death, Killer Car, or Sky Racer. I haven’t decided. I originally was going to call it just the Hot Rod, but that seemed hackneyed once I researched the number of usages. I think the combination of familiarity, ingenuity, and touch couture in the name will make the marketability easier. If-“
“Marketability? What’s he talking about?!” cried Evret Olin, his dentures exposed in an open mouth sneer of disgust.
Walton rubbed at his temples with one hand and rested heavily on the table with the other. Hal was missing. Half the Rockies were in great billowing dust clouds that passed over the AGS shield like smoke from a forest fire. The military was definitely on the move now. Hal’s Square One Air Force must have done a thorough job of stirring the hornets’ nest. He hoped they were all alright. And now this. There was no way of knowing. The AGS shield managed to keep out radio waves and any form of electronic communications, something to do with cross polarization, wavelength appositional composition, and dimensions of gravitational selection. Strongold referred to it as ‘a mere detail’! This meeting was never going to end.
To the air he said, “Record: The fantasy is over. Square One has been unmasked and executed, but as in rebellions of the past the remaining criminals at large exist as a threat to all. Worried mothers clutch their children close. The public office has been infiltrated. No doubt this Verithia is the true name of the so-called Terra, or Earth, the leader of Square One, and was controlling our dear mayor through a microchip in his brain. The outraged public has demanded justice and to a degree they’ve been given it, but what of those who have escaped? They still provide a threat. Terrorism must find no mercy … at hands of … justice… hold us all sway… stop recording. Erase last sentence. There. Okay. Record: Terrorism has no place in this city. We have felt its effects. Our women. Our men… Stop recording.” Crap, why was he meandering. He sounded downright bombastic and hardly credible. He sipped at his Gintonic again, feeling strange and out of sync with himself. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his arms.
“Erase all. Close file,” what would it take to win back the public’s ear. He’d nearly sunk himself with that pro-Square One article and his apology almost buried him. They didn’t need the reminder. I guess the article had reached too many people for them to be reminded of the shame of it. It was a shame. They’d all been taken in, but then after that precinct went down and took a few blocks with it. Everyone who’d put in a good word was black listed, and Roto nearly with them. He’d only got off by saying it was the booze talking. Looking down at his left hand he stared at the Gintonic in his hand. Maybe it really was the booze talking, or the Hash cake he was nibbling on. Either way, maybe it was time to do something about it. Roto turned off his desk and grabbed his jacket and headed down to the front lobby.
Hailing a cab he asked for the nearest detoxification center, and found himself delivered to a humble looking building with a neo-modern looking design, rather quaint and out of a pre-flood America, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the run down slums of Old Chinatown. As he stepped out of the cab, vocally identifying his payment method and adding a tip, he read the welcome sign in front of the now recognizable church. He turned to call the cab back and saw that it was already around the corner. Probably headed uptown. Crap. Well you wanted to get clean.
With a dour look of resistance, Roto scrubbed his lank black hair with its green streaks out of his eyes and headed inside.
A clean-cut young man with a full suit and a nametag greeted him at the door with a wide smile on a mouth too big for his face, and said, “Welcome brother, my name’s Elder Frick. Please come inside. We were notified by the cab driver to your condition and a meeting is already in progress. Help is here, brother. What’s your name might I ask?” His cheery, blonde attitude was grating on Roto’s nerves, that and he was still mid-buzz from that first Gintonic, or was it his second he couldn’t recall. I guess I do belong here, he thought wryly.
“Roto, and I’m not here to convert. I’m here to get some perspective,” managed Roto.
The young man nodded sagely as if he understood, but judging by the pimple in the crevice of his nostril he most definitely did not understand.
He was escorted into a large room full of men in crumpled suits and drab work uniforms and haphazard women of tired faces and sad mouths. This is the pits, Roto thought. This is where I have ended up. The bottom rung of society. I’m in a Mormon church at an AA meeting. What could be worse. He sat down next to a young woman in a purple, plastic mini skirt and stretch top see through bra that left nothing to the imagination. She held a blanket balled up in her lap, probably provided by the missionaries to cover herself up, but she’d shed it upon entering the meeting. If she wasn’t all coated in a thick layer of makeup she might be attractive, thought Roto, then again she might have something. NP or NP2 or pregnant. Ugh. The thought made him a little sick but he still sat down next to her and glanced at her routinely. She did not once look up at him and listened to the speaker intently.
