Chapter 7

John Makros sat in the darkness of his underground chambers staring at nothing. Wrist thick fiber optic cables protruded from under a long, mat of dirty black hair that extended past his shoulders, and connected into a large humming machine that nearly took up the entire room. He could have been in a coma but for the ever-changing expressions of pain contorting his face. His eyes were rimmed with a yellow crust and filmed over. John Makros was blind. Lips moved underneath a muzzle of hair the extended off his face towards the floor in a pitiful rags. A series of IV's were hooked into every available vein. The only light in the room came from the machine that John was attached to. Small blue and green lights blinked and one steady red shown bright enough to reflect off of John Makros' eyes, the leader of the Makros Order. He'd been missing a long time and most thought he was dead. Those that believed him to be alive would never have guessed that he was a hostage.

Jack Wendleton stared around himself. It was his old room. Exactly as he had left it. They’d kept it ready for him like a parent keeps their child’s room preserved for his return from college, or war. Jack was weak with relief. He hugged the couch and rubbed his dirty face in its cushions. This was home. Jack shuddered at the thought of all the people he'd encountered. In this womb, he felt safe and clean again. Pure enough to pollute he thought with a smile. He went to the fridge and discovered there was a noticeable lack of Gintonics. There were 2. The exact amount less one that required Jack to even start a buzz. Annoyed, Jack slammed the fridge and started in at the cabinets. Instead of bottles upon bottles of painkillers, there was one bottle of aspirin, and nothing else. Outraged, Jack slammed the cabinet doors and then gripped his head at the pain there. He was still hungover. Angrily, he returned to the fridge and grabbed both cans and made his way to the couch. He did not turn on the television for fear that it was disconnected. He noticed the vending machine, which he had rarely used, was now set on pay, and not free as it had been. Had they forgotten to set up for him. Was the Gintonic on its way? Were they just filling his prescription? Maybe that was it. They hadn't been prepared. It'll be ready shortly. He just had to relax and by the time he finished his second can, everything would be as it should. Jack glanced over at the dull black wall where his watchers surely observed his every breath and monitored every heartbeat. He felt assured that they would take care of every detail, and serve his every need.

The runner formerly known as O. was spread-eagled with the ends of his arms and legs enveloped in containment bonds protruding from the ceiling and floor. Any variation of pain or pleasure could be sent through the nervous system via the tips of the finger and toes. O. was naked, an extra bit of cruelty. His tan skin was shiny with sweat and his chest heaved. Though his implants had been removed carefully, they still destroyed their memory banks as they left the warmth and pulse of O.'s body. The going was tough. They'd still yet to gain anything from the man besides his vitals. His real name was Herman Santiago. He was a clerk for the United States Postal Office, branch 242, Lower New Manhattan, West Side Highway and 13th St.. He'd been a stellar employee. Never missed a day of work. He had a family: wife and 2 kids. He was living the American dream, on paper. Locating his wife and children was a dead end. Whether they existed or not was a lively debate seeing as faking DOB’s and computerizing certificates including pictures, medical information and histories were difficult tasks bordering on impossible. Most agreed that a search was necessary to even prove it possible. The drugs injected into Herman would soon take their affect. Torturing him any longer was futile. He was too proud. When he'd first been brought in he was as meek as milk water until interrogation, then he'd spat in the face of the lead interrogator and had tried to remove his head from his shoulders. A very noble deed, mused Charles Fahey. He did not like Cyrus Hedrick. It had taken several Marine's to subdue him. It was now painfully clear that this man couldn't be broken by normal means. Truth serum's were a strange breed of drugs. They ranged from fatal to near crippling brain damage and still the information given was unreliable at best. Charles would not have gone this route. He'd have appealed to the man's obvious humanity. His pride. His courage. But Hedrick was a different man. Charles was not even in the position to suggest anything beyond what Hedrick would already be thinking or doing on his own. It was the final insult, the full castration of power. He was forced to toe the line until this was all settled and then another investigation, probably followed by a court marshal, would end his career. Just as well. It had probably ended his family, and what was more important than that? Charles didn't know and suspected only his clandestine religious beliefs. Staring at this man spread-eagled, spittle stringing from his mouth, a proud mouth limp with fatigue. Charles felt a sudden urge to embrace him. To hold him like a child and protect him. If anyone was following Christ's path it was this man, this Herman Santiago, this O.
