Chapter 14

Tripp and Sam sat on makeshift dock staring at the submarine with intense longing. They’d saved this tunnel for last. Neither had ever seen the submarine, but they knew enough that it was down the one tunnel they were barred from. It looked like a gray whale like in the nature movies that Geroughson, Square One’s cook, collected except it was metal and pitted and scraped so that it looked almost like a kick-the-stone. The hatch was open and inviting. They both looked at each other. Sam’s grin was ear to ear. Her eyes seemed to goggle in her head. Tripp’s extra large mouth gaped and he breathed hard. His thoroughly mussed mousy brown hair made him look even more deranged. This was adventure. Uncharted territory.
“Let’s do it!” Tripp bubbled almost too hysterical to formulate words.
Sam couldn’t even answer she just giggled shrilly and nodded vigorously, her lemon colored locks bouncing gaily.
They scrambled towards the sub and only as they neared the water did any sort of caution temper their steps at this point they began to stalk, seriously, with restrained excitement visible in their flexing jaws and clenching fists. They walked onto the thick metal hide of the sub. It was grippy and reassuring. They glanced down into the darkness of the circular portal of the sub and then glanced conspiratorially at each other. Slapping hands, they did a quick best out of three rocks, paper, scissors, and Tripp won. He always seemed to win that against Sam. They continued in silence. It built the suspense, plus if someone were near they’d most certainly call off the adventure.
Inside the sub it was dark, but Tripp soon found the light switch and flipped it. The interior was instantly bathed in an eerie green light.
They simultaneously let out a awed, “Ooooohhh.”
“Now to the captain’s seat,” whispered Tripp.
“And the navigator’s,” added Sam in a slightly upset whisper.
Tripp smiled and nodded and pointed to himself and then to the front of the sub meaningfully. Sam nodded her face serious and childishly composed.
They found that the captains area was perfect size for both of them and that it looked like both navigation and controls were located there.
“I’ll drive and you tell me where to go,” Tripp said judiciously.
With a skeptical raised brow Sam said, “Do you know how to drive this thing? Maybe I should.”
“What are you talking about? I’m older!”
“Girls mature faster than boys! So technically I’m older!”
“No way, that’s just something girls say to make themselves feel better!”
“No it isn’t! It’s a fact! I bet you don’t even know how to start this thing!”
“Oh yeah yeah!?!”
“YEAH! YEAH!”
Tripp’s scanned the controls in front of him and found what looked like despite the green light to be a large red button with the word ignition on it and he pressed it. Nothing happened.
Sam erupted in laughter and fell backward onto the controls, which did get reaction. Lights switched on. Monitors came to life depicting the interior and exterior of the sub. A gentle hum vibrated the sub. Sam’s laughter cut off suddenly. Tripp’s eyes lit up and he squealed, “YES!!” and they both began laughing hysterically.
Tripp, grabbing the stick, suddenly stopped.
“We close the hatch?”
Sam’s mouth popped open and she lost some of her color.
“Let’s go back, shut it, before we take off.”
“Yes, sir,” saluted Sam.
They bounced back to the ladder and it required both of them to pull down the heavy lid of the hatch and secure it until the green light clicked and big block letters shone SAFE. Sweating and shaking from strain, they slumped down at the bottom of the ladder breathing hard from the effort.
“That’s kicker me roo,” muttered Tripp between breathes.
“Yeahsee ohsee,” managed Sam. Her curls stuck to her damp, flushed cheeks.
After a few minutes of breathing, Tripp nodded and said, “Okay let’s gogo,” and he struggled to stand but fell back as Sam laid a hand on his arm and pulled him down.
“No! Wait, this’s hard,” Sam whined. She could definitely detect a growl in her stomach. There’d be just enough time to get back to the main hall for dinner if they left now.
“NO?! Sammy! We’ve come to go and we’re gonna go. Just a fast one round a round! Okaysee see?” Tripp was pleading with everything he had.
“But hungry now, dinner’s now! Or soon! Let’s just go! No one will know now! Next time. Okay?” Sam pleaded just as hard and began to make preparations to cry if necessary, but Tripp was vehement.
