Chapter 13

“The explosions rocked New New York from the Five Points to the tip of New Greenwich Village. The subsequent tsunamis in certain areas soaked pedestrians and many had to be hospitalized. Already understaffed and filled to capacity the hospitals themselves today began to turn victims away with advice and little else.”
“US NP victims seem to have multiplied overnight despite the apprehension of Jack Wendleton the notorious carrier of the New Plague.”
“NNYPD headquarters on Broadway and 42nd Street was knocked down in a blaze of fire and smoke taking out 4 other nearby tower residential projects laying waste to nearly 8 city square blocks.”
“The devastation was mega, but retaliation way worse, laid out mosto Chinatown and the abandoned district is history, dead and gone. I seen it with my own eyes I did. I’ll bet my one tooth that no one. Not no one could survive hits like that. They said Verted Nuculur Warheads and ALL!! THINK THAT! Man! Never seen that before”
“Explosions seen from satellites showed ripples reached miles out into the ocean. The inverted nuclear missiles did their jobs well and the Geiger Count today remains normal. Humidity is normal. And this afternoon is going to be a hot one. Expect late showers. Highs in 60’s and lows tonight in the 40’s. Spring is definitely in the air. Get excited people and get geared up because the unveiling of the New CopperBack Rollercoaster in Central Astro Park is going to unveiled two weeks from this sat. March-“
Jack flipped off the television with his free hand. He was confined to his folding bed. His television was back on and he was on a mild sedative. His irritation at the world was fickle and vague. He wondered numbly about Connie and why she hadn’t visited him yet. Probably thought he was a liar, or worse, a murderer. Trapped in a giant body cast, Jack used his free hand to hit the call button on the side of his bed. He had to use the bathroom again. It was the second time in two hours. They could have arranged it so he could have simply gone in a diaper but Overseer Tell seemed to prefer activities that involved other people. ‘Humanizing’ is what he called it. Though they always wore suits to protect themselves and never spoke to him, it was comforting to be held and assisted by real people. Jack thought about it for a while feeling pitiful, waiting for his nurses to come and aid him in his weakness.

LeHomme Diamdemonde strode into Frederique Guillard’s gallery at 9:15 in the morning. Jean Guillard had just finished his morning cappuccino and was now working on his espresso and considering a cigarette out front despite the blaze of the morning sun. It was almost mild enough to go without a coat. When the man himself walked into the Gallery as if he was sane and owned the place. He was wearing a 3-piece suit. The antique variety. Gray on Gray with a crimson vest and handkerchief in his breast pocket. He must have purchased the outfit from a costume store simply for this occasion. He squinted at Jean as if he didn’t recognize him and then announced his work was done and he was here to deliver it. As if by magic, perhaps they’d been waiting outside listening or been given some secret signal, men in plaid jump suits filed in carrying various sealed plastic cube crates with FRAGILE and THIS END UP spray-painted on their sides. Standard sizes too. He might have stolen these crates from in back of the gallery for all Jean knew. Surprising that, LeMon never did anything but surprising, and normality was something to be questioned and even wary of. His blonde hair was wind swept and long. His smooth jaw line clean-shaven and powdered but for a thin wisp of a mustache died brown. His steel gray green eyes were emotionless and disinterested, on an errand. His delicate fingers flexed of their own accord in his tight black gloves. He was the image of the ancient aristocracy.
Jean did his best not to ogle, he said eyeing the crates skeptically, “What have we this time?”
As if in shock to be addressed, LeMon’s eyes brows rose towards his hair line creating frowns in his forehead, “A little of this. A little of that. Really nothing that spectacular.” He sniffed and shrugged. He’d heard this before.
Most times LeMon Diamdemonde’s best work did not interest him in the least. The dogs. The flying rats. The miniaturized elephants and wooly mammoths. He considered it kitsch and cheap, yet he still made it despite all his high-ended reservations. Jean could care little but for the fact that his entire establishment survived on LeMon’s work and continuing popularity and notoriety. He could not suppress a wave of excitement. “Any names, titles, descriptions, conventionalities?”
