Chapt 15

Natalia Kerova’s sat in her tent trimming her nails with a short thin blade that she kept up her sleeve and often played with. It was her oldest knife, given to her as a child on her naming day when she turned seven. Since then it had killed many and never left her side except for one occasion when it became imbedded in a polar bear for two full days after a near fatal encounter. She sat on the bear’s skin a token of her strength. Across from her sat a fat middle aged American with a round clean-shaven face ruddy from cold. His hand shook unconsciously and he made no move to cover them. He did not act insulted at being ignored. He simply waited. It was almost unnerving how he waited, barely breathing. His hands perhaps would fall off before he noticed. Unlike many others, Natalia knew the secret of the Makros Order and how it relied upon empty vessels acting out as worker bees for their queen. In front of her sat a very obedient and enslaved worker bee. It was a sign of great power to steal a man’s mind and will. It was not something one dealt with lightly and as much as she wanted to side with President Walton’s Square One, its idealism was weak in face of such strength. She would not sell her people out for nothing, nor would she surrender herself to other’s control. She was practical. Weapons for information, and allegiance for land and power. The North would reclaim its once lost glory. Descendant from the great Canada, the fearless and strong Inuit, and bold and brave Russians, she was the inheritor of a rich history and grave responsibility. The end of the Great Lie would be a time of madness that only the strong and practical would survive. The deal she made tonight would solidify the promise Rodric had made to her father only nights before. It was interesting to note that she’d already set her plans in motion when she’d heard his telling and it only bolstered her determination and sureness. Now was the time. She would soon be leader of all the clans. The first female to do so since before time and language began. Rodric had only spoken of that woman once, Tetralin, the great queen of Ice who’d reigned before, Fridrosky, the King of Spring unseated her and restored the regular exchange of seasons. Natalia strove to once again have a woman dominate over the kingdom of men. It was her time and her choice. The fact that a woman headed the Makros Order also seemed to fall into rightness with her aspirations. Now to the deal.
Placing her knife, blade in, on her left thigh, she addressed the fat man, “You have come to discuss terms?”
Empty eyes stared back and the mouth moved mechanically, “Yes, now that you are ready. We must be quick. This vessel will soon die. His mind is already warped with cold and he will not survive to return. Dispose of it when it dies, but listen first.”
A short pause, which Natalia took for a question, and nodded.
Continuing the man said in a hoarse half murmuring voice, “The North will be yours utterly. I will cede parts of the Eastern coast to you and your people specifically North New New York state. What is left of Vermont and New Hampshire. You will have estates in Appalachia of course, but you will not have state power. That will be given to our politicians only. We will be working from the same page so it is really irrelevant. Weapons you will have in abundance. I am bringing a goodwill shipment now and it will arrive in a few days as long as you agree here and now to my terms and nothing else.”
There was another pause, and Natalia answered, “What are your terms?”
“First you must allow me to insert a chip into your brain to guarantee your loyalty and secrecy. This is essential. I can also make it so you can communicate with me whenever you want directly. I stress that this will not make you into a mindless drone like this one, but it does make it impossible for you to betray me,” the man’s eyes drooped a bit. His body was failing him. Natalia repressed a slight shiver and bit back harsh words. It would not do to insult this woman. These were her ways, not her own.
“How do I get a guarantee that the chip will work that way and not the other? Where is my guarantee? I will not be a slave to anyone,” her eyes narrowed and she tried to address the woman behind the man.
“There are ways, but I think perhaps you wouldn’t like them,” the man’s eyes were drooping and his hands that had ceased to shake were stiff and white. His mouth hung open and moved slightly. His lips were frozen stiff.
“What ways?”
The man’s eyes closed and he croaked from his frost bitten throat, “Tessst it… on… another.” And fell dead at her feet. She did not retreat from the crumpled form, merely considered it with a raised brow. Her red brown hair hung loosely about her, a pleasantry she allowed herself only in the safety of her own tent. Outside it was always in tight braids wound around her head like a helmet, like all women and men had in the North. It was an interesting problem but a practical one. Who would be the taste tester for her brain?