Shuddering, Herman lifted his eyes as if seeing Charles for the first time. He uttered a few words in a slurred speech that Charles did not readily recognize, "Esta Tu!" Every face in the room turned to look at Charles. Shocked Charles looked behind him, and seeing no one else, began walking away to the side to see if Herman's fevered eyes followed him. They luckily did not. Herman continued addressing the unseen visitor in the rapid language that someone muttered next to him was Spanish, a former country of the EU, now just part of the conglomerate. Relieved that the attention was off him and seeing Hedrick’s second in command, Brian, reluctantly return his gaze from his seat next Hedrick. He smiled smugly as if to say, You're lucky. We almost had you that time. Charles was presently not guilty, but he was certainly not seen as innocent. He was being watched as much as all the interviewees were. Herman began wailing now and bucking against his bonds. This was why it was unwise to use truth serums. The unpredictability of their side effects always caused problems. No good cop or investigator relied upon them, unless you were Cyrus and didn't really care about fact or justice, or another human being. Brian sent an underling scrabbling to find someone who spoke this "Span-ish" or whatever gibberish he was spouting. Hedrick's face was stony. He was angry with himself. These people, these terrorists were one step ahead of them every time. Interviewing R. had been terrifyingly disturbing though no new information was gained about Square One, something else surfaced.
His real name had been Simon Evermeyer and he'd been an aide in the Mayor's office. AppleTower had not been notified. This was federal business and did not concern him. At first he'd been upfront about all the same things as Susie Fahey, but soon as the interrogation had begun, the topic shifted from Square One to the Mayor. He'd spoken about secret meetings that at first sounded as if the Mayor himself was a member of Square One, but Evermeyer had fervently denied this, saying that AppleTower lacked the altruism and Americanism to be one. His meetings however with a particular, influential and dangerous lady, not his wife and not a mistress, though some chuckled at the idea. All knew full well the impossibility of that happening, had disturbed Hedrick. Seeing that Evermeyer's fear of the lady far outshined his own fear of them, he had questioned strictly along the lines of how often, where, when, the meetings were held and if he knew what was discussed. Evermeyer's jaws had fixed shut and his eyes had bulged as if he'd been choking, but no one had laid a hand on him. It had taken only a moment for them to realize but Evermeyer was already dead by the time any could reach his body. He'd been poisoned, no doubt, but how was the mystery. He'd suffered a brain malfunction that caused an instantaneous shut down of his respiratory system and a terrible case of lockjaw. So far autopsies had revealed nothing sinister, but no one believed it was a natural death. Least of all Hedrick. A separate investigation was being headed by another staff into AppleTower and his mayoral cabinet.
All this did not matter to Charles, he was sick of it. The intrigue, the pawns, the death. Even now, he could tell Herman Santiago would not survive the drug's effects. Though the cameras had been on the entire time, without questions asked and the possibility to answer them, there was little hope that what they'd been a witness to would be of any use. His head was slumped onto his shining chest and his muscles were jumping of their own accord. Feeling sick and dirty, Charles excused himself to get a drink of water. His departure did not go unnoticed.

Robert held Sam's hand as they walked down Canal St. looking like a loving father promenading with his favorite daughter. They'd grown on each other. Sam was the brains and Robert was the apt pupil. He now wore a scant beard and the regal rags of a upper-class homeless father. He smiled a broad smile. One that was foreign and new on his face, but as comforting as coming home on a bitter winter night. To the rest of the world they were just trash, but to each other, they were friends and a trustworthy team. It was midday and the sun shone through the smog and the pigeons were out eating at garbage while homeless people tried to snatch them up in garbage bags. Sam had explained how pigeons were not good eating and even if you caught one, which was rare, it was hardly edible and usually fatal, but most did not know and even fewer cared.
Just then as they were nearing the open market, a small boy named Tripp, darted from out of a nearby alley and motioned for them to come. Looking at each other with worry in their eyes, Robert and Sam quickly jogged through the shifting mass of people towards the alley. As they neared Tripp, Robert could see a very different boy that he'd met only a few days prior. He was scared and dirtier not the flippant young vagrant he remembered. He seemed shook up.
"RobertSlyLouie'ssentZerooutafteryou?" it all came out in a rush of breath from the young boy's mouth.
"What?!" Robert could have almost laughed at the child if he were not getting the creeping sensation that he was in trouble, big trouble. "Please Tripp calm down and repeat what you said."