“Fine, I don’t need you. You walkie walkie,” he said in a baby voice, “I’ll drive.” He stood and crossed his arms across his chest, striking an arrogant pose.
Infuriated, Sam stood too, and said hotly, “You’ll crash without a navigator.”
Coolly, Tripp answered without looking at her, “It’s designed not to need you. So I don’t need you gettin’ in the way. Go on.” He waved his hand in a dismissal.
Sam’s pale face was now beet red in anger and she stormed up the ladder and tried to open the hatch and couldn’t. She kept trying and then giving up and screaming she turned her anger on Tripp, “CAN’T! WON’T! ALL YOUR FAULT!!”
She then leapt down the length of the ladder with shocking speed and started for Tripp, but Tripp recognizing this particular mood as bad, ran back towards the captain’s seat in hopes there was a door to separate the captain from unruly passengers or dismissed navigators. She was right on his heels as he neared the chair and as he turned around to look for a door or discreet screen with a please be quiet or calm sign when Sam barreled into him and knocked him backwards and over into the chair causing them both to fall directly into the submarine’s controls. The sub lurched violently in response and tore it moorings free, setting off all kinds of deafening alarms.
Sam and Tripp gave up their struggle with each other and clamped their hands over their ears .
“Make it stop!! MAKE IT STOP!!” they both yelled at each other but couldn’t hear each other or see each other well enough in the green light to understand each other. They were sitting on the control board, which must mean the sub was pointed downward. They were diving deeper and deeper away from the surface. Tripp realized this only a moment before they slammed into the bottom half of the AGS shield and they both were knocked out in the collision.

Taylor Damson got an emergency call on his private line late that afternoon. Recreation was limited on Air Force One, so the time he spent in his office often increased beyond his normal earthbound schedule. He had just returned from lunch and he was suffering from indigestion. Pink Bismuth in a squat container of thick clear plastic with embossed brand name Pink Relief sat on his desk staring at him boldly. He didn’t feel like answering. Nor did he feel up to the task of entertaining the person on the other line. For all he knew it could be his aunt and she wouldn’t let him off the phone for any reason under an hour so he’d be stuck given complex enough answers to prove he listened to everything she said. Taylor felt a large emptiness where his earlier optimism once sprang forth. After that one aide’s strange remarks he’d made inquiries as to his health, his workload, and his specific phobias only to get even stranger looks and responses. One young internist, a dashing brunette in a skin tight jumpsuit turned white as a sheet and ran as fast as her legs could carry her in the opposite direction, a very dangerous thing to do considering sudden pressure changes in the atmosphere could sometimes jar even a braced individual off their feet. Seemingly in the course of an afternoon, things had turned decidedly cold. Secretary Damson was always a respected confidant of the president and perhaps things had changed. Why? Why now? Perhaps they are trying to separate him from the president for some reason? A plot? An insinuation? Could someone be trying to influence the president? This would be a highly treasonous act if so. It was disturbing. The new arrival this morning of Charles Fahey had been at first a delightful addition. Commodore of the World and now High General, he seemed like the solid man that Taylor had always heard of. He actually was the man that Damson had been trying to locate for the High Generalship once proper screening was through, but somehow the man had simply circumvented all protocol and arrived of his own accord. In one sense, Taylor thought, that’s great, it makes life easier, but in another sense, what’s to be done about protocol. Should he continue with the screening process or was he now officially High General and any kind of interview discussing his validity would be an insult to both him and the president. An instinct told him that it would not be prudent especially given the fact that the president seemed to be taking Tarfit’s demise terribly hard. He was such a great man with a gigantic heart that encompassed his whole cabinet and the country at large. Sighing in regret, whoever was calling certainly wasn’t giving up. They hadn’t left a message and now they were calling again. He pressed the button to receive the call with a crumpled expression.
“Damson, here,” he mumbled.
“Thank God sir. It’s hell down here! It’s Carolsky in Columbia. They’re invading The United Brazilian Front and they’re winning!”
Carolsky? Andrew Carolsky? It was so distant from his brooding thoughts that at first he couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.