This question usually irked LeMon who abhorred explanations and usually left naming the exhibits to Jean Guillard himself, but this time he merely nodded sagely and said, “Dead Ends: Past and Present, or The Missing Link.”
Jean stared at him hard. Was the man joking? Never had he given a name, nor such blatant commerciality to his work prior. Was it a ruse? He felt a streak of panic course through him.
“Let us smoke,” Jean suggested with a wan hand and a bland smile. Best to play it safe until he could open those crates. Something that was never done in LeMon’s presence. Jean had learned after the first time when LeMon began reclaiming his art one by one as it was unveiled. For that matter he never was invited to any viewing or sales. For some reason even his most hated work he took back, saying that it was too ugly to be seen. All the better, thought Jean. It added to the man’s mystique.
LeMon shook his head with a small smirk and said, “I’ve stopped smoking my friend and besides I know how much you want to crack open one of those crates. I will be going.” With that he turned with a flourish of his coattails and strode purposefully out of the shop. Jean watched him go, stunned and more than a little worried. Never had he been so straightforward. Nor had he ever declined to have a cigarette. Forgetting the crates for the moment, Jean walked out after LeMon and hovered at the doorway until he was sure that he was gone from the block, then smoked his whole pack of cigarettes. He avoided the crates despite the fact that they could be biological and need sustenance sooner rather than later. He loathed the thought of opening them seeing his own livelihood’s end in their contents. This was it. LeMon’s final insult. His Coup D’Etat for the art community as a whole. Cigarettes gone, Jean rummaged through his work closet in back looking for a bottle of wine.

After days of recovery, Joseph managed to walk by himself to the relieving area. His mother still insisted he stay in bed all day, but by nightfall he was clearly feeling better. His color had returned to his cheeks and he could sit up on his own with ease. One by one members of the village came and visited him in the sterile brightness of the overhead lights that were now never turned off. They related stories and their own feelings of loss in quiet, revered voices. Joseph listened numbly with his lips pressed thinly and his eyes cast downward. He did not cry. He did not react. His mother cried softly throughout the visitations and Joseph held her hand patiently.
A focus entered his mind as each story unfolded. Pa Jo never gave into anything. He bent his surroundings to his will. Even the sea obeyed his guiding hands. He mastered his environment through mastering himself. Joseph concentrated on mastering his feelings and centering his mind on his goal: his grandfather’s murderer. Still weak from the poison, Joseph stood when the last of them left and walked to each hallway leading out from the large storage room that comprised their temporary home and nodded solemnly to each of the men stationed there in pairs. All the lights were turned on as far as each pair would dare go. It was comforting to see. The food room was guarded and light up like a clear noonday sky. It was hard to sleep in the brightness but exhaustion always eventually won over. Steeling himself, he left the men at their posts and went to look for Bishop Yorke, the one man who hadn’t visited, either out of guilt or Bishopric business, Joseph did not know.
Joseph found him in a small circle holding a village council meeting. Sister Winter, Father Theodore, First Councilor James Eckhart and Teacher Chamelo Anselline were all there. He waited patiently for them to finish. His left leg wobbled and the muscles jumped but no one was looking to see. Joseph tried not to pause when he blinked with his eyes closed and tried to appear alert yet inattentive to their private conversations. From what he could gather, they were concerned about the defense of the villagers and escape. Exactly the topics on Joseph’s mind, but interrupting their meeting would not give him any weight in their books. He was still young and he knew it. He was prepared for that. Ignoring them was difficult, knowing that what they said would directly influence whatever he was going to say, but he knew that if he did listen then whatever he said would be modified and they’d know he’d been listening and they in turn would not listen. Only his original ideas would reach their ears clearly. Joseph spent those moments before the meeting’s conclusion to organize his thoughts and compose himself. He listed the questions one by one wording them better each time, preparing himself for their doubts and their questions. He remembered how to get back down to the horrid half-flooded chamber and he was sure he could get to the top.