Sam answered for him and at the same time began dragging him by the hand deeper into the alley, "Sly Louie, Robert, runs Chinatown and Zero's a hit man that sometimes works for him. He's the worst. He's really dangerous. We need to get out of her now, fast."
Smiling, Robert shook his head, "His name's what?!" Is this some kind of joke?
"Ughh!" Sam groaned and turned to Tripp, ignoring Robert, "Where are can we go?" They looked at each other silently for a moment as if knowing but hesitating to suggest. Tripp shrugged.
Nodding, Sam's lemon colored curls bounced, and she said, "Ok, then let's do it."
Glancing behind them, a dark shape was standing still in the sea of movement just outside of the alley. It looked like one of the robed Makros Order members. Robert blinked. He could almost swear that he was staring at him. Tugging on Sam's shirt as she was discussing with Tripp the best way to get to wherever they were going. Sam annoyed turned to look at Robert then followed his gaze to the mouth of the alley to the man slowly striding towards them. A small bubble surrounded the man. People avoided physical contact with the order's robes as many thought them to be electrified.
Barely above a whisper, Sam gasped, "Run," through clenched teeth. Feeling a panic flutter in his chest Robert stumbled and began to lope deeper into the alley, looking over his shoulder. The black robed figure did not speed up but walked stately as if there was no escape conceivable. This alone seemed to turn Robert's knees to water. Where was he going? Who was the man? Why was he coming to get Robert? Sam and Tripp soon passed Robert, running full speed. Robert's lungs burned and his legs protested against the hitherto inexperienced exertion. Gasping his throat on fire, Robert stumbled and fell, feeling glass bite into his hands and tasting garbage in his mouth. Small hands helped him up and urgent high-pitched voices egged him on.
Robert could hear Tripp taunting, "Come on Fairy! You're making a bad example of yourself for your kind. Get Up and RUN!" Dizzy and feeling nauseous, Robert stood and glanced behind him. There was no one there. They'd rounded a corner sometime back and their pursuer was nowhere to be seen. Not seeing him somehow made it worse, because it was obvious that he was not giving up his pursuit anytime soon. Sam and Tripp were rapidly conversing in their slang so that Robert barely understood them.
"Skat's now! Down or go UP! Slip it! dig?" Tripp was stating vehemently.
"NO! Sweareddin! Youboth n' I. Youknowyouknow," Sam said with a threatening look. With not much more settled they began running again.
The encountered few others in their mad dash to freedom. Most seeing them running went running themselves in opposite directions of them and whoever dogged them. They no longer saw the robed man, but his presence was palpable and relentless in their minds. He would follow day and night until they were caught that much was certain. Nearly an hour later, sweat covering their bodies. In the cool winter air, they took a much-needed break.
Robert turned to Sam and Tripp who once again were arguing.
"Split ernow or then! We gottagogo! E wonnabe stoppinif e could! Emachinee! Ali screwylewdee!" Tripp was making circular hand gestures around his ears with his filthy hands. Robert was squinting with effort to decode what they were saying. Something about the robed man no doubt.
Interjecting before Sam could get an edgewise, "Who was that?"
"UHHHH!!" huffed Sam as Tripp laughed, "That be Zero!! You're a dunce who doesn't listen Robert! I told you. Sly Louie sent him. He's after you!" shaking her head, her eyes lingering on Robert for only a moment. She turned to Tripp, "Isays if usays so, I no go and you'll be sleepin! See what you See!" Sam had a grubby finger in Tripp face and was wagging it back and forth.
"Ach! Anowayno! Usee Isee soon!" Tripp unaffected by the maternal remonstrations of his peer produced his own finger. Sighing, Robert placed a hand on each one's shoulder and said, "Children, he can probably hear you, no matter how bad your English is. I think we should go.. Wherever it's safe... Good?" Sam and Tripp both sighed as if not liking to listen to Robert even when he was speaking rightly. He was green and a fairy with no street cred but he was still right. They had to go and so they ran again. Consistently heading deeper and deeper south into the abandoned districts, and further and further from anyone who had the power to stop Zero in his hunt. This was exactly what Zero had intended all along. The abandoned district was his backyard and he knew it as intimately as few did.

