Square One: A tale of New New York

Thanks for Reading!

2010-03-18T11:24:00.000-07:00

Thank you all for reading my novel, Square One: A Tale of New New York. It took many months to write this book and I can easily say, I really enjoyed writing it. At times I look back at it and want to dive back into the editing process, but I feel it is a snapshot of both myself and the world in which it was written.

If you want to own this, you can download a digital copy or soft cover here:

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/square-one/4499107

Thanks again for reading!
I have more writing to come but I won't be releasing things in this way again. I think that its hard to quantify the value of posting it this way.

-Matt Powers

Epilogue

2010-03-18T11:22:00.001-07:00

Susie rolled over in bed, her brown hair spilling across her face. She gathered the sheets modestly around her breasts. The sun played warmly across her back. It was nearly noon and Josh was still fast asleep and snoring softly. He lay on his back. His mouth hung open limply framed by his shaggy black beard. Susie scooted so she was inches from his face and then tugged lightly on his beard. Josh snorted and jerked awake.
“What? What….. Yeah, mm hmm, okay, what?” he murmured still not fully awakle.
Playfully, Susie said, “Guess what?”
“What?” clipped Josh in the abrupt language of the half asleep.
“C’mon guess? I bet you’ll never guess,” said Susie in a mischievous voice that made Josh wake up a little more, and begin to take stock of the situation.
“What?” he asked a little afraid by her knowing smile. Women made him nervous when they looked at him like that, a cat eyeing a mouse. “What did you do?” He was almost fully awake now.
“Hmm hmmm,” she laughed softly. “You did it.”
“I did what?” he asked, knowing now that he was definitely in trouble.
“I’m pregnant!” she squealed happily and jumped up onto his knees bouncing the bed and pulling the sheets off of him.
“What?” said Josh numbly, at a loss for words. He suddenly felt a chill flash across his body. He managed to smile weakly.
“I’M PREGNANT!” yelled Susie at the top of her lungs. Her head thrown back. She let the blankets fall and spread her arms majestically.
Momentarily taken by her naked form, Josh forgot what she’d said, and then returned to himself and stuttered, “But…but…”
Pointing a finger at Josh, she said, “And you’re gonna be a daddy.”
“Oh vap,” breathed Josh with dread.

Today was the last day. They’d promised. Today, they’d remove his body cast. Jack Wendleton twitched with excitement. The nurses had been thoroughly on guard, patching him up daily and preventing any sort of escape. Jack wondered if they were briefed daily on his progress or merely trained initially for body cast victims. The news was finally unedited. Since he was deemed not contagious and all his nodes removed, he was moved from the military compound to the small, cheaply run Chinatown outfit, he’d been watched less and less and no effort was made to alter his surroundings to fit his mind-frame. They gave him plenty of painkillers intravenously and he enjoyed a variety of foods in liquid form. He wondered often if Professor Tell had survived the blast that had destroyed most of Manhattan. Tell had never visited him after his transfer. He probably was too deeply entrenched in the Pregnancy Plague, either that or he’d been atomized along with everyone else. His thoughts carried him through the day until it was time.
Jack was shocked to learn from the doctor that he was going to saw him out of his cast. Jack recognized the saw for what it was, a bone saw. He yelped in fright and thrashed unsuccessfully in his fixed form to get away, but only succeeded and getting put under for the whole ordeal.
When he came to, he was completely from his torso up. His hips and legs were in a new plastic and Velcro cast that looked like it could be easily removed. His skin was pink with a freshly scrubbed look to it. They bathed me, thought Jack in shock, without my permission. Offended, Jack decided to escape on the grounds of wounded dignity, and he began to prepare for the journey. He wrapped the thin white cover sheet around him with much fidgeting and squirming. He knotted it at the base of his right shoulder. It was dignified in a Roman sense Jack thought to himself. He located his wheel chair that he was supposedly to use for his restroom visits but never had the opportunity and instead opted for wetting the bed, because half the time the nurses were attractive and the cleanup afterward often provided the stimulation that got him through his day. With grunts and muffled yelps of pain, Jack finally positioned himself into the chair and experimentally moved around the room. He soon discovered that he was still tethered intravenously to his morphine dispenser which he was quite fond of. He considered fashioning it into some type of spear or staff of ceremonial importance but decided time was too short for that and instead tipped it over enough that he could retrieve the two IV bags and stuffed them into his shirt. Examining himself in the mirror it appeared like he’d gained mammary glands which didn’t jive with his afternoon shadow. He considered that the effectiveness of the morphine dispensation would be affected by their altitude, so he set about devising a hat of sorts like they use at the baseball games for beer. Jack snatched his pillows from the bed and yanked the pillow cases off. He tossed them back on the bed and covered them with the quilt, a lame semblance of himself sleeping. He then tied the two pillow cases together and slipped the IV bags into them. He knotted the opening off into a ring that he placed onto his head like a crown with tubes protruding from it. Jack wheeled his new wheelchair out the door hesitantly canvassing the hallway for hospital enforcers. Finding it devoid of authorities, he slipped out and attempted to act casual. He found his chair to be a pleasantly smooth ride. He wondered if perhaps all the swinging had made the morphine dispensation rate increase. She smiled at a visitor who looked at him wide eyed. He made it to the elevator unscathed, without even a question asked. He was on his way out without a hitch. The elevator doors opened and he had a clear line of sight to the outside world. The automatic doors were opening and closing smoothly admitting and releasing people indiscriminately. Jack wheeled his chair nonchalantly. He waved and smiled at people like a king. They all smiled back.
Outside the world was much as he remembered it. The sky looked strange, a halo of low clouds, and the sun looked strange, more yellow than orange. Must have something to do with that shield the anchors were all blabbing about, thought Jack. He didn’t waste time taking it in. He instead pumped with all his might away from the hospital that had kept him hostage for so many long months. He was no longer contagious. He was no longer a threat, and now he was no longer a prisoner.
He made three blocks before the cops picked him up.