“Sir?! Sir?! Can you hear me?” the man obviously was deranged. Columbia was a radiation backwater.
Putting on a superior tone, Damson said, “Come now, Carolsky is it? Get a hold of yourself. You’re talking about Columbia and further more, how did you get this number?”
“Sir?! You had me on assignment in June last year? Don’t you remember? Andrew Carolsky!! Intelligence Agent for Defense on scouting offensive in Columbia, Ecuador and Peru?!?! You don’t remember me at all?” the man sounded hurt and in shock. Pulling from his fog of self-pity, he seemed to remember a conversation on a hot June afternoon last year. It felt like it had been a different life from this now. Things were so different now. China had still been an economic force. The NP hadn’t been circulating yet. His 3rd wife had still been living with him. He’d been the rising cabinet star in the tabloids. Now it was like he’d been hand picked to be snubbed. It reminded him of that awful year in middle school when he’d gotten horrible acne and all his friends had been embarrassed to be around him. It was horrific.
“SIR?!”
“Oh,” coming back to reality, “Yes, now I remember,” said Damson in a deflated voice. “So what evidence do you have?”
“Check the satty feeds. It’ll be obvious. I don’t know how but they’ve made antimatter selective target emitters that can fly. They don’t have running water and they made this?! What are we going to do?!!” Carolsky was definitely hysterical now. Antimatter? He’d injured his brain, suffering from shock.
“Alright,” feeling tired, “I’ll look into it. Good work. If it proves true, you could be in position for a promotion and some recognition. If not, I will see you in front of a military tribunal. If that’s all, I cease to see how talking anymore will help the situation.” Taylor felt sick as he said these words. HE was never harsh or threatening. The funny games were no longer fun. He felt like he needed a tranquillizer, 12 hrs of sleep, and a sunshine mood pill.
“Yes sir. Of course, sir. Good bye sir,” he sounded sobered and even offended now. Good. He should be.
“Good bye.” Taylor rubbed his eyes and rummaged in the drawers of his desk for meds that he didn’t have. He never took meds, but somehow he felt defeated in a way he’d never thought possible. He should go to the Air Force One nurse. She’d take care of him. She looked vaguely like his second wife who’d left him for a football player who’d won the Superbowl that year. He couldn’t recall the year. Perhaps he could even invite her for a drink in the recreation sector. That lifted his spirits a little and he left his office without a second thought to Carolsky or the fate of Columbia and The United Brazilian Front.

Robert was bored. This was a problem. Moping hadn’t accomplished anything. They didn’t even have television! It was mind boggling! Everyone was busy except him and the guards. That’s where the trouble began.
Though the guards tended to be butch former high school dropouts, they were nice and chatted respectfully with Robert. He started playing cards with them evenings after meals, and then it turned into after breakfast and then he’d accidentally drank from the wrong cup. He’d always thought they’d been drinking sterile, pH balanced water like he was. From the second his first gulp passed his lips, he knew that he’d made a discovery. The guards were partying all day long. As the cup left his lips, a silence covered the entire group. They all eyed him expectantly with faces ranging from nervous to thoughtful to outright grins. It was a measure of his experience that he didn’t cough or make a face. It tasted horrid, like watered down cough syrup and chalk but the effects were instantaneous. His tongue, mouth and nose were all instantly numb and his eyes felt warm and fuzzy. It was a conglomerate of sensations that he’d experienced solo, but never combined and concentrated. He attempted a smile, but couldn’t tell how successful it was because he couldn’t feel his face. The table erupted in laughter, and his cup was taken from his and filled to the brim with substitute, which he was informed was accurately dubbed Grog. They held a small, discreet toast and then the games began again. The last thing they wanted was Terra to come and begin lecturing them on abstinence and public image versus private.


Omar looked over his shoulder at Muhammad with deep portent in his eyes. They’d known each other for only a few hours but they read each other like quicksilver. Strange times made for strange bedfellows. Omar was a Tribalist specifically Afar, his homeland was swallowed during the great flood, but his tribe was popular among the sects even though most did not share a pure blood descent. Muhammad Hamed Tuahama was an Orthodox Muslim, a Koran thumping tyrant. The kind that Omar would have shot on sight a few days ago, but now things were different. The white men had returned. The Europeans had come to retake the Dark Continent for themselves once again. His knowledge of history was limited but he knew the basic colonial nightmare, not that it mattered beyond the fact that they had returned in force and they were quickly sweeping them from the field. It was strange that they would commit to such a large task. It was obviously a political decision and not a military one. Where was the advantage?