Sitting around a small fire eating freeze dried beef Joseph and his family conversed over what kind of fish 'Beef' could be. It was definitely meat but as to what sort of fish it was no one could guess. There were packets of squeezable 'cheese' that tasted wonderful, which had to be a strange sort of roe from yet another unknown fish. The ate in silence. It wasn't that they weren't allowed to speak. It was their surroundings. Now dark. The strange white lights out. Pa Jo had explained they weren't fire, but ‘lights’ that were operated by 'electricity'. Joseph had simply smiled and nodded, feigning understanding. Turning them out had been an easy decision as most were afraid of them and building their own fires was more comforting. The room though had begun to fill with smoke. Many coughed and choked as the smoke came closer to the ground level despite the tall ceilings. Sighing Pa Jo stood up and walked over to the wall and flipped the 'light switch' as he called it. There were several murmurs of dissatisfaction but seeing in the sudden light how filled the room was with smoke, everyone put out their fires and looked up at the lights warily. Bishop Yorke's expedition had left yesterday in search of a way out. Pa Jo was in charge for the time being. Most ceded to his wisdom. Most.
Barry Newlan stomped up to Pa Jo standing within a foot of his grizzled face. "Why did you flip on the false fires?" his thin mustaches were scraggly and beard was patchy. He was a troublemaker and not very bright. Many were still coming to grips with the 'light' concept, and Barry was not alone in his distaste with their shine.
Grimacing, Pa Jo squared off his feet, cleared his throat and spoke to the floor inbetween Barry's feet, "Smoke! Fires are making too much smoke. We'll die if we keep those fires burning, so better get used to it." His bluff faced brooked no argument and Barry red in the face with embarrassment stomped off to his small group of troublemakers to make snide comments. Pa Jo was not afraid of Barry, but the people who listened to him were fools and only a few, but if any saw him give an inch to his foolery, he would be much more dangerous, because the rest would begin to listen. Pa Jo walked back to Joseph and his family with a weary sigh. Babysitting again after all these years. Stuck in a mountain with fools and family. What a mess!
As he settled a shout rang out into the air from one of the watchmen in the tunnels. Bishop Yorke was back. Pa Jo scrambled to his feet with surprising speed despite his girth and age, and scampered off to see what news. Joseph quickly jogged after him, leaving his younger siblings and his mother behind. In the light, his people looked pale and underfed, his people, for the first time in his life, Joseph felt a distinction between himself, his village and the world outside. They had been men, like Pa Jo, no, not like Pa Jo, but men, real normal men, who controlled those large bug 'machines' that had attacked them. Horrible men, but men just like them. Seeing the suffering and fear in the faces of his people, Joseph felt a tightness in his chest and unconsciously balled his fists as he ran after Pa Jo determined to get back at those who wronged them.
As Joseph neared he could see Pa Joe standing next to Bishop Yorke, their hands locked in friendship. Worry and exhaustion made a network of lines across Bishop Yorke's weathered face. He had a head of short cropped steel gray hair and almost colorless green eyes. He did not look like the indefatigueable man that Joseph had once thought. He did not seem to bring a message of hope. As Bishop Yorke neared the center of the large room that had become their home people gathered. The Bishop’s eyes encompassed them all. Seeing the families bunched and Barry's small clique slightly away, his eyes narrowed. It had not been like this when he’d left but he'd suspected something like this might occur. He would talk with Barry alone later. Seeing that all were present but the very old and sick, he addressed them, "My people. My people of the sun. My people of the waters. My body and my heart, we are not alone in these tunnels. We have discovered tracks of animals and men throughout the tunnels. Some of them must surely be as old as Pa Jo's footsteps, but some are fresh and in certain areas it is obvious well used, someone lives here. We are houseguests of someone. Friend or foe, many or few, we cannot tell, but we must assume that we should be on guard. All contact we've had with others has come to disaster. Remember Samuel and his travels to the other villages and how he was killed for his efforts and his eldest son only escaped in time to warn us by the grace of god. Remember well! Trust not the Outsider! We are One! We are Strong! We are the people of the Sun! We are the people of the Waters! We are the People!" He raised both hands and bowed his head, signaling the end to his speech. From somewhere in the crowd a lone voice yelled, "What about a way out?!" Angry Bishop Yorke's gaze swept the crowd, looking extra long over Barry's group.