“The Drowned canceled their national tour because of the epidemic that hit Capitol Island. It will do a sympathy performance broadcast nationally this Sunday and that’s all I can say for now. Alright? Bye!” stabbing his finger on a button and ending the call, Gary Buster, the Drowned’s Manager and oldest fan, rubbed the sunken area on his baldpate. The calls hadn’t stopped for even five minutes today. Giving in to fear is what they keep saying. Fool notion continuing on and getting his friends, his charges, sick. Half the Senate and Congress are in quarantine and the presidential cabinet is playing hide and seek with the president. He’d canceled his address and sent a team of white house correspondences in his stead. The message had been clear. The war had escalated to another level. The lines had shifted. The game had changed. No more international tours or releases. National tours in jeopardy. The war had eaten up the industry leaving only a small area for it to breathe and survive. The members of The Drowned: Butch, Gray Horse, Victim One, and Z57, hadn’t lost their lust for the industry life. In and out of the studio the past few months, a new album was expected within the year, probably before summer’s end, but who would buy it? Who in this world of terror and plagues would spend money or even time on an album, arguably a great album, but still a pleasantry, not medicine, not a weapon, not a safety measure. It was sad, but Gary could understand, not that he’d explain it that way to his boys ever. They were on top of the world, spending money left and right as fast as Gary could acquire it for them. They were happy and that was what mattered despite their savings being dangerously close to zero weekly, they never knew nor would they if Gary had his way.

Seated precariously on the arm of an exact replica of the lazy boy in the Oval office, President Brewer sipped his hot chocolate with a methodical smoothness. The spreading warmth and the taste always reminded him of his childhood and his weekends spent skiing in Oregon at Mt. Hood with his family. He needed this comfort whenever he spent time at Air force One. His office was a near perfect simulation with the exception that the objects in it were all bolted down or on tracks, like this chair. It wasn’t an old establishment, simply a well-used one, about 5 terms old. It was really a flying fortress that looked like a giant metal, winged snow globe. It had engines in the rear and all along the undercarriage. It could hover or fly, though rather slowly. It could climb to where the air was too thin to breath or land, though it had landed only once for emergency repairs. Otherwise it was maintained, fueled, and cleaned while in the air. It was something of an accomplishment. President Brewer could hardly appreciate it as it generally made him panicky and carsick, despite it not being a car, and it wasn’t like a plane so he wasn’t quite plane sick. It droned and shook like the old timey cars that ran on gas. Strange concept, using the rot from fossilized dinosaurs. Crazy people of the last century, no wonder they mucked things up so much that half the world is underwater now.
Taylor Damson was not incarcerated… yet. He would be soon once his supporters and intentions were made clear, but it was certain that he was the traitor in his midst. Him and who ever else decided to turn coat for the EU or worse, some break off within his own country, perhaps the Mid-West was a distraction perhaps not, but either way, the threats to himself were suddenly multiplied and camouflaged. He still was President and that was what mattered. Finishing his cup he left it on the desk knowing that the clean up droid would get to it eventually. The president beckoned Ziroha to his side.
He spoke in a grandfatherly voice that he’d adopted with his shadow that if he concentrated on it no longer frightened him as he once had. The man wasn’t a threat. The man didn’t even exist anymore. He was a shell for someone’s looking glass, just another spy to be spoon-fed until the ripe moment, “Ziroha, my most trusted advisor, I was wondering, do you… um… and your people, still desire one of these barbarians from the Mid-Western front? Apparently they are gathering in certain areas, we can retrieve a few for you, if you want?” The President smiled widely with a guileless look. Ziroha ate it up like pudding.
He answered in his monotone, detached voice, “Yes. We require it.”