They were huddled against the lip of a still warm crater using it as a makeshift bunker. Their clothes were ragged and bloodied from dozens of minor scrapes, cuts, and burns. Somehow they’d become one in the battle and they’d relied on each other again and again. Omar found it strange. The man could be his brother despite his obvious Arabic descent and thin nose. His skin was as black as his. That and the way he handled his gun was masterful, just like Omar. They’d been herded together like sheep, probably in hopes they’d cut each other to ribbons but Omar and Muhammad didn’t indulge the enemy so easily. After two casualties between them, they’d called a truce and shook hands with more than a little chagrin, then returned their attention to the advancing troops from the North. Their blue helmets were easy targets in the blazing southern Saharan sun but getting the right kind of hit was near impossible.
Quick hurried exchanges of information had informed Omar that Muhammad and his troops had been ambushed by a large mass of troops, helicopters, and tanks outside Cairo. They’d been defeated soundly. The city itself was still in shambles from the riots and the remaining forces of the army that barely held order were slaughtered by the EU troops. Muhammad had taken his contingency and left judging the city indefensible and he’d retreated using the desert to weaken the oncoming armies and disappearing into the wild forests and saltwater marshes.
Now they found themselves between a newly formed wasteland of molten glass from the constant bombing and the EU troops who were steadily advancing in their nearly impenetrable armor and far superior firepower. Between a rock and a hard place, as the American’s say, though Omar. So much for the Americans. They will be next. The EU has grown tired of its borders and stalemate. It will eat the world and nothing that was once will still be. Omar’s eyes met Muhammad’s for a moment. He was praying. So much the better. It was time for a prayer. Glancing over the lip cautiously Omar could see the advancing men were within range. He could see their eye slits clearly, well enough to get a shot or two in, to let them know that the opposition is still alive and skilled in the art of war.
Letting off rounds in quick economical spurts, Omar could hear a keening whine, pulling his eye from the site of his gun he scanned the army ahead of him. A glint of silver in the air above it caught his attention. It looked like a metal bird coming in to land, but somehow upon contact with the ground it changed shape into a dog-like creature galloping smoothly on 6 legs.
“Muhammad,” Omar said softly. The man was instantly at his side watching the same approaching droid.
Together they fired round after round at the droid but to no effect, it was either impenetrable or their weapons were inferior. Giving up, Omar began picking off troops and ignoring the quickly approaching droid. The keening was almost unbearable now. It was so close that Omar gave up and once again fired at the approaching droid, which still showed no sign of being deterred. It slowed as it approached and changed shape one final time. Its six legs became eight with long talons that clicked and scythed the sand as it advanced. Omar swore in his home language a curse on the creator of this ungodly creature and drew his family sword. He heard a similar litany in Arabic from Muhammad. Screaming a metallic whine the creature reared up on its hind legs and slashed at them both ferociously with blinding speed. It removed both Omar’s arms at the base of the elbow. His final act was to spit at the machine as it cut him to shreds.

President Brewer threw back two drammamine pills into his cavernous mouth with a shaky hand. Air Force One sickness. It was an old nemesis and it was teaming up with the Aging Plague to devastating results. His face sagged and his eyes sunk into his head, glittering with a feverish light. The real battle had begun. He could see it in the eyes of his assistants and aides now: fear and devastating acceptance. They knew now. Or perhaps, they thought he was infected with some paltry thing like what had immobilized Capitol Island. Fools, such a thing was weak compared to the secret plague. NP2, ha, sounds like a child’s gaming system. His stomach grumbled loudly and with one hand he clutched at it and the other gingerly prodded his forehead looking for cracks. His headache was making him see stars. All over his office little wisps of light began and ended in a fast forward universe. It would have been entertaining if not for his migraine and volcanic stomach. His tea with Fahey was within the hour and he was in hardly the condition to make a new friend, but then again, in his current condition the man surely would see the implications of the virus and the danger it posed. That, and he already knew about the spies. His look: hunted. Yes. They were similar in a way. Not like Tarfit for sure, but more like himself and times like these needed similar minds to work together towards the common goal of survival.