Speaking quietly, with a stern look, Bishop Yorke said, "We did not find the way out. It is my decision to send Pa Jo out with a smaller expedition to search in hopes that despite the passage of time he will recall and find his way through the maze of tunnel and find the way out." Small spots of pink appeared in the bishop's cheeks in embarrassment. He'd never been underground and navigation was difficult at best. They'd been lost many times and spent many hours circling over their own steps trying to find the way back. The most frustrating part was that all the rooms and the tunnels looked alike: square and filled with boxes. The tunnels with steps and doors led downward to another series of tunnels that seemed exactly alike. Surely one of them held the door back out to their cliff area, but the bishop had not been able to find it. The dust had been enough to disable a man. It was inches thick in some places and could easily incapacitate a person if they inhaled a large section unknowingly. This had happened many times. Bishop Yorke turned to Pa Jo and nodded stiffly.
Pa Jo addressed the crowd and said simply, "I will go and I will bring my grandson Joseph. I will find the way out god willing." He spoke these words formally. Bishop Yorke seemed comforted. It wasn't his fault. It was god's will. Might as well breath underwater if God had an interest that didn't coincide with yours.
It took Joseph a moment to realize that Pa Joe had mentioned his name, and then another moment to realize that he was going with him. Blinking and swallowing his nervousness, Joseph gave in to his excitement and whooped with a broad smile. Celia's face was grave. The rest of the children had mixed reactions, their gazes going from Joseph to their mother to Pa Joe. Pa Joe's eyes met Celia's for a moment, but he quickly looked away, afraid of what he saw there. Putting a heavy hand on Joseph's shoulder he smiled briefly and said, "We need to go now, so let's pack our stuff. Think 3 days of food will do it."
Joseph went off at a run and in his excitement did not even glance once at his mother who looked sick with worry and was staring painfully at Pa Joe who was pointedly not looking at her. Finally, Joseph was on his way. Something to do other than sit with the babies and listen to them babble. He was nearly skipping to the supply room.

At what was once Council Bluffs Iowa, in an underground facility the headquarters of the Square One was having a meeting of great importance. Men and women from many varied walks of life stood and bore testimony of the past few weeks, of the events that had occurred, and the measures they suggested for remedying the situation. The council of Elders, twelve ancient gentlemen, sat behind a long wooden table that was made from a single piece of wood dating back from before the fabled second world war. They were dressed in old-fashioned suits that were separate pieces and didn't come with a built-in selection of ties. Many of them had glasses. Technology here was based around necessity and not pleasantry. The man standing and speaking currently was codenamed 'Hal' and he was reporting on the process of evacuation of the New Mexican villages into the mountains and ancient Native American ruins in the surrounding areas. Many were making their way into Arizona.
Hal took a breath and paused, and then looking resolved, continued, "Many... Many won't fight. They still have the old ties and beliefs. They cannot accept that the government can do wrong. Many will flee but few will accept the charge and stand with us. I... I have doubts." Looking up fearfully, his face full of shame. Hal's eyes met with Ian Walton, the president of the twelve, who smiled and nodded encouragingly. Hal could not help but cry at the man's tender understanding look. Usually a tacit, hard man, in these meetings he tended always to be emotional and fragile. President Walton understood his need for approval, besides he was telling the truth. The truth as he saw it. To his left, the youngest of the twelve a man in his eighties named Gabrielle Firfew raised his gnarled hand, "Young man, I understand your pain and I know your frustration, but what must be done is simple. We are America. They are NOT! Well, of COURSE! The American government would never do a thing to hurt us. We're AMERICANS! HENCE....," taking a dramatic pause and gathering everyone into his gaze, "This isn't an American government! It's something else! It's corrupt! Say whatever you have to! Just make sure it's technically true, but you get them in fighting order! You get me?" A small hand motion from, President Walton and Elder Firfew silenced immediately and sat. The President did not correct anything that Firfew said, merely stopped his rant, which was enough for all listening to know that Firfew was right, but a little too overbearing. This was a meeting not a detention. Hal sat down numbly, his face once again drawn into hard lines. Good. It is one thing to be open. Another to fall apart. He will not break again, and he will do his job. His next report will not be a failure. It will be a success.