The speaker was an elderly gentlemen with a short, missionary haircut and a lined and scarred face, his voice was high pitched and brittle, “-used to be. That’s right used to be. Now look at me. Alive again. Living. Just like Christ. Reborn. You can do it too. I used to drink paint thinner and poke myself with used syringes from a hospital dumpster to get a kick out of anything. Course, I think that half the time whatever I got I ran into the cure eventually I tried so many of those damn things. But, for serious, I know the Lord was behind me the whole time guiding me to this very place. Saving me one moment at a time, for this moment. Now I’m married and I have a big family. Fine kids! All natural! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? At my age! Only through rehabilitation and the held of the church did I get my life back. I owe it all to them. I say all these things in the name of Joseph Smith the 12th and Jesus Christ, Amen.”
While Velvet Sun and his crew finished the final setup of the shield, the rest of Square One was mobilizing to each node in the circle. It would require every one of them even the kids to simultaneously set off the reaction that would evenly enlargen the shield to encompass the still intact Chinatown. It was a mark of Josh’s genius that he’d figured it out without any working examples as he needed every little capsule of AG fluid he had. Susie despite the need for her to be elsewhere asked to stay with Josh, but was turned down by Terra. Not surprising, Susie had some choice words for their leader, but she still obeyed. In fifteen minutes they’d all be in place. Over the com came Terra steady, cool voice, “If anyone experiences a break-in remember to just hit your waist band and you’ll be sealed in a balloon of air and the entire corridor will be foamed. We will get you back, don’t worry about that. Just worry about making sure we aren’t flooding our house and home. Got it?” A communal “Got it” issued over the com in response. Josh rubbed his hands together. It had to work. It theoretically worked, so it had to work. His palms were sweating and his heart was racing. What could happen instead of it working? Implosion? Unlikely but definitely possible. There was enough gravity present to create a miniature black whole a period of a few seconds, and that would be enough time to decimate NNYC and all of them easily, not to mention most of the Atlantic. Oh, what a time to be doubting, came another voice in his head. You couldn’t have calculated that out could you? Why is it you always think of the bad possibilities right before you do something incredibly dangerous.
“Josh? Do you read me?”
“Yeah,” Josh answered weakly.
“I’ve been calling you for the past 30 seconds. What’s wrong? I’m calling off the countdown,” she switched to the main line, “Calling off shield update. Calling off. Everyone back off. Josh needs help. Velvet Sun, get over there fast. Susie you stay put. He doesn’t need any distractions right now.”
Josh was vaguely miffed at the fact that the last bit went over the main line for all to hear. He sat down hard on the garbage packed floor in a former main tunnel off the meeting hall and began to hyperventilate.
Within moments Velvet Sun was there, holding him up and pouring water down his throat. Spluttering and choking on water, Josh turned on his side and hacked and coughed. When he lifted his head a small audience awaited him. Susie. Terra. Velvet Sun. Tripp. They all watched him expectantly. He said shakily, “I got scared. For a moment I got the feeling that we were gonna trigger a black hole or something and destroy half the earth.”
Terra unfazed sat down next to him, “Is that a possibility Josh?”
Josh nodded numbly, and mumbled, “Maybe.”
He rested his head against the floor and Susie was there, he could smell her hair and feel her soft touch his neck and side. From far away he heard Terra say, “We need more research. Call it off. Velvet Sun round up all the equipment in the tunnels. I don’t want any tinkering,” she looked at Tripp meaningfully, “and we’ll try this again later. Maybe tomorrow. We’re safe as it is, if bored, but alive and I intend to keep us that way. Let’s go. Leave him with her. She can handle him.” With that Josh closed his eyes and felt himself go limp in Susie’s arms.