In a matter of days the hospital was filled. The women just wouldn’t leave. They all wanted abortions. Someone somewhere had looked the word up in a dictionary. Abortion was illegal except in cases of incest, rape, or endangerment of the mother. It was an old law from before the sterilizations began, and it was out of date as of last week, but now it seemed rather unfortunate but nonetheless amusing. Stanley Courtland was a nurse. A male nurse, the most respected of all medical professions. Doctors dealt with people only when they had to. Most doctors were lab jockeys and theorists. Nurses were people people and they’re the ones people liked and relied upon. Stanley found the female body to be a divine joke and pregnancy to be the pinnacle of hilarity and ever since the wave of pregnancies began three days ago he’d been taping every encounter with all his patients and posting them on his new website: BabyBoomers.com. He was of course gay and straight people defied logic to him to begin with, but women made the least of sense. They were given large mammary glands that unbalanced them, gave them back problems, made it difficult to run, and hurt on and off for the entirety of their life spans. They weren’t given a phallus but a lack of one, like one was taken out of them. They were given ovaries and estrogen that made them irrational, emotional, and downright insane once a month and for nearly a decade around puberty and during ‘menopause’. Though he liked that word, it was like a warning. MEN OHHHHH PAUSE and remember, women are not like us. Remember the Greeks, or was it the Romans. Women are for babies and men are for the higher art of thought, intellect, love and sexual gratification. And that’s the worst of it for them, or the best of it, if you tend to like dark comedy, they get the ‘gift’ (HA) of life. They get to eat for two, have their belly stretch two feet out (it had already begun and Stan had seen the pictures in the briefing yesterday, they get HUGE!), and the things kick inside of them. They get sick every morning and can’t eat, yet they’re always hungry and emotionally it’s like the worst period ever except for 9 months straight. Actually, to think about it in that way, Stan began to feel intense pangs of guilt and he erased the last two memory files of his patients. Funny how things that were horrible, are at first funny and then somehow embarrassingly sad later.
Chewing on his thick delicate pink lips, Stan pushed his medicart down the hall thinking on how to quell his guilt. Part of him had no desire to shut down his newly created site. It was a really killer site. He was a web designer in his down time and not many people could get the 3D images to look so clear and realistic like he could and to get the sound to feel real without pumping up the volumes past realistic levels was hard to come by. It was a real accomplishment. He was sure if suddenly a cure was found, in a few weeks or a month, the women themselves would even find it funny, though some might inquire to the money made from sales or rights and that kind of stuff and it’s not like they’re doing any work so its not like they deserve anything.
In a room off to his left he heard a women scream in articulately and he hurried in, his own thoughts forgotten. The women laying in her hospital bed upright gripping the side rails of her bed with white knuckled fists, saying, “IT MOVED IT MOVED IT MOVED IT MOVED IT MOVED IT MOVED!”
Prepared for this, though it wasn’t common before the next trimester especially not in the first, Stanley said, “That’s just the baby moving around. That’s normal. I need you to calm down. Just look at me, everything’s gonna be fine.” He spoke in his most soothing voice the one his mother had always used on him when he’d woke from a nightmare. The woman didn’t seem to notice his tone and only heard the word ‘baby’.
“Baby… Inside… AHHHHHH!!! ITMOVEDITMOVEDITMOVEDITMOVED
itmoveditmoveditmoveditmovedmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopPLEASEMAKEITSTOP!!! WHY WON’T YOU MAKE IT STOP!!” she had squeezed her eyes shut and it was plain to Stan that she was going into shock and possibly needed sedation though that was something for the doctors to decide, that’s what he always said. He pressed the doctor alert button on his wrist and waited until he was sure his location and his visual memories of the past few minutes were uploaded properly to the nearest doctor and he left, knowing that the doctor would make the right decision and the robots would carry it out. The woman would be fine, though that was hardly the material he’d deem fit for his website. Comical questions and hysterical answers one thing. Scary psychobabble was another thing. These women needed exorcisms not abortions.