“Well, ha, in that case. I will make sure you get the pick of the litter. What do you require? Huh? Girl, guy, young, old, one of their leaders? You want one of their leaders don’t you?” The president winked knowingly.
Unfazed with empty eyes, Ziroha answered, “A child is what we require. The leaders are yours.”
Somewhat taken aback, the president made a disgusted face, and muttered, “Yeah, whatever. Okay.” And underneath his breath, “Sicko.”
No reaction played across Ziroha’s face, just as well, he’d rather not have his puppeteers thinking anything was awry. He’d have to exterminate Ziroha some day but he’d have to have a reason and a good one, and it would have to seen like an accident. Thinking on it, the President shifted his weight and slid into the chair softly humming a tune who’s name he could not recall from childhood.

Sweat beaded on Sly Louie’s brow as he lifted a barbell in each hand up to his face in a salute. His shirt was off and his rug of chest hair glistened with sweat. Stripped to the waist, Sly Louie’s physique was still impressive despite a softness around his torso that had appeared out of nowhere in recent years and had shown a resilience that he’d come to respect. What you could not remove had to be lived with. Sly Louie grimaced remembering when his father had told him that the first time. His morning workout was not satisfying him as it usually did. The PD was still swarming in force. All his dealers were sketched and buried so deep that he’d need a metal detector and a shovel just to get a look at one of them. His go and sees were all busy burying their faces in drink hoping to hide in their glasses. His muscle was too scared to punch their kid brothers in the arm, thinking they’ll squeal out the window and the entire force’ll come rainin’ down. Dogs day this is, thought Sly Louie as he moved on to a thick, heavy polymer board hanging from the ceiling with a perfect stillness. He moved like a whip and smacked his head on the board with a suddenness that would have left anyone watching blinking and rubbing their eyes. The board moved slightly. It was very, very heavy. They made wrecking balls out the stuff. Nearly unbreakable once molded. It had been his best friend for decades, well before he made anything out of himself in the head-butting leagues. He danced lightly on his feet. Despite his girth, his body moved gracefully with fluid coordination. He head whipped in a tight cirlced. The sound was a dull smack. The sound a body makes when it falls from up on high. Sly Louie loved that sound. It was the sound of change. A shifting in the ranks. The elite falling and making room at the top for the scrappers… like him. He did not have to live with the constant presence of the PD, so he would remove them. Learning to live under this was unthinkable. Business was not possible. Zero was even laying it low. Surprising that. He’d expected that man to be unafraid even if the devil took a personal interest in having his hide. Who was Louie kidding, the kid was the devil himself. Never anything like it, but then it begs the question, why is he laying low? Is he scared? Did something go bump in the night that Zero couldn’t juice? Hmmm, thought Sly Louie watching the board swinging gently, this deserves some thought. He walked to his office’s washroom to take a shower. It was a magnificent shower, hand crafted by Benedict Grobert, the designer and architect, as a personal favor. It had six showers head that followed your every move and every inch while avoiding your eyes and face until you said “Face”. It was tiled in blue and green tiles. It must have cost a fortune, mused Louie as he waltzed in and as he removed the last of his clothing said, “Now”. Grobert had been more than happy to do it, a favor for a favor. His once stiff competition was now flaccid. A wonderful twist of fate. “Music,” murmured Louie and Bach’s Violin Partita 1 began softly from seemingly everywhere. Groaning majestically, he stretched letting the water cascade all over himself, then said, “Head. Face,” and let himself be enveloped, a rare experience in a world that valued clean water over every other natural resource. Though it could hardly be called natural. All clean water came from a dirty source and was processed until it was cleaned. That’s just what he had to do with Chinatown. Process it until it was clean of its contaminants.