A young woman, named Natalia Kerova, stood clothed in a long, thick wrap of animal furs, the garb of those of the north, the Rienth. She spoke in a clear cold voice, "The North stands ready, but we do not have the supplies to wage any sort of combat besides man to man," she smirked at this, "Or woman to woman. We are at your disposal and stand ready!" She nodded so deeply, it was almost a bow. Nearly treasonous. It was explicit that the twelve were not kings nor were they a replacement for the American government. They were the heads of an organization dedicated to the restoration of the former glory of the United States of America. A framed Declaration of Independence and the American Constitution hung above their heads on the mute gray wall of metal. In response to the bow, there were many murmurs and quiet comments, but all were interrupted by the quiet laughter caused by President Walton's mimicry of Natalia's bow. He did not smile or betray any emotion, which would have injured her pride, he simply dissolved the situation. They would need the North and their brave fighters. Russian, Canadian, Chinese, and Inuit blood ran strong in her bold features and almond shaped eyes. She was beautiful, young, dangerously confident, and fiercely loyal. The Northerners might well save the day when it came to battle. Most of the American heartland comprised of subsistence mountain farmers and fishermen. Neither group were experienced fighters. The tribal warfare over the past 25 years had left the Northerners strong and fierce. Their leader, Gregorian Kerova, Natalia's father, had united the clan's in the bloodiest battle of their generation. They were renowned hand-to-hand combat fighters. Excellent with spears and knives. Though they had no experience with guns, President Walton was sure they'd quickly get the hang of it.
The next to stand was Jim Thorpe of Portland Oregon. A stout man with arms the size of most men's legs. A thick tuft of jet-black hair and a smooth lantern jaw framed a dark shrewd man’s face. He was the secretary to the Mayor of Portland and frequently took long vacations. His favorite activity: boating. He arrived here in his submersible though his king-sized yacht was parked hundreds of miles west with his twin brother and his family partying in the sun, keeping up appearances. His cobalt blue eyes stared at nothing other than the men behind the oak table. "Elders of the Twelve, I am honored to be here. What news I have is scant. No one knows yet of the activities in the Midwest and New New York. Capitol Island itself is rather taken with the most recent controversy, an obvious distraction, but the time will come soon that all will know the truth. No doubt the Europeans have taken an interest. Though the Satellite War continues, they cannot be in all places at all times. Word will get out. Mayor Killihan is an easily swayed man. I have done all I can to hide myself. His hands are in others pockets. And hands are in his pockets. He will never be an ally while we are weak. When we are strong he will no doubt come calling but by that point we won't need him. The chapters are organized and ready. What arms we have, and they are few, are dispersed throughout the community at large. We hope it won't come to it since we are ill equipped but we stand ready for anything." Jim stopped abruptly as if he'd reached the end of a tape and sat down without another word. Others blinked at the odd man. President Walton did not. He'd known Jim as a boy and this was his way. He was a good man and kind but he lacked the social niceties necessary for starting and ending conversations. He spoke jaggedly at best and at first ostracized people without even realizing it. A real textbook straight guy and President Walton liked that about him. Not to mention he was Larry Eckhart's nephew, the man seated three men over on his right.
The next to stand was a small girl with an angelic face wreathed by a mass of curly fire red hair. She had a mess of freckles and emerald green eyes. She was the daughter of the former contact from New New York. It was disturbing to see her in her mother's place. She was her mother's spitting image and it looked like Veronica Sorin had regained her youth miraculously, but sadly, she had found the opposite, the end to her days. She was one of those that had disappeared in the past week as the police searched more and more people for the implants. She was a child, perhaps 11, and her mother was gone forever, maybe not dead, but surely never to be seen again. She smiled at President Walton. He'd held her in his arms when she was born, not far from here in the hospital wing of the headquarters. A natural birth, something strange to many of the members present here today. She spoke in a quiet, articulate voice, "President and other Elders. My mother is gone. I do not know where she has been taken, but knowing this would probably happen. I have brought this message to you: It is almost done. The wolves are closing in. They still do not know." Smiling sadly, Eleanor Sorin said, "That's it. I watched out my window a lot and there were hundreds of police out in the streets everyday all day. I see more and more people taken away. That why I had to leave when I could. Sister... Sister Fox sent me. She said I couldn't go back," this part of her speech was bitter to her, and she'd obviously been forced to promise to report it. She was leaving behind even the possibility of recovering her mother, and of course, all her friends and her entire way of life. Derrick Quarahana, a portly man in his 90's, stood and smiling grandfatherly at Eleanor said, "We understand Miss Sorin and you will have a place with us here. Thank you for the invaluable information." He nodded and she sat, her eyes on the floor.