The stick bucked and lurched under his grip despite Avery’s still pink and scarred implant servos whirring in his arms. The G’s whipped and pulled him at different angles as he flew within feet of a Gremlin drone which hummed and spat circuit seeking selective EMP missiles and fragment fire. His reinforced neck muscles bulged under the pressure. He screamed, “Sandbags!!” through the radio helmet and suddenly the sky was full of sand behind Avery’s refitted jet. Around him others of his crew were following suit and making room for each other, designating their path and projected sand’s fall into their computers through their sensory uplinks. Hal had done true to his word. They were a whole new outfit. Square One’s Air Force Tactical Unit, headed by Lieutenant Avery. Behind him he could hear engines screaming, and explosions but he had no room to turn around. The maneuver could work only once and they had to do it right. As they spread further out a star pattern would be created and then gapes would be available to turn especially when the coarse Arizona sand payload was concluded. It had taken competitive technology and some of the best remaining human currency but it was the red, brown sand of Arizona that would win this battle. Bogies in his cpu registered heat signatures and then disappeared one by one. It was a slaughter. Though he could see some clearing the star pattern still within tolerable levels of temperature. They’d have to mop the stragglers up themselves. High overhead a paper-thin spy plane used in American Chinese War of the 40’s flew with a beach ball sized, lightweight nuclear bomb attached. The density of it would not register on the Anti-Aircraft guns, nor would its speed. It would simply fall slowly like soccer ball from space and land once and never bounce. Suspended surrounded by sphere of ultra-thin and highly processed high-grade Uranium was a simple detonator supported by simple thread, the kind used to mend old men’s coats at thrift stores. Of course if any planes encountered this kickball of doom on its descent the surprise would be ruined, but that’s how the sand idea came into being and its genius almost dwarfed the importance of the bomb.
“Picking up some heat, Captain,” Stewie’s voice graveled over the radio. A moment of pity swept over Avery. The implants were not taking well to Stewie. He was suffering perhaps dying from the G’s and the foreign mechanoids in his body, but he’d insisted and pulled a gun on Shirley Clock midway into her explanation as to why he could not continue on with the team. After that no one had questioned his loyalty or his drive. Though now by the sound of it, Stewie was breaking down, at least physically. He could hear him cough and wheeze over the radio. In his mental specs he could see two Gremlins clear the cloud within allowable temperatures and begin to stalk Stewie in their patient and calculating way the Avery had come to recognize all too quickly.
“Grover! Tango! Cool him off! Now!” The star pattern in his monitors became lopsided and tracks began to overlap at different levels making the pictures more confusing. Though only six or seven Gremlins were managing to escape, the Siren 540’s engines being so large that they were the first to go down. This would be difficult but with any luck one of us would survive and the bomb would make contact on the ground and somehow the remaining pilots would get away. A lot of luck involved, but better than nothing, thought Avery his breath whistling through his teeth as he pulled up on his stick to see the scene behind him finally.
The sky above Appalachia Air Force Base was essentially clear. Smoke and fire still dotted the landscape and surely sand still filter slowly downward, but the enemy had no idea how coarse or fine the sand was so they had no grounds to calculate on and with the loss of nearly 50 planes they must be in shock down there, if any human operated any of the equipment along the line to be shocked at all. Heading towards the others, he saw Gary tangling with a crippled yet still dangerous Gremlin which flitted to and fro around him tauntingly slowly tearing into his circuitry and probably doing a number on Gary physically too.
In a loud clear voice, Avery said, “Dance floor clear. Release the Prom Queen.” Avery still didn’t understand what that meant, but Shirley had assured him that it was age-old pilot lingo and historically fitting. She’d also said this with a leering smile and a twinkle in her old eyes. She must have been quite a gal when she was younger. Avery had thought at the time. She must have been devastated when this was taken from her. High above him an off white sphere floated lazily downward through the air. This opportunity, the chance, the incredible rush. The battle. The fire and air. It was almost too much to fathom in the moment and Avery’s brain had a momentary overload and he let out a screaming howl as he neared the Gary and his Gremlin and unleashed a barrage of assaults. This was living, he thought.