President Brewer reclined in his chair and closed his eyes. He sighed a great heaving sigh and let the medicine do its work. He always found darkness and silence to be the best combination for fighting any ailment. Often medicine wasn’t even needed. Too much noise and violent images in the world. Not that he’d ever admit to any of that. Since Fox took over the FCC, culture/art/morality were no longer within the boundaries of commentary for the political arena. He reflected on this sad historical fact for a time and shortly, there was a soft, cherub-like hum of a solemn chord, his personal secretary announcing a expected visitor.
Charles Fahey strode into the oval office and was at first taken aback by the simulacra. It appeared to be identical to the real oval office. The chairs and tables were securely fastened to the floor. Even the chandelier was an exact replica, despite the fact that it was fixed and bonded into place. It would have been swinging wildly if it wasn’t. Catching back his stride he waltzed in taking the heaving floor into account noted Brewer, must have sea leg ancestors, navy blood. He looked middle aged though obviously his lifespan was extended the middle years tended to stretch for nearly another lifetime so it was hard to say how old he really was. Stress seemed to have done much of the damage. His graying black hair was straight and looked coarse. His face was clean-shaven and his cheeks slightly sunken from lack of nourishment. His eyes were warm blue but haunted and widely set in his head. His nose looked to have been broken at least once and never properly set. He had the paleness of the Irish. As the saying went, he was one of the old blood. Not many people counted ethnic background much anymore since it was all predetermined and up to the parent entirely but within his father’s circles and his own, it was tradition and as Brewer saw it, common sense to trust someone of the old blood. White was right and always had been. A black president had yet to take office. All minorities held positions of authority over time, but none held the essential seats of power: President, Vice President, Senate Chairman, House Chairman, and for that matter, the NSC was ALL white and ALL of the old blood. It was not something ever spoken of or suggested but everyone on the inside knew it and it was kept so that everyone on the outside didn’t, and they liked it that way. All this skipped across Brewer’s mind as he watched his newly appointed High General take a seat in a plush real leather seat across from him.
Fahey scanned the table in front of him a moment, presumably for the tea, but then gave up.
“Yes,” said Brewer softly, “I hate tea. Coffee’s my real obsession but it never tastes quite right up here at this altitude. Tea hour is more of a time than an event anyhow. So tell me why you have come to me. Who’s been after you?”
Charles’ eyes got big and his mouth opened and closed a few times and then an emotional grimace spread across his face. He said all in a rush, “Sir, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you speak so frank. I remember years ago meeting you at the Officers banquet on Capitol Island at the Hilton there and knowing you were the kind of man who was true blue and an all American, not one to take a bribe to cover his ass, but someone the founding father’s would have fallen in with. I remember –“
Irritated the president interjected, “There has been someone after you, hasn’t there?”
“Oh, yes. I even know who. Daniel Stephens-Greenspan. Faked his own death. I even tried to save him. Ha. Think of that. I was arrested by Cyrus Hedrick’s men only to find Stephens-Greenspan still in charge of them. He had us all running in circles. Probably behind the whole Square One ordeal besides. Planted it on my daughter. Brainwashed her with that little peon of a man. Shane Dex. Could’ve brain washed Josh for all I know-“
Closing his eyes in confusion and holding up his hands, Brewer said, “Hold on. Slow down, my boy. What do you know of my nephew, Josh?”
“I know he’s mixed up in this just like my daughter is, and if this hypnotist is involved he can make anyone dance to his tune. Though he’s dead now, but I don’t know if the effects of his hypnosis wear off after he dies, or if they’re permanent. Maybe they need maintenance,” troubled Charles trailed off.