Captured, fumed Joseph. Probably planned it this way. He stared daggers at Hal, if that was his real name. The man had obviously sold them out. After convincing them to come with him to meet with this President Walton in his flying ‘balloon’, looked like a giant blue whale’s bladder to Joseph, they’d shortly been attacked by more giant flying bugs. Hal had exclaimed ‘The Army!’ before he could stop himself and Joseph and Tom’s fears were confirmed: Hal was a fake. Now they road in the belly of one of the bugs bound hand and foot with metal hoops that would have been more useful for links in a fishing net. They felt strong enough to handle a shark’s bite. Poor Tom, they’d bashed in his head as soon as he’d revealed himself to be from the cliffs. I guess they’re guys who destroyed our village, thought Joseph. He tried to force down the rising tide of panic in his chest. Hal was being worked over methodically. They kept hitting him in the same spot over his left eye and in the stomach over and over. It made Joseph want to throw up. He must be some sort of criminal to these people. They kept asking him about some ‘Professor Strangled’ and ‘Square One’ and ‘the other missionaries’. Hal was taking it well enough, though he looked like an older man. He hardly cried out when they hit him. He never spoke a word, just accepted the beating. After they’d identified Joseph they’d shoved a round ball in his mouth and strapped a black stretchy leather cord around his head to keep in his mouth. It tasted horrible like a whale’s liver and sometimes the junk they found in a shark’s stomach, but at least he wasn’t food for the sea like poor Tom. They’d kicked his body out of the bug and they were so high up and the bug was so loud that Joseph never heard him land. Just kicked out of existence. I wonder if the Bishop’s council knew this was going to happen and that’s why they were so hesitant to let them look for the way out. I guess that bully, Barry, was right all along. He’d be the one to watch over everyone and bring the village back to the cliffs. Kinda sad, thought Joseph unable to pull his eyes from Hal slowly getting beaten to death, a whole village full of Barrys. He suppressed a shudder. Finally they stopped and strapped themselves into seats around the inside of the bug. The bug was shuddering and bucking and suddenly everyone was yelling and a white light enveloped Joseph’s sight. Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing. It burned and he felt his own scream claw from his throat to join the others.
“The bombs went off one by one, winding down the Rockies. It all looked normal until here. See the neon green lining to that cloud. Research has uncovered that this is a former location of a large depository of nuclear waste that filled this entire mountain. The former US regimes had decided to hollow out several different landmasses for storage of hazardous waste. This was the first and only one on American soil. Interestingly, the region known as Guam became the second depository but was engulfed during the Floods and was considered one of the larger causes of the Ocean Fallout. If we’d had time to properly plan this offensive this may have been discovered, but in my personal opinion it wouldn’t have been found as it is a historical anomaly and we had to dig pretty far to find out about it. Either way it’s pointless now since it’s done. We suggest that we warn New New York state, Capitol Island, and Appalachia since the radioactive cloud certainly will be reaching them within the next few days. As a precautionary measure we have moved Air Force One above the jet stream to avoid any contamination, but we have set up a Geiger counter field just incase and though we are behind a thick wall of lead infused glass, we can’t be too careful,” Francis Teedle nodded to the president and then the rest of his audience and retook his seat. The image of the remains of this particular mountain, and it’s neon green lined mushroom cloud, remained upon the wall. The president sat silently scrutinizing it. Looks like a fake to me, he thought, though I’m no expert. Don’t be the first to speak, remember that, always remember that. Maybe Damson’ll add a knot to his noose, the traitor. He nearly growled the last thought aloud but restrained himself.
Instead of his secretary of Defense digging himself a deeper grave, High General Charles Fahey stood up with a grave and serious face He said in a steady voice, “We are at war, and despite the consequences of my decision, I stand by my actions. Our livelihood is at stake. Our way of life, liberty, and freedom are being threatened from within and without. The EU is sending plague after plague in spite of international decree against chemical warfare. They show no signs of fair play or mercy. We should and will warn our people of the coming radioactive dust cloud, but I must say that no word, none, of warning should be passed on to our enemy. We will have to tell our own people at the last minute, to prevent awareness from spreading too fast, even so it might not work. We will have to enforce Warning Level: Red, the highest level of security and shut down the city itself, hours before arrival of the cloud. It will be close, but that is the only way. They want to play it dirty, well, we will oblige.” With that, Charles sat down slowly and stiffly. Quite a changed man from their first meeting, thought Brewer. He was good, cold and hard, just the kind of man Tarfit would have wanted for a replacement. As good as the great McCarthy even.
Standing the president addressed the ensemble, “Gentlemen, I believe the High General speaks for us all. Let no American suffer, but let those that make us suffer feel our wrath!” He raised his gloved fist to the sound of cheers. Now, we have a war.
“Tara “SpellBinding” Seaver, John Fredrisk Appletower’s wife joins the Makros Order today despite her husband’s comatose condition to show no hard feelings between the mayoral family and the Order. A representative today said, ‘John Makros himself was a kind man and he would never have condoned such an action. It is obvious to any observer that it is not the Makros Order at fault but another group interested in power and politics. The Makros Order would never suggest any such action nor would it take any such action. It is a peaceful and tranquil order created for the harmony of mankind.’ Rumor has it that Tara will be doing a centerfold for Playboy this spring and don’t be surprised if she does it wearing the robes of her new Order.”