Walking down the EU Presidential Hall at a stately pace, President Muenster listened intently to his guest, an American. Many of his constituents and comrades would be horrified to know this fact but for Hans it was a real treat, an Un-American American, or something of a Constitutionalist or Jeffersonian, either way a very European American man strode next to him doubling his stride to keep up with his short legs. This man’s name was Christopher Mendelssohn and was a representative of Square One a resistance within the United States representing a break off of both the culture and the political environment. A throw back and an ally. They also claimed to have an interesting piece of technology: AGS.
Rumors and intelligence had told him nothing other than what could be gleaned from any American newspaper on the subject, but it was comforting to know that it was possible and wasn’t in the hands of the US government. A bit of caution goes a long way with these types though. It was best to play it skeptical.
“Well, how am I supposed to believe that? I’m not trying to be offensive. It’s just there is no guarantee that it is true or not true. Anti-gravity is only theoretical in our part of the world. It seems far more likely that it is just another US ploy for breathing room. We do have them on the ropes, you know?” Muenster slowed his walk to a stop and smiled at Christopher Mendelssohn expectantly.
“We are aware of your newest plagues of course, but we our not within range to study them to any extent nor would we desire too. Our New York branch is in AGS quarantine as it were and we have very little desire for them to leave it while the city is in such disarray. A means of peace keeping between us would be a constant exchange of information and ideas that would keep us mutually safe from each other and ourselves,” Christopher smiled in a humble way. He was a terribly plain man, almost as if his plainness was rehearsed, thought Muenster suddenly, and he’d let this man into his presence risking much, maybe his constituents were right. Maybe all Americans were crazy. He certainly seemed sane but it could all be an act, a lie. The man, continued, “Surely you know of the bombings in New York?”
False starting stutters, “I- Uh- I know of them but how do we know they are still alive after an inverted nuclear assault. That is something considered impossible at this point and it would be quite hard to prove that gravity could prevents a chemical chain reaction from occurring through the shield. I am not a scientist but I know what I have been told.”
Unperturbed, Christopher Mendelssohn watched with his plain, brown eyes without a hint of expression good or bad, he said in a reasonable voice, “Would you like a demonstration?”
President Muenster nearly tripped as he came to a dead stop and turned towards Christopher Mendelssohn the short plain man from the Midwest who’d taken a personal sonic sub to reach Europe in just under two days. He was mildly surprised to find one of his bodyguards supporting him by the arm.
“What kind of display?” the EU president asked in a rush.

“This situation has reached critical mass, Mr. President. What I foresee ahead of us if we do not take an aggressive stance is the entire internal defense system of the United States compromised within a few weeks. We’ll be completely open for any ground attack from the North and the South if we pull the National Guard from their border posts. Certainly we can still win. That is not the problem. We have taken a hit. A large hit and a good portion of our air support is compromised, not to mention moral problems. The social climate of New New York is downright squalid and Capitol Island is a ghost town. Appalachia is irradiated for the most part. Northerly winds are going to bring radioactive dust towards New New York in the next week, possibly causing an even greater problem there. The twin plagues have not slowed. Intelligence and our best scientists have concluded that they are both man made and most likely of European origin. The Aging plague’s research is still being developed. Tarfit’s autopsy revealed nothing of note, but that is hardly a surprise. Nano-technology has progressed to a stage of near quark size machination and we are still hard at work. The Rockies and its inhabitants have no traceable connections to Europe and our spy network has been either tagged and sent home wrapped for Christmas or slaughtered in broad daylight. Whether they are working in conjunction is moot. They are both are enemies no matter their connections and we must assume that they are connected and take the most aggressive stance possible. That is why we must bomb, and I’m not talking inverted nukes. I’m talking verted fully, old fashioneds like they used on Appalachia. No funny business. High atmospherics and sublevel charges. Break ‘em up. We need maximum damage. The entire range should go, that and the compromised air bases in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. They all must go and now before whatever leak in this government that keeps reaching them gets the word out. We need to be fast without question. Now,” Charles never broke his eyes from the President’s. Despite the enclave of important faces, his was the one he’d rehearsed to and he kept his eyes on him and after all, he was the major decision maker. If he moved fast enough, not even the NSC could stop him. There was sparse clapping. Only history would be able to make them monsters despite their successes, and Charles was determined to win. He could see the affects of the Aging plague clearly on the President. The man’s eyes were sinking into his head. Dark bags were forming under his eyes. He looked haggard and hungry. The poor man claimed he’d lost his appetite and ability to sleep from the plague’s affects. Thinking on it now, Charles couldn’t help but glance down at his own hands critically looking for any tremors or new wrinkles, none yet, but it would probably soon begin. It would soon begin for them all. The President nodded meaningfully as he retook his seat at the center of the left side of the long meeting table. Soon, change would begin.