“Oh. You. Now I remember. Your daughter. Square One. Yes. Yes. Okay, so let me get this straight. Stephens-Greenspan is alive. Not dead. He has a hypnotist, or had a hypnotist who brainwashed your daughter and my nephew to join Square One or think that they joined Square One. More likely they joined a terrorist group splinter from the Realizations period probably on the payroll of Stephens-Greenspan. Interesting. Yes. I can see how this fits together. Stephens-Greenspan is a traitor. He’s working for the EU. He bombed that police precinct in New New York didn’t he? And you were in it, along with this Shane Dex, hypnotist? Yes?” Charles nodded numbly in agreement. “His job was to neutralize New New York yet he failed so he tried to destroy the evidence. Hence, the bombing with you and Dex. Maybe Square One was supposed to take over the city or spread another wave of NP2 like in Capitol Island or maybe the Aging plague.” The President ended in a near whisper. His eyes were distant. Charles sat in awe. The man was listening and believing him, every word. This was a man he could die for, truly serve.
Then as if hearing the last part of what he said again, he asked, “What’s the Aging Plague?”
Grimacing a half smile of regret, the president said, “Oh, my boy, well, I’m sorry to tell you but you may just have contracted it.”

“China goes back on its promise of peace as it openly declares war on Australia and all its territories. Following this statement, Sydney was bombed and is now deemed a nuclear fallout zone. Most Australian government officials luckily were holding a secret Congressional accord in the Antarctican territory and still control the country and all its territories. There are reports that New Zealand has been invaded, but these reports are not confirmed. In other Australian news, the Western Industrial District still burns strong and shows no signs of stopping as the fires are just beginning in the East and the North, many worry that Australia won’t stand a chance against China’s superior forces. Some experts have suggested that China is less interested in Australia Proper and more interested in Antarctica itself. If this is true, nowhere under Australian control is safe. China, though on Defcon 6 for the past 3 weeks, has ended evacuations and enforced a mandatory draft for all individuals above age 11. This newest change in policy is as confusing as the last. As you may recall, the evacuations and Defcon 6 alert began the day that it was discovered that the UN was to be disbanded. All experts agree that it was rather premature of Prime Minister Fao to take these actions. The American Government took it as a sign of guilt, blaming them for the NP and the end of international trade. It now seems the EU fits the bill for NP and NP2 construction. Scientists and doctors agree-“
“Something strange is happening in Brazil United Front where the rainforest has begun to rapidly and completely disappear, along with bodies of water, mountains, hills, and entire cities. Reports are hazy but a leak in governmental satellite feeds clearly show the phenomenon. Experts are at odds over this many suggesting natural causes ranging from the rainforest imploding to a large, invisible species of animal that happens to eat matter. Other suggest a more sinister cause, war may be occurring. Columbia and Peru have long held out against joining the Brazilian Empire for various social and religious reasons. It may now be the time that they strike back. Many disagree with this citing the technological lack of both Peru and Columbia. There are frightening suggestions of matter reversal which harkens to the theory of a finatude of our universes matter and the end of expansion and causatics. Physicians Edgar-”

Jack watched the tv screen and the 4 anchormen address him in their intensely charged action news voices. They’re trying to tell me something, he thought, and it’s not a good thing. His eyes watered and he looked back up at the ceiling. The reassuring blue sky and drifting clouds weren’t as comforting as they once were. They were boring and the tv was trying to tell him something important. But what? The words were slippery and far away. He had to fight to grasp them. Something about China. What’s China? A thought bubbled up. Oh, crap. That’s important too. Something vital. Some part of him thought that it was something bad. Something terrible. Why couldn’t he remember anything? Remember? What was there to remember? Suddenly a pain began in his chest, a horrible ache, and with that ache came a memory.
He was Jack Wendleton, carrier of the New Plague, bane of the nations of the world. He cried out in pain and horror and squeezed his eyes shut to hide from the truth.

Professor Tell watched a section of the evening’s video feed over and over. Precisely, 8:15 pm EST to 8:25 pm EST a profound change was apparent. You could see it in his shoulders and head. The way he held them. It was strange how things like that could be seen. He was different and then the howling began. Eventually words could be discerned. The words were written on the transcription next to him on his desk: Jack Peter Wendleton for nearly the length of the page. They were accurate to a fault weren’t they. He’d spent all day working down on Capitol Island trying to prove that NP2 was not related to the NP only to return home to this. It had been days since he slept and this was the last thing he needed.