His thoughts were interrupted by a gong, a questioning note that rang through the air souring his peace, but he knew his secretary Barbie would not be interrupting him without cause and most especially not with that ring. Someone was there for him and something was wrong. He said in a rush, “Enough. Dry.” A buffet of hot wind replaced the water, but Sly Louie did not wait for his body to be completely dry. He stormed out of his bathroom to his wardrobe. Let whoever it was that had decided to interrupt him see that they had interrupted him. It would either worry them that he had incurred some of his wrath or the more likely of the two, that he was off guard and easily dealt with. Barbie would not have used that ringer for anything but just cause. Slipping on a loose shirt that could easily be taken off and tight slacks. He selected his finishing touch, a ring, the key to the ultimate personal defense system. Motion detectors, ion splitters, lasers, guns, and electric fields all would recognize his visitor or visitors as threats but not him, not with this ring on, and it all could be called upon with just a touch to the small button on the back of the ring, much more efficient than a voice command. He spoke in a clear loud voice, “Preparation Tango Blitz Father Quark”. No noticeable sound was heard, but he knew the room was ready.
He was surprised to see who it was. The man usually called before one of his visits. Except that this could barely be called the same man. His face was drawn and pale. He was without he most recently acquired toy, a Makros Order cloak equipped with all sorts of fun things. His arm was flesh the last time he had seen him, and judging by his face, he was scared and his confidence lost. It was a pity, but a broken tool was a broken tool. Hesitating before pressing the button in his ring, Louie thought that maybe he might have some interesting information yet to give.
“Greetings, Zero. You look like you tangled with someone bigger than you,” Sly Louie smiled expansively but it never reached his eyes.
“Ran into some secret police in an alley tailing the so-called Robert Gadson,” Zero said it as if it was significant.
“Who?” asked Louie in honest surprise.
“You know, the man they’ve been after this entire time. He was heading towards the abandoned district last I saw him, near two days ago. They must have been tailing him too because they were dropping from the sky all around me and I barely got away with my life,” Zero’s eyes looked hunted and desperate.
Sly Louie’s thumb slid to the back of the ring. Here it comes, he thought, but said, “Why would they be after him?”
“He killed the mayor’s latest pet and Appletower’s sent his personal army to go and fetch. I expect this all to be over soon, but that besides the point. How bout you compensate me for this?” he gestured, lifting his new prosthetic limb.
Sly Louie smiled with disgust, “Of course, old friend. Compensation for a good days work. Of course. How much were you thinking?”
He waited long enough for the man to say “Quarter million” and then pressed the button and watched the man electrocuted to death. Interesting. He never had any choice in the manner of death but it was always intriguing to see which the program chose for whom. Well, all well that ends well. The fool would have known more about his business if he’d just read a paper. Square One was the real problem and until they were gone the PD would remain a burr under his saddle. He always liked that phrase, reminded him of his American roots, a genuine cowboy. Smiling, his humor back, he said, “Clean up,” and three droids came out of doggie doors in the walls and began removing the man’s corpse from the floor and perfuming the air. An honest days work, and it was still an hour till lunch.

Jim Thorpe rested his hand on the bow of his boat. His son was behind the wheel and his wife was reading placidly under an over hanging shade. They were heading home. Jim’s brother was down below, probably writing one of his books, another reason for using him as a double. People rarely knew he existed, an exact duplicate of himself only 4 years younger. His mother and father had been so pleased with Jim that they’d requested an exact clone made with no alterations. Lucky for Jim and lucky for Square One, he thought. His gaze swept the horizon. They’d just left the Rockies behind them. His mini sub was tucked snug in the belly of his boat, his prize possession. An American flag proudly flew whipping in the wind over the cockpit one level up. He could see the mountains that made up most of Oregon ahead. It would be several hours before they reached them, but his mind was already racing with plans for once they arrived. His private meeting with President Walton had outlined his plan of action clearly. He was to contact the resistance head, Arthur Nouhan, and tell him when and where to strike. It would be hard work for them, but Jim’s inside privileges would tip the scales. It would work. It was a good plan. Tomorrow he would speak to Arthur in person, though he’d never met him, his reputation preceded him. Arthur Nouhan, the natural son of Davrick Nouhan of the Council of Twelve raised by his mother in Portland, Oregon. In his late twenties an unaltered man with completely natural genes and aging processes. It was unthinkable. He was excited to meet the boy or maybe man. He wondered what he looked like. If he was old already, graying, wrinkling. He’d never seen a natural birth human before. It fascinated him.