“The surgery took several hours and whether or not the Mayor will once again be his charismatic self remains to be seen. Such operating table daring has never before been seen by most of the medical field. It was broadcast nationally and even released internationally over the world wide web for the world’s good. The operating doctor, Phillip Wheymouth, said afterwards, ‘It’s never been done before, but I am confident he will recover. It is a miracle he survived with a hunk of metal in his head for so long. Now it’s time to heal. All will be revealed within the next 24 hrs.’ Good news for New New York citizens, they need their mayor now more than ever. With the encroaching threat of the Pregnancy Plague and the rise of NP2 in Capitol Island, Terrorism is at an all time high. Stay tuned and stay alive,” the beautiful blonde bombshell with Asiatic features read the news in a nearly sheer power suit of shimmery material. Jack watched in concentration. The painkillers had begun to wear off more fully in the past day than ever before. Now he could feel his bones knitting back together with the aid of the painful Accelerant D. He watched the tv now more and more avidly. His hours of sleep had lessened to almost nothing. Without painkillers or alcohol to cloud his mind, he had become the cynical information processor he’d always neared but never fully embraced. He flexed his hands and thought about how all of this confusion could assist him and his plague. With all these other plagues competing out there it was clear that his own plague might be overpowered and sent back into the periphery. It was obvious what he needed to do: escape. But how to escape with such a wrecked body that was taking so long to heal? He flexed his fingers and still felt the stiffness there. The firm but flexible body cast itched and stank despite how often they bathed him. Every few hours drugs were administered to him by a fierce looking female nurse with arms the size of his legs and the face of a dog. He gave up trying to speak with her. He didn’t think that her germ suit had a microphone for two-way conversation. He was sure now that he was being recorded in depth still despite Professor Tell’s promises. He could see now how his tv broadcasts were edited. Nothing related to him or his virus were being allowed through, and he could tell that he was more and more yesterdays news by the fact that the edited gaps and montages of different reporters per hour had become less frequent and more unedited. Either that or they were getting better at fooling him, which he did doubt. They knew he was cognizant again, but they certainly didn’t know how much. He’d already considered tearing the suit of the nurse and infecting her but that was just one person and so pointless. She’d immediately be quarantined and studied and whatever his plague did would be studied and stolen, and not given its freedom. His freedom and his plague’s would simply have to wait, and waiting was the worst part.

A personalized single person jet was spotted on the radar just off the north end of Air Force One. Immediately defenses were mobilized. Minefields activated and cellular activity detectors switched on. The plane was detonated within a mile of Air Force One. The explosion was audible. Charles Fahey was in a meeting with the President, one of several daily meetings. Alvin was worried. The President had found a sympathetic, loyal, and completely gullible ally in his mental breakdown. All his fantasies were being reinforced and given validity publicly which would make nearly impossible to uproot now that they’re being giving credence. Hopefully one of the scientists has a heart and half a brain to realize that it is all in the poor man’s head. Wiping his giant black hand across his gritty forehead left smears of dust across his near blue-black skin. This observation room was the size of a closet and was extremely dusty but he wasn’t about to invite any of the cleaners inside. Not that anyone knew he was there. Only the NSC could reach him now, and in fact since the alertness of Air Force One, there was no guarantee that he’d survive any escape attempt. The man in the jet may have been the ally he so sorely needed, but then again he might just be another assassin. In the past 24 hours there’d been two attempts on his life. Shockingly enough, the president was even aware of one of them. An Arabic man in Air Force One garb had reached the office while Charles Fahey was there in a private, unscheduled meeting. Fahey had incapacitated the man with little trouble but the damage was done. His paranoia was being amplified by real world events, and though they may be useful in the meantime, a critical decision in the near future could be jeopardized by his mental state and the entire world would feel the repercussions. This was by far worse than anything Kellog Elderman, the last president, could have cooked up. That man had been far too mild. Brewer was soon to be out of control. All the signs were there. His unreality and his reality were synching up far too closely and soon his reality would coincide and fade. His decisions won’t be based on reality, only on the unreality, which could be disastrous. Along the lines of the Roman Emperor Claudius ordering his troops to attack the ocean his brother and mortal enemy Poseidon, thinking that he himself was Zeus. Maybe that’s it. Brewer mixed himself somehow up with one of the godheads. Perhaps with John Makros himself? Or someone entirely different? It was hard to say whether President Brewer was attached in any way to the Makros Order since it was both a popular movement and the popular thing to align himself with. Though his psychosis might align with the strange occult beliefs if seen from the right angle. Then again he could see himself as the next Christ being attacked by the Devil’s minions, but that seemed far too old fashioned and textbook to be the case. It would be something more complicated than that.