Gurney Warwick stood. A wiry man of many parts. His bionic eyes swiveled and his bionic ears hummed as he captured and catalogued all within his sensory reach. He was as bald as an egg and more ancient than any on the council of the twelve. His teeth were metal and pointed and his nose was missing. A flat vent was where it should have been. Gurney had cheated death more times than anyone could count. He was also someone with perhaps the most untainted information in the room, seeing as he was the colleague of Professor StrongGold himself and a close friend.
Gurney’s mouth did not open but a loud voice with an antiquated accent melodiously demanded a private audience with the twelve. There were murmurs among the gathered men and women. The twelve all looked calmly towards President Walton who grimaced slightly and nodded.
The room was emptied but for Gurney and the twelve.

General Tarfit lay on the operating table. His eyes were closed and peaceful. Machines were breathing for him now and his heartbeat was regulated by gentle electrode shocks. His sluggish blood was being recycled in a machine to his left. Doctors stood around him discussing plans for their next step.
Outside the operating room, President Brewer watched surrounded by his aides and Tarfit’s own loyal retinue. Several were crying. Their love and devotion for their charge and boss was obviously not faked. The President looked at the faces one by one trying to see a glint of deceit, of cunning. Who had poisoned this man? His health was stable as of yesterday, but sometime in the night his heart stopped and they had failed to resuscitate his brain. Now his life was maintained completely by the machines. He knew as well as any did, breathing and beating meant nothing if the lights upstairs didn’t turn on. Whatever they had done to cut his life short, the doctors had not found it yet.
President Brewer flinched as he recalled. The confusion and uncertainty on the faces of the doctors. It was clear. None of them saw the threat. An undetectable poison. His top general laid low. As good as dead. Old age, right. That’s just what they want you to think. Their excuses build a way out for them. They cannot fight this new weapon. The EU is too smart. They would have already spent years predicting which technique we’d use to treat him. It was too late the enemy was already here. The President turned from the horrifying vision of himself in Tarfit’s place only to look Ziroha in the eyes, a mistake. President Brewer always made certain to never look him in the eyes. It always cost him his resolve. In Ziroha’s eyes, he always saw certainty, certainty and calm, calm as death.

Roto Veritable sat at his desk reading a holoscreen with the latest news from the nets. ‘Square One: Hippies Under Attack by The Feds’ the headline marched slowly, stately across the header of the page. Roto often got his tips from this rogue site, but rarely did they get so outlandish as not to be credible. He couldn’t print this, let alone utter a breath of it. He knew if any of his buddies on the seventh floor got wind of him even looking at this site, he’d be canned, and worse barred from the journalist profession forever. So, Roto did nothing. He read up on the other articles of interest. One of Mayor AppleTower’s pets ended up dead, supposedly done in by a jealous snubbed husband. That was interesting. This was journalism. This was News.
Skimming the article for the main points and names, Roto closed the window and opened up his writing program. He dictated, “Header: AppleTower’s Appetite Gone Sour punctuation question mark. Main body: The citizens of New New York are in a state of shock today at the news of their fair city’s mayor’s unbecoming behavior. It seems a young boy, Charles Cavendish, who was one of his regular evening companions was left to the mercy of his love sick and murderous ex-husband, Robert Gadson. Charles was viciously murdered by an enraged Gadson late Tuesday evening. Our Mayor AppleTower did not have the decency to protect young Cavendish despite his obvious appreciation of his time and efforts. Men and women alike worry that a mayor with no human decency can protect the rest of the people of New New York any better than he protected that young man, Charles Cavendish. Break. New Paragraph: Charles was a young man on the rise. He was a regular attendee of NNYU law school, where he was top of his class last semester. His one desire was to be involved in the state government and with his new relationship with our mayor he was well on his way. It is troubling to think that political alignment offers so little protection nowadays. Our young minds need to be fostered and protected from such unstable persons such as Robert Gadson, the capitol Cold capitol Blooded capitol Killer. Mayor AppleTower must come down off his ivory tower and answer to the laws of decency and find this murderer and then and only then can the people of New New York be safe again. Okay save. Send it to Wheyjing and say: get photos of both Charles and Robert and apply the appropriate adjustments. Close.” The screen dissolved and a small green message indicator blinked in the bottom left of his desk.