“China invades Antarctica and The Brazilian United Front no more? Tune in at Eleven.”
Jack winced through clenched teeth. He’d managed to pry loose a corner of his body cast. He was getting out of here as soon as possible. Tonight if he could manage it. When his dinner came he’d tear a whole in the lady’s suit and break her microphone link to the other nurses, or was it a mental implant. Best to assume it’s a mental chip, though those need to be downloaded and uploaded, they weren’t a free exchange of information. She’d have to concentrate though a call for help was probably easy to make. He’d have to incapacitate her somehow. Knock her out, but how. Looking around for a weapon, Jack could find none. He’d just have to use his hands he decided. His constant use of the remote control had to have built up some strength. This had to work. Wincing and letting loose a high-pitched whisper of a squeal, Jack tore loose another section, just below his ribs away in the suit. He ribs felt cold and tender, most likely still healing. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea… yet. Maybe… No, he needed to leave now before he got too strong and then they’d watch him more closely. Now they probably recorded and reviewed. Hardly a notice in the media. They’ve got bigger problems. Bigger fish to fry. Not little old me, cripple Jack, all fragments in a sack, but he’d show them. He’d show them all. The anchorman droned on.
“-bombing today at Capitol Island. Sources say it was localized and not a breach, I repeat not a breach of the Satellite defense system, Star Wars, but was most likely an attack by the terrorist group known only as Square One. Though little evidence is apparent these terrorists have rumored links to the Realization Groups of the early 90’s and authorities say that it is just a matter of time before the remainder of these criminals are rounded up and tried, judged, and jailed. As to the condition of Capitol Island, there are no witnesses and satellite feeds say it registers blank in all visual trackings. It appears that a new type of bomb has been created. The President appeared in the Oval Office today, despite its rumored destruction and his safe house condition, and said-“
Jack glanced up from his work. How could the President appear in the Oval Office if it was destroyed. They couldn’t build the White House back up in a day, nor would… Oh… I get it. The White House never was on Capitol Island. It must be somewhere hidden. Underground in some abandoned mineshaft. He probably was born there and raised. Never seen sunlight, paler than an albino, like a maggot under a rock. Probably all the presidents come from this shaft community. When they reach the proper age they become president and then they get a new identity and outfit and become an aide or a cabinet member. It was all a sham, and they’d just revealed it on air, live, for all to see. Or was this a mistake, were the editing boys getting sloppy and making compound sentences into mixed up messages. No too good, too perfect. A cave-in and the entire government would literally collapse. Jack couldn’t help himself but laugh. It only made his side hurt even worse and he yelped in pain and gripped his side. Within moments the canine nurse was there with her rough, thick-fingered hands roughly gripping him into place. The evil woman found his split body cast and resealed it with a belt device of hers. She’d been prepared. The entire time. She even took the time to tie down his hands, though she let him hold onto the remote control. She made a scratching motion on her arm and waggled her finger remonstratingly under his nose. No itching I get it, nodded Jack. At least she didn’t think I was trying to infect her and escape. At least. The man on the television with the frozen wave of blonde hair droned on.
President Muenster stood before the cameras red faced and shaking. This was the final insult. Mercy was gone. The American pigs doubted! DOUBTED! that the EU could bomb them through their network of Satellites. The fools they’d signed their own death warrant. Bertrand Velour would have his campaign. The bombings would really begin now. Even Spain somehow overnight was behind them. It was a miracle. Though Hans smelled a rat, a French one by the stench, and in the next few weeks he would be careful to watch his back. His job was usually threatened but was rarely endangered; now it was, along with his life. The African farce could be done away with in spite of its success. They’d pick up where they left off after the US was eradicated. The Middle Eastern Empire was doing quite well on its own and soon all American holdings in the world would be compromised and return either to the rightful owners hands or to the EU’s.
Finally after a long pause, and a few tattered breaths, the president of the European Union addressed his people and the world, soon-to-be his people, “My countrymen and women, we have suffered long under the yoke of oppression both economically and militarily. The tyrannical United States has finally met their match. By denying the reality of our strength, they welcome defeat. They fight against themselves while we prepare for a massive attack. We’ve destroyed their political epicenter, and now they’ve forced us, ironically, as the extinct and ancient country, Japan, forced the Americans into bombing them twice with the original Atom Bombs during World War II. We are forced now to bomb them twice with the Erasure Bomb of France’s Gerard Fachonde and of the former Russia’s Vladimir Petrovich. It is an amazing invention and one that is undetectable and we are so confident in its abilities that we are announcing its discovery and our intent to the world. Be forewarned President Brewer, we are not doing this to your people. You are. It is your foolish decisions and actions that have cost your citizens their lives. How many innocents will perish for you stupidity and selfishness?” And with a wry smile, Muenster said, “Your pride, President Brewer, is showing. We will give you twenty-four hours to surrender and if you have not by then, at exactly 1400 hrs Eastern American time, we will bomb New New York out of existence. We await your plea, but we fear for your people that none will be forthcoming.”