Leaning back and sipping his instant coffee, Alvin watched intently his live multi-angled feed of the president’s office. The man was currently polishing a gun, must be embarrassing to his bodyguards that he now feels the need to carry a gun and re-teach himself how to shoot. Charles Fahey is in his room praying. Wonder of wonders, the man was a Catholic, an extinct branch of Christianity. Must be why he’s so superstitious and gullible Probably why he reinforces the president’s fantasies. Confuses him with some such saint or deifies him, oh well, not his problem, he’s only here to diagnose the president. Uploading all the different factors and facts into his open memory log he allowed himself to relax and his mind to collect and recombinate the facts into possible scenarios. He could allow the president to be assassinated. The NSC would be upset but given the president’s condition they’d see the reasoning. He could confront him as his psychiatrist. That would be a gamble. He scratched his sparsely patched skull that always peeled and itched despite the application of various moisturizing and soothing topical creams. His glazed over light brown eyes moved erratically as he reviewed the unseen information. He could induce bedwetting. Sometimes that caused childhood blocks to be removed and could… no that wouldn’t work, he’d only see it as further degeneration of himself by the Aging Plague. Damn his clever psychosis, he was getting older and there was nothing outside of a brainless clone host body prepared for him to make him any younger. Not that he was suggesting this of course. It was a whole ‘nother bag of worms to treat someone for body misalignment and he’d rather not get into that. First body mental breakdown was enough. Picking at a defrosted croissant, a very un-American treat, he wondered what else could be done. ‘Accidental’ electric shock treatment. It had worked 2 times out of 23 in the mid 1900’s. Just another assassination attempt it would be marked up as, but still it might work. Children commonly putting dimes and pennies into light sockets received personality altering shocks that later on could be attributed to good grades some studies contended but Alvin never had been sold by these reports. He was too impressioned by Hume and his causality theorems to buy into it. It seemed too popularized anyway. He could somehow get his mother up here, but the how of it would be too hard to cover up. She’d probably be killed on the way in and that was no good for anyone. A phone call. No could be faked. The man was impregnable in his fortress. His only ally was as insane as him. And… wait, gullible, that was good. It could work both ways. If Alvin approached him, maybe he could convince him to help him get the president under control. Though the man did pray. He hardly seemed like the type to fall back on rationale at a time like this. What else was there? God, he was gasping at thread. None of this would stand up before any tribunal. Maybe he should call in. Call the quits. Alvin felt licked and saw no way that even if he quit that he could leave. Maybe he could get a second opinion. Yes that sounded right. He’d ask the council for another expert, of his choosing, to assist him. He was far too subjective at this juncture to be objective enough to be sure of any of his suggestions. He was in waist deep and needed someone to watch from the boat for crocs as his granddaddy used to say. Crocs apparently were ancient aquatic reptiles from his time period that ate humans, and the description certainly seemed to fit right now. Dialing up on his satellite phone, Alvin waded through the usual security jargon trying to reach his projected destination as soon as possible.