Into the darkness in front of him he said, “I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m far to overworked with the other plague to relearn psychology just for his sake. Give it to one of my inferiors.”
From out of the darkness a woman’s voice said, “But you’re the best. It is you who must deal with this and as for your health, I thought you couldn’t get sick.”
Exasperated, Tell said, “Exhaustion is not something you can contract. I’m not a droid. I need sleep.” Hysteria fringed upon his voice.
Silence was the only answer. He knew she must have gone. His mission was clear, but what could he do. It had all been done. The man was impossible. What was to be done with Jack Wendleton?

Bertrand Velour’s sat in a plump beanbag chair in the private sitting chambers of the Spanish Consulate Andre Mondego. It was an honor to many but a point of drudgery to Bertrand. Dealing with underlings was never his strong point. His referral to Andre was an insult and he was going to be perceived as being insulted if it was the last thing he did.
A dark haired, beautiful woman entered the room with a bottle of wine hanging from her wrist. A genuine bottle, made of glass, its neck braided with rope, actual rope. Perhaps not as insulted. Perhaps miffed. She presented the glass in the traditional European fashion with a curtsey and inclined head. Her eyes were completely black as was her hair, a sign of pure Spanish blood. She smiled invitingly. Perhaps just confused will do it.
“Well, I see you enjoy my daughter’s attention,” Andre was standing in the doorway with a sly Spanish smile. Bertrand jumped slightly and then colored. His daughter? What was this? But then, he saw the man wasn’t truly mad or suggestive, just honest. Strange.
Smiling and getting his cool back, Bertrand said, “It was strange that I was to meet you instead of someone… else.” His daughter was pouring him a glass of wine the color of blood. It must be quite a vintage.
Andre snapped his fingers, and his daughter swiftly left. He said, with a sagging face, “I would have thought pleasantries were in order but I guess you have no room for them, so I will be direct. We know your desires and your strength. We will help you if you give us a piece of that pie. And this comes direct from the prime minister.”
Bertrand’s eyes popped and he spurted his wine all over the floor in front of him. Andre could hardly hold a sneer. So, he did not like Bertrand. More the better. He’d be able to tell when he was lying easier. People always lied better to those they cared for because it was always ‘in their best interest’, but then again this all could be a way to flush him out into the open.
“What is it you mean by saying that?” said Bertrand in his haughty French accented Spanish. He pronounced every word to create a sentence and didn’t use the shorthand, slang delivery of sentences that had dominated Spanish for most of its existence.
Andre rolled his eyes at this and pinched his bullfighter’s mustache. His enormous stomach heaved as he harrumphed and said, “I didn’t expect you to just believe me but you were the one who wanted to be direct.”
Bertrand waited casually sipping his wine. It was quite good and as he drank Andre Mondego elaborated upon all Bertrand Velour’s grandest designs and his entire network’s inner workings and spread. It irked him, but yet, it appealed to his pride to hear his accomplishments played back to him. He would be the next President of the EU and Andre Mondego would help him do it. Convincing him and the prime minister would be easy. They wanted so little and it was easily given. Africa?! What a joke? Eh Non? It was ridiculous. When we are finished it will be nothing. Might as well own a slagheap or a chemical waste dump, but they could have it all for all he cared. He would have the EU and the world through it. It will be so easy now that Spain would back him.
Soon the bomb would be ready and when it was, it would not stay long on the shelf. The paint will be barely dry on its sides when it lands on the Americans heads. Bertrand Velour could barely suppress skipping as he left Mondego’s chambers.