Thinking of the oddity of it all, Jim squinted his eyes, looked towards the horizon at a strange abnormal black dot that was rapidly getting larger. He knew these waters extremely well and if new debris was shifting around, he wanted to be the first to note it. Yelling over his shoulder at his son to check out the sonar. His son shortly called back all normal. Confused, Jim watched on as it grew larger and with it grew a worm of doubt. It looked like a ship. With the passing of a few more seconds, he knew it for certain. He called out in distress to his family members and ordered them down into the sub. His son was an efficient enough pilot that he could get them away safely, but someone would have to provide the bait, and that would be him. Looking through the binocular his thoughts were confirmed. It was a National Coast Guard ship swarming with five times the normal occupants, a small army of men, many in suits bristling with weapons. So it would be like that. He quickly packed up his family and entered the coordinates for Square One himself and briefed his son on the currents and then sent them off. His wife and his sensitive, artistic duplicate were crying, but his son was stoic and brave. It made Jim proud. Once they were well away from his wake he gunned it, away from his family and the approaching ship. There was only one way to end this. They’d have to bring him down or if he could make it to the mountains in time he could maybe get ashore. Laughing madly, the stocky man gripped the steering wheel with his square hands and headed towards the debris-ridden corridors off the shores of the Rocky Mountains.

Gurney Warwick’s hand opened and deposited a queen chess piece on the table between the two of them.
“What’s this?” asked the befuddled guardsman who stood outside the complex that housed Prof. Strongold’s home. His mouth hung open off to the side slightly pursed like he was reaching for a kiss. A disgusting habit, and a sign of stupidity.
“It’s a chess piece… A game played by more adept minds… Open it. There’s something inside you should see,” the sound of Gurney sampled voice made the guard blink as if he didn’t quite understand what he was saying. The man’s short curly hair must be a sign of an addled brain.
“Twist the top and see what is inside.”
The man looked at him again with a doubtful look but complied twisting the top off slowly and emptying its contents into his palm. It was a small cylinder with an eerie light emanating from it. “What the devil-“
“I didn’t say touch it,” Gurney said in the same polite, unconcerned voice, but it had the same effect as an electric shock. The man jumped and dropped the vial. Gurney’s processors were already calculating his trajectory and his landing before it hit the floor. He turned off his eyes too before contact with the concrete. The light enveloped both of them and then the expansion sent them flying. The large imposing gates in front of Albert’s home crumpled inward, crushing some of the veneer of the building.
Landing smoothly, his servos and shocks humming, Gurney ran back towards the Victorian style house. Albert stood in his doorway with a wan smile on his face looking at the fence above him and the devastation around him.
He said in a knowing voice, “What ever have you done, old boy?”
Gurney’s left eye swiveled in all directions while his right was fixed on Albert Strongold, the inventor of the Anti-Gravitational Field and all its subsequent applications, the key to winning the war against the European Union, and now his willing hostage.