Josh worked yesterday, last night, and all today on the theory, but it was done. Susie had dozed off and on throughout and brought him his meals. He’d hardly ate, but had drunk nearly 3 pots of coffee in 45 hrs. His stomach was stewing acid and bubbling loudly, but it was done. Now to put the theory into place. He’d just have to block all the tunnels that lead out to the water and stabilize the tunnels that were fractured, possibly use the sub to get around, and then up the dose of AG juice within the current circuit except superimpose it past the current borders simultaneously redirecting the current. Though he wished Prof. Strongold was there to proof read his work, he was fairly sure that he’d be impressed. It seemed sound despite the lack of research to back up his ideas and claims. Gravity was a very little understood building block and power in the universe. It’s behavior on time, space, and spatial harmony was mainly unknown besides the Newtonian, Einsteinian, and Hawkingian concepts. For all Josh knew, he and Prof. Strongold were the only ones working in this field. At this current moment, Susie was curled up in a ball on the dirt-covered floor, her brown hair cast over her face. She was such a beautiful child. He could legally be her father come to think of it, though his own mother was 30 years younger than his dad so it was technically socially acceptable. Whatever that meant. Strange she looked as if he knew her from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
As he stood over her brush the hair back from her face, Velvet Sun came striding into his laboratory white with anger. His back was perfectly straight, and his eyes had the dull laxness of fury coupled with an inability to listen to any response from another. His dreadlocks veritably bristled and his lips were tightly pursed. He looked irrational.
Wincing visibly in advance, Josh said quietly so as not to disturb sleeping Susie, “Yes, Sun. What has happened?”
“Did you or did you not ask my child to check the tunnels, all the tunnels, for their soundness?” Velvet Sun spoke quietly but forcefully, giving Josh to impression that something bad, very bad had happened.
“Yes, but-” and he was cut off.
“Did you not think that I would find out?”
“Well I was trying to give them something to do. I didn’t think-“
“You didn’t think. Well, that’s as right on as anything. Do you realize what you’ve done?” Velvet Sun was shaking now and his voice had risen in pitch and volume.
Deadened and now offended, Josh answered, “Obviously not.”
“They’re inside the sub at the bottom of the shield and none of the wetsuits will last long enough to get down there, and even if they did, there are no airlocks in that sub so we can’t do anything for them and it’s all your fault!” Velvet Sun’s finger was jabbing in Josh’s face and Josh was quickly losing his patience.
“Listen here Sun,” Josh answered grabbing the man by the ridiculous orange lapels of his purple smoking jacket. “I didn’t tell your brat to go play in the sub. You’re the one with a bug on him. He’s yours to watch. Besides we wouldn’t be breathing if it wasn’t for me! We’d’ve asphyxiated a long time ago, or better yet be radiation puddles going squish between the trash! Get it straight man! Your kid is your responsibility, and if you’d half a brain you’d know I can fetch that sub up in an instant besides so get a hold of your self!” With a final shake, he loosed the man who was brightly cheeked and wide eyed now, or as wide eyed as his almond shaped eyes would allow. Josh shook away that thought thinking of his father’s prejudice and how it had always disgusted him.
Looking downcast and avoiding both Josh’s and the newly wakened Susie’s eyes, said quietly in an ashamed voice, “Can you help me get back my son?”
“Yeah, sure, don’t mention it,” muttered Josh as he swept past Velvet Sun roughly.

Albert Strongold sat across the game board of the first complete version of Shoots and Ladders he’d ever come by from President Walton 5th child, Timothy Walton, age 7. The boy had a mop of dirty blonde hair and was missing his left eyetooth, and it had become his recent habit to whistle through the large hole tonelessly. He had a spattering of freckles and clear blue eyes. He was winning. Albert had no strong desire to win as he watched his opponent play intently. He was learning more about the mind from his bouyant opponent than from the game itself, though it was a remarkable specimen of 20th century entertainment.