Tonight was the night, the opening, and Jean was already drunk and it was still hours away yet. He lay in a violet poly couch in his storeroom away from the showroom floor, avoiding the cleaners and arrangers he’d hired. The inevitable onslaught of questions and looks was too much. Jean Guillard wore a crumpled crushed velvet bellhop jump suit purchased years ago by his neighbor, Victor Hancock, the great clothing designer, and he’d given it to Jean this year on his birthday. It was the color of a nuclear sunset, a harsh neon green and he thought it suited the occasion. The buttons glowed in the dark and his cap had a large white star on the top. A plastic bottle of cheap syntho-wine was cradled in his crotch. He was lying very still listening to himself breath. The room was spinning slightly. A bad sign to be this drunk this early, he thought. By eight, the guests would be ushered in, red carpet events only here at the Frederique Guillard you know. No elbow to elbow, just cheek to chique, as they say. A light tapping at the door alerted him, and he leapt up sending his plastic bottle of wine sloshing and spilling everywhere, though it hardly mattered, on the concrete floor, he’d had enough. The door cracked and a hesitant voice said, “Sir? Um… It’s LeHomme, sir? On line one.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What does he want? Not to have his pieces back. Oh, crap. I’ll tell him they’re already sold. Off the block already, so sorry. Private viewing, one client bought them all. Astounded he was. Shocking, he’d said, and then placed a blank check in my hands, like in the fairytales.
His palms sweating, Jean walked towards the door and opened it to a wary assistant, Karl, who knew the importance and possible doom implied by a call this late in the game. His ass was on the line just as mine was. All the better. Not to die alone. Life…Oh crap, what is with him? I can’t keep philosophizing. How can I deal with this now? I’m drunk! Maybe I’ll just say that. I’m drunk. I have no idea what you’re saying. It’s my day off. Show? Tonight? You’ve lost your marbles… No, that won’t work. The man is almost credible these days, quitting smoking, what is he up to? Turned American on us or something. He strode to his desk, cleanly polished and clear of any fingerprints and pressed line one.
“Allo, mon ami? Qu’est que c’est? Une probleme?” he spoke in casual French.
As if disregarding his greeting, LeHomme said, “Hello? Jean are you there?”
“Yes, LeHomme. What is it?” answered Jean, already thin skinned and annoyed. His head spun more than a little now. A thought danced in the back of his head. He’d better puke soon or he’d be sicker than a donkey on a merry-go-round.
“I just called to wish you luck and say goodbye. I hope it all goes well for you. I am leaving for France tonight on a private charter. You have always been a good friend and a credit to the community. I hope fortune finds you well. Good bye, old friend,” and with out further ado, LeHomme hung up the phone. Jean was too stunned to answer or even to open his mouth. He just sat there watching the end call sign blink in the air above his desk. Karl hung behind his shoulder tapping his foot nervously and nibbling at his right index fingernail. His curly hair hanging in a clump over his left eye, always made him look like a girl from the 1930’s. Jean’s inebriated mind tried desperately to grasp the fullness of the situation. Gone? Could one leave the country at all these days? Was it possible? Or another prank? A joke? Friend? They’d hardly been friends or even well wishers. Business associates and pale façades to each other at best. Or perhaps not to LeHomme. I wish I could understand a man like him. Picking up habits like clothing and wearing them like he was born into it, only to disrobe himself in public, shocking everyone, and having the rabble fight over his garments in the mud. The man was a genius no doubt, but mad as a hatter. Surely he could not be serious. Maybe he was committing suicide. An honorable thing to do, thought Jean, considering the coming failure and ridicule to follow. The Japanese once had respect for things like that. Businessmen could disembowel themselves over a quarterly drop in sales and the man’s family would disappear over night, change names and towns. Why was Jean the only one stuck in a rut? Was it possible to change his habits, his personality, and his morals at the drop of a hat? Could any sane person be like that? Or was it the bipolarity of the insane that gifted them the mobility to shake the group consciousness enough to make a difference. Maybe that’s what art is, thought Jean. What have I been peddling all these years? Do I even know what art is?
Behind him, he could hear Karl softly crying. Weak heart. The boy was barely thirty, shouldn’t even be out of school yet. Perhaps Jean had given him too much responsibility. Turning on his heel swiftly, Jean addressed his distraught assistant.
His blood shot eyes regarded Karl coldly, he said in a distant quiet voice, “Why do you cry, Karl?”
“Because we have lost him.”
“Who?”
“The Man, sir. The Man.”