Unaware of world events because of the disruption caused by the AGS shield protecting Square One in NNYC, Josh worked hard into the night doing proofs and testing in his limited capacity, without the aid of live anti-gravity tests, trying to figure out whether the increase in AGS fluid within a limited circumference will cause it to expand or invert into a black hole. As of yet he could only prove himself right, which was both heartening and terribly worrisome, since the possibility of being completely right seemed impossible, possibly. Oh, crap, this is too much. Leaning into the chalk board, Josh hit his forehead against the cool hard surface until something soft and warm intercepted him and pulled him away from the chalky air around the board and into a warm passionate kiss. Oh, Susie, why do you care for me, thought Josh.
Then aloud, “I can’t think with all this making out left and right.”
“That’s not what you said last time,” chuckled Susie. “And I don’t think banging your head’s gonna make your brain work any quicker. Let’s get out of the lab for once and go eat with the others, and maybe visit your room. I’ve never actually been in there, you know.”
Eying her sideways, Josh said, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she responded playfully.
“What are we gonna do there? Sleep? That’s why I have a hammock here,” he gestured to the dirty limp half sack suspended in the air. Susie couldn’t help but laugh out loud, a full-bodied laughter that shook her head to toe until tears filled her eyes. Josh watched in fascination. What a strange girl.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are ridiculous,” said Susie matter-of-factly and grabbed Josh by the collar and hauled him out of the laboratory despite his string of pleas and excuses towards his room. She would interrupt him with a kiss every few feet, and shortly they were there.
Red faced and pop eyed, Albert Strongold spoke in clipped succinct words, “A child could master its operations within the hour.”
“We have no doubts to your in-depth knowledge of children,” acidly spoke Kirri Tandem, one of the most backwards of the twelve. An ancient man with knobby hooks for hands and worthless stick legs that didn’t support his gaunt frame. He would not survive the month, decided Albert.
Turning his two-tone eyes on Kirri, he replied coldly, “Strange I was referring to the aircraft itself as the matter at hand. Perhaps I should simplify my language. Chew it up a bit, make it easier to swallow. It’s hard with no teeth. I imag-“
“Albert,” the musical resonance of Gurney’s voice held none of the warning he intended, yet Albert held his tongue.
President Walton sighed heavily. This was going nowhere. They’d set an ultimatum for the man-child genius and what he comes up with is as fitting as his mind, genius, but ridiculous.
The one-person desk-size aircraft looked exactly like an early model automobile from 1900’s for a child, a fossil fuel powered anachronism with rubber tired and red with flames painted on the sides,. It was ridiculous looking. Not something to inspire terror or even respect. It was a toy, even if it was effective as a weapon.
Knowing that they expected him to speak as leader of the twelve, he issued a cough and spoke in his most kind voice, “Albert, we are grateful for all you have done for Square One and the people of the United States. No one person has risked more or given us as much advantage as you have,” Kirri scoffed, but Walton ignored him, “It’s just that we were hoping for something different. We will give you some men to try out your… What was its name again?”
“Motor Death, Killer Car, or Sky Racer. I haven’t decided. I originally was going to call it just the Hot Rod, but that seemed hackneyed once I researched the number of usages. I think the combination of familiarity, ingenuity, and touch couture in the name will make the marketability easier. If-“
“Marketability? What’s he talking about?!” cried Evret Olin, his dentures exposed in an open mouth sneer of disgust.
Walton rubbed at his temples with one hand and rested heavily on the table with the other. Hal was missing. Half the Rockies were in great billowing dust clouds that passed over the AGS shield like smoke from a forest fire. The military was definitely on the move now. Hal’s Square One Air Force must have done a thorough job of stirring the hornets’ nest. He hoped they were all alright. And now this. There was no way of knowing. The AGS shield managed to keep out radio waves and any form of electronic communications, something to do with cross polarization, wavelength appositional composition, and dimensions of gravitational selection. Strongold referred to it as ‘a mere detail’! This meeting was never going to end.
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