The AGS shield was finally up. It had taken nearly 48 hrs, but it was up. It was the first moment Albert had to relax. Gurney, his cyborgian shadow, had finally gone off to charge his batteries or some such thing. They’d confiscated his AGS hover board as soon as he landed to make replicas of it, despite Albert insistence that he could not walk like ordinary men. They’d all laughed and he’d heard the slur: eccentric, from behind someone’s hand, the nerve! Unbelievable! And the so-called ‘lab’! In horrid disrepair! An unvaccinated monkey must have been set loose in there before arrival, but still, Gurney hadn’t lied about the games or supplies, they both were in impeccable order. Nearly all his shipments of Anti-Gravitational fluid were here, which left a disturbing question as to where they were supposed to go and why they weren’t there but that was hardly a question Albert felt was his to ask. Their problems weren’t his. He was really here to have fun. The children of this Walton fellow were really remarkable. All naturally born and intelligent without obvious genetic flaw or physical defect. It was a miracle, and to think the infomercials were wrong. Course, they’d always been wrong about him and he wondered what else society wide was a lie and what could be done to rectify it. He wondered, idly, if his sister could find him here. She’d never been to Iowa. Even when it was still mostly above ground it was always a depository for sad failing farms and backwards social trends.
Young Timothy leapt in the air suddenly as he finished counting the roll of his dice and the remaining spaces to the ‘YOU WIN!’ box, and screamed, “I WIN! I WIN! I WIN!” He began to dance the strangest dance, poking his small child’s butt out and hopping and sang, “You lost, You lost, You lost, and I WON!” over and over. Covering his face to hide his smile with one of his pale delicate hands, Albert couldn’t help but watch in fascination. Why do all children sing, dance, and deride the loser in all competition, always completely unrehearsed. Strange that we all have a common way of winning and taunting.
“Would you like to play again?” asked Albert without guile.
Heaving a sigh, Timothy said tiredly, “Naw, I’m bored and hungry. I’m gonna find my mom. Thanks for playing with me.” He held out his chubby little hand for a shake. A grown-up gesture picked up from his father, Albert guessed. Strange child. Children were always strange but then again they were all the more normal than adults with their fears and phobias and concern over all events related and unrelated to themselves. They certainly included him in their thoughts far too much. He’d thought they would have relaxed now that they have him under their protection and not under the government’s, but the opposite seemed to have happened. Every day they seemed to get more agitated, like a hive of bees being prodded. It wasn’t like he sat around all day working. God forbid that should ever happen. The best ideas came in the course of play, and with the few toys in the former nursery to play with, Albert had already become bored. He’d even proposed returning for some of his things back at his house in Oregon, but that was dismissed as out of the question, despite the impregnability of his hovercraft. Looking up, Timothy was long gone and his father’s friend, and old next-door neighbor darkened his door, the man of metal, Gurney Warwick. He seemed polished and recharged and moved swiftly into the room.
“What have you been up to?”
“Playing Shoots and Ladders with Timmy. Where have you been? Looking for some double A’s?” smirked Albert.
Gurney didn’t betray any emotion, but said in his musical, antiquated voice, “The people are talking a lot about your playing. They want results for all the work they’ve done. Carting all the AG juice here and making your lab up to speed. Many people have died to make it possible.”
“And I put up the shield and I came up with the whole AGS idea to begin with. You’d think that that would be enough. Gurney do you remember the day I built the tire swing?”
“Yes, Albert, but that didn’t cost anyone their life.”
“It nearly cost mine. I was up there in the tree nearly 3 hrs trying to tie that knot off and then I fell thirty feet and nearly broke my neck in the fall,” whined Albert pushing the plastic pieces of the game around sullenly.
“And I caught you before you hit the ground. Broke three of my ribs, you did. I remember well, Albert. What does that have to do with right now?”
“Nothing. I just thought you’d catch me is all,” Albert plucked at his mustache moodily not looking at Gurney.
After a long pause, Gurney said, “Do you want to play a game of chess?”
Smiling suddenly, as if nothing had gone before, Albert said enthusiastically, “You’re going to lose, Old Bean. You haven’t got a chance. Pull your metal propellered carcass up here and learn how real humans use their minds.”
Wheezing through his respirator, Gurney watched Albert set up the chessboard intently.