Sighing, Roto hit the button, two new messages, one from Beaumont on the 7th floor and the other from Shumaker over at The Times. Usual tripe no doubt. Hitting Beaumont’s message, he heard his friend’s high pitched voice as if he were standing in front of him, “Roto buddy, you gotta check this out. Channel 4, broadcast 79. It’s a doozy. Get back to me.” Frowning, Roto shuffled the messages to the side of his holoscreen and said, “Channel 4 broadcast 79”. A small screen leapt up to his eye level and the audio commentary of Veronica Frank poured into his ears. The image was of a man in a rumpled suit that was in need of a wash looking about in distress from a stained leather couch in a small all white room. As he watched he saw the man jump up from his seat and yelling silently attack a window separating his room from the camera. Then Roto began hearing the dialogue for the first time, “-carrier living in New New York the entire time. He may not be the only carrier, but it is certain that he is the source of all NP victims here in our city. With his capture, citizens can rest assured and sleep soundly once again. Roto felt a wet spot on his pants and looking down, he saw a small spot of drool. His mouth clapped shut. Swallowing, Roto dialed Beaumont’s desk direct. It rang once, “Yeah,” the high-pitched voice called from the other end. Roto shook his head and all he could say was, “We screwed up. Big time. Davis is gonna have our heads.” Beaumont answered weakly, “Yeah.” The line was silent for a time. “What are we gonna do?” asked Roto. Beaumont’s voice came through the desk’s speakers as if he was turned away from his receiver, “I dunno. Find an angle. I’m going down there. Better there than here. He can’t catch me down there you know.” Grunting in distaste, he couldn’t leave his office. He was a homebound, not one of the jockeys on seven, “Later,” and jabbed the End Call button. The other message blinked off to the left in midair above his desk. The small television program continued on mute, but it was the same footage over and over. Slow motion close-ups of his face near the glass as he yelled. Looks like a madman. Smiling, Roto knew how to make a man look mad. Channel 4 was good at it, but he was always better. Wheyjing was an expert at image modification and could make an angel look like a demon out of a hardened jailbird’s nightmares. The other message. Oh, Shumaker. Probably gloating, the bastard. Open. The message unfolded majestically before and a shifting myriad of light and shadow played across Roto’s face. His eyes widened and an ecstatic peace crept across his face. A soft low voice, loving and guiding, spoke like dulcimer notes, clear words. Roto’s mouth worked as if to form words of his own, but he could not speak. He could only watch in rapture and listen.

Rodney Picket stared down the abandoned alleyway now used as a sewer underneath the streets of Paris. This was the underbelly of Paris, Le Maison de la Mort. Apparently the original city of Paris had had a warren of mazes just beneath the surface filled to the brim with dust and skeletons and further beneath that ancient Roman aqueducts. The only thing beneath Paris now was Old Paris, Le Maison de la Morte. A twilight world of sewage, homeless communities, and crime.
Rodney had been followed for the past two blocks. In the grime and dust footsteps were muffled, but his bionic ear caught nearly everything. The faint click of a safety switch, and Rodney pulled out his own weapon, an old fashioned and silent mini-anti-personal laser and hugged the wall. There was very little light in Le Maison de la Mort, usually what light there was siphoned off the city current at certain underground junctions to avoid jumper detection from out going lines. Here there was mostly shadow and darkness, enough for Rodney to pick out with his bionic eyes a slow shuffling, nearly silent figure making its way towards him. Rodney lifted the muzzle of his gun and aimed at the man’s stomach so he’d survive long enough to talk through the pain and placed his finger on the trigger. A whisper behind him of cloth against cloth was all the warning he had as a blade slipped between his ribs beneath his shoulder blade up into his heart.
Rodney fell and bubbled a curse in English through a blood-frothed mouth. Laughter from all sides broke the silence. “Americain? HA! Mon favori!” a voice from behind him shouted. In a thick accent the man continued, “You are an American? Huh?” The man directed his voice at Rodney who struggled to breath and choked on his own blood that was rapidly filling his mouth and throat. He felt a seeping cold and a wetness. He understood the words but could no longer make any sense of them. Rodney’s tongue felt thick and slow. His eyes no longer could see. He stopped thinking about his surroundings or the men hovering over him. The apple orchard behind his house from childhood occupied his last moments and the day he’d fallen out of the tree and broken two of his ribs. Little Rod was lying and wincing in pain with each breath, wondering when his brother would come and help him, but his brother had run away as soon as he saw his brother fall, knowing his father would strap him for sure. The life flickered and died within his body, but his ears continued on, recording and relaying back to his base of operations in New New York.