It was the blast that saved him though for how long was anybody’s guess. A support beam had punched through the ceiling like a needle through the finest silk and cleanly severed Shane Dex in two. Stephens-Greenspan had been out of the room for the moment, but with any luck he and his lapdogs were dead. Without any luck, they’d be on him like hound on bacon, and he most certainly couldn’t call Harriet and warn her. Their phones, emails, texts, and standard mail were all being watched and sifted; no way to let her know anything is out of the ordinary. She would wait weeks before thinking anything really wrong had happened, but the building’s collapse made things different. Maybe if he sent Erik over. No then Erick would be involved, too many questions. And why not? He had questions and no answers. Why had he been singled out as the largest threat to Daniel Stephens-Greenspan, to the point of him faking his death? Why him, the straight-laced, trying-to-do-everything-the-right-way-even-if-it-costs-him kinda guy? Why- Oh. I get it, because that is a threat. Because I’m the only guy that wouldn’t take a handout or a hint. Because I’m the one who cares for real, and I’m the only one qualified enough to take over someone higher up’s job despite my current judicial position, if I held on, as it seems I have in spite of threats, attacks, subterfuges, and lapses in confidence. That is the real threat. An eagle scout in the upper branches of the government. Someone who prays over his meals. “THE BASTARDS,” yelled Charles Fahey in a strangled voice with a beet red face. His fist slammed into the chair next to him in the subway car and cracked the plastic. Passengers all edged away as one. Judging by his official government suit, his 3 stars on his collar and his worn and filthy appearance, he’d just been fished out of the collapsed area and was not someone to be consoled or comforted, he was outside the law…. Outside the law. Charles never thought about that aspect of his role before. He could use his power, for once. He’d never used it before that way, but he’d memorized his roles and powers of authority before his appointment nearly a year and a half ago and remembered them now. Stephens-Greenspan was the one in real trouble, not him. Oh, when… but who would listen, they’d think him cracked. Hit his head in the collapse of the building, damn shame, can’t remember that his old boss kicked it nearly a week before, died right in front of him too. Sad, sad, all around, but in the hospital we can treat him. And they’d treat him, really well, lots of drugs, and a list of problems a mile long, no one would ever take a thing he said seriously ever again. And Shane Dex was dead, not that anyone could interrogate such a dangerous man, but still he was a witness.
Charles rubbed his fingers together feeling the grime and the grit. It had taken hours of crawling like a spider through the dirt looking for a way to get up to the next level. Each time, he’d nearly died, but somehow the Lord had preserved him and that meant he was saved for a purpose, that he was to do something important and it may be as small as a favor of kindness or as large as saving thousands of lives, he didn’t know, but he was guessing that it was closer to the larger end of things. Above the law… Clearance… Who could help? Who would listen? Who- Brewer. President Brewer. If he could get through the tape to the top he could find help. He’d met the man only a few times but he’d been impressed with his candor and likableness, even reminded Charles somewhat of Josh, despite their polarized political views. As Commodore of the Earth he could gain access, even when he was in hiding, even more importantly and easily when he was in hiding, that was Charles’ job. A smile began to form on his face as the subway stopped for the 3rd time at 34th Street and Madison. He’d book a flight, though not to Capitol Island which was completely quarantined, but to Air force One. If the war was in escalation, he was in need and the best place to hide would be out in the open and under someone more powerful’s wings. Smiling which caused his split lip to leak blood, Charles waited for the train to reach the end of the line again, so he could commandeer a flight and meet the president, fulfilling his role as Commodore of the Earth and saving himself and his family.

Natalia Kerova waltzed into her father’s tent without announcement. Her role as Chief Clan leader’s daughter and spokeswoman for all the Northern Tribes afforded her that much. She could not speak out of turn though, even in private, and especially not when her father was meeting with Rodric his most trusted advisor and cleric. Rodric was a thin stick of a man, dry as dust, with sparse brown hair, a hooknose, and a drooping face with gray eyes popping out of it. He was a Cleric of Nerim, or Father Winter as it is known in the English tongue. He could read the signs of a storm days before its arrival and sense evil in people who do not even realize their own intent. Rodric was a powerful man and though Natalia often thought that he was getting too old and possibly senile, he was still her father’s most trusted advisor and that much kept her mouth shut and her eyes downcast.
From what she could tell they were discussing a coming storm. A large one, larger than any storm in living memory, a storm of the world of men. She had heard of this storm many times. It was unavoidable and when it arrived it should and hopefully would be accepted, but few thought that it was coming soon. Rodric thought different. She could hear him saying in the Lyrical Tongue that the time was near, that Gregoran would not survive it to the end, but his posterity would live on to serve Nerim wisely. She couldn’t help herself and gasped at this. Never had specific mention of either her family or herself been made by Rodric until now and it chilled her to the bones. She knew by the way he spoke that it was not senility. Not now. Not in the Lyrical Tongue. What he spoke now was prophecy straight from Nerim to him, unpolluted and in the language of the storm. Natalia’s cheeks burned with the embarrassment and shame of her revealing her eavesdropping. She could not raise her eyes to see her fathers face, but she would have bet her two best throwing daggers that he was staring at her right that instant. Recomposing herself, Natalia snatched at the words that had just been said and tried simultaneously to listen to the current sentence. He was telling his father of the end of the Great Lie that would come at the end of the storm. This also was something Natalia had always heard of but rarely did she hear it ever in connection to the Great Storm. It was disturbing and Natalia wondered again if Rodric was senile but she swiftly remonstrated and gritted her teeth together. He was speaking the Lyrical Tongue. He cannot lie when speaking in that. It was not possible. Perhaps as he aged, he grew closer to the Father of Winter. She heard the howling wind outside the tent and thought she could hear words in its scream. She shuddered and once again tried to regain the thread of the one-sided conversation between her father and Rodric the Cleric of Nerim.

The bombs that fractured most of the infrastructure of outer Square One registered on all the cpu’s before their receptors died out. They didn’t even feel the impact under the shield. So it worked. Josh’s hair-brained scheme worked. It didn’t encompass the city itself as was planned but it encompassed Square One and despite what the world thought they were alive. It was funny to think about. The first successful large-scale usage of the AGS system in the history of the world and it was being used in defense against the very people who funded its research and operation. If they only knew. Sister Fox adjusted her hair in the cracked mirror of her changing room. A wave of extreme exhaustion swept over her and forced her to lock her elbows with her hands clutching the bureaus top. It was getting worse. Her unaltered body was giving up and giving in. It was only natural she thought with a sad look at herself in the mirror. Her flesh sagged off her, yet if anything her eyes still held that youthful sharpness that had drawn boys to her like metal fillings to a magnet. Just one of the reasons her mother had packed her off to the Sisterhood of the Pure and the Chaste. Since leaving them, she’d traveled among the very filth and corruption the Sisters had always warned her about only to find within them the desire for change and the true evil to be those in power forcing those under them into compromising situations and foisting sin upon them as their only feasible option. She knew her heart still laid within those calming walls on the mountaintop of Beulah, Appalachia, but her life’s purpose was here saving souls one by one through guidance and example. Grimacing at that. She more often led by the nose nowadays than by example, far too old to refuse anyone’s advances and far too hard not to be demanding. Time as short. She knew it for an excuse but at the gates she would see if it was one that was sufficient or not. She would see soon she knew. Any day now, she thought and lifted her hands from the bureau’s pitted and cracked surface. Joints creaking and popping painfully she rubbed her hands together and turned away from the mirror to see Terra watching her silently from the doorway. Not letting her surprise or anger show, she continued on her routine as if she wasn’t there. Selecting a dress and changing into it, Sister Fox wondered if Terra truly realized how short her time really was. The girl’s aging was slowed and it seemed those of her kind’s brain must be slowed with their inability to predict age or see death coming when it was sitting next to you holding your hand like an old friend. Fool notion, stop thinking about it. Morbid and what’s worse, a waste of time. She slipped a broach pin through the threadbare fabric easily, a golden crane, and then turned to Terra, but she had gone, good, her work has just begun and it was only going to get worse. Feeling another wave of tiredness, darkness swept over her vision and she fell reaching for wall to catch herself but missed. She landed in a heap and did not rise again.