Sly Louie sipped at his maté latte experimentally. He made a screwed up face in disgust. Terra laughed at the wrinkles it made across his scalp. She’d never dated a bald man and it was surprisingly expressive. He was a well-known crime lord and a gentleman. The combination had initially intrigued her and now she was thoroughly snared. At some point, she’d decided that she could turn him from his life of crime into an upstanding citizen. So far at least to her knowledge he had, for the most part. The battles for control were won by cunning and lethal strength, but control was quickly released and placed in elected hands. Crime was for the moment dormant in New New York. As head of Square One, Terra was a figurehead of progress and survival. The AG dome was a Square One accomplishment. Order and peace were a Sly Louie success. Together they were a well received and talked about couple. Strangely enough, both their names were on the ballot for mayor. The interim city government was headed by the district heads that had been lucky enough to be on home turf when the shield went up, and they were the ones who’d proposed the elections and were overseeing it, not to mention running in it themselves. Sly Louie was unconcerned with the outcome or at least that’s how he appeared. She took a sip of her own mate latte. It was delightful. It wasn’t authentic. The rainforests that produced the original crop had long grown wild and too dangerous to cultivate. The product probably still existed in some form naturally, but synthetic was still at treat, no matter how the unacquired tastes interpreted it.
“How do you drink this vile concoction?” asked Louie, still making a face, as he loudly chewed a croissant to rid himself of the flavor of dirt and grass that came to mind.
“You’ll get used to it,” laughed Terra. She leaned back in her chair and looked out over Chinatown, which was the main body of New New York, or as Louie put it New York. From his building’s balcony, they could see the length and breadth of the entire city.
“What makes you think I’ll ever try it again?” asked Louie with a smile.
“It’s good for you, so you’re going to drink it instead of that black goop you guzzle every twenty minutes!” said Terra in a mock warning voice.
“You mean coffee?!” asked Louie incredulously, his eyebrows arching and his eyes widening.
“I’ve already talked to the staff about it and they got rid of it all except the box that’s out. I’m gracious enough to let you wean yourself off it,” said Terra, fighting back a smile.
“WHAT?! MY COFFEE!” exclaimed Louie in shock, “Which one of them helped you! They’re all fired as far as I’m concerned! I’m the one who pays them. I can’t stand any more betrayals. First I’m not a criminal anymore, then I’m a interim chief of police, and now I’m holly jolly mayor of-“
“You’re not firing anyone. That’s not your job. It’s the wife’s job to handle the help,” said Terra pedantically.
“Wife? Who said anything about a wife? I-“
Terra leaned over the small table and planted a kiss on Louie’s lips, interrupting him. As she pulled back, she said, “I accept your gracious offer. I’ll marry you.”
With a sheepish grin, Louie blushed and said, “When?”

Real Estate Classified Section of the New York Times

Frederique Guillard’s Gallery has finally closed. LeMon Diamdemonde, the infamous artist who fled the country recently, held his last show there, killing any hope that its patron, Jean Guillard, of a home or a future here in New York. The famous entrepreneur’s son has left New York for good along with, rumor has it, the balance of the infamous and ghastly artwork that bankrupt him. Though purchases were scarce, there are reports that certain private anonymous collectors maintain some of his older pieces and at least one of the latest. The lot right at the cusp of the AGS Shield has a fantastic view of what used to be the rest of New Manhattan. It is now part of the desirable Waterfront District on Henry and West 2nd St. It has two floors (1000 sq. ft. each) and a basement (900 sq. ft.), glass front window and a backyard complete with real grass and two live trees. It is up for sale to the highest bidder. The auction will be held at the Buddha Bakery on Canal and West Broadway Tuesday March 15th at 11 am.

On the day of his baptism, Roto had been extremely enthusiastic. He hadn’t had a drink or a stimulant in 2 months. He’d been on the right side of the shield when the bombs hit. He couldn’t have been happier. His fiancée, Margaret Chadwick, had been rehabilitated and already baptized and through the temple. She had been just waiting on him to make that leap of faith, and as Roto dawned the white and was plunged into baptismal waters he truly felt converted. It was only later that he had grown concerned.
“What do you mean the ‘Reformed’ church?” he asked the Bishop testily, or as testily as he was willing to be to the highest ranking member he knew.
“Well, I’m no history teacher, but a long time ago there was a break in the church and we had to create some reforms. For instance, forced plural marriage that was something the original church was against but that’s why we created the reforms. There’s other stuff too, like Joseph Smith being part of the godhead-“
“I knew it!” cried Roto. “How could a man, even a prophet become part of the godhead! It makes no sense! No other prophets were made Step-Brother of Jesus! It’s madness!”
“Now Brother Roto you are bordering on blasphemy. If you recall,” the Bishop waggled his finger under Roto’s nose, “you signed a contract forfeiting your discretion, increase, and property. Sir, we are now in charge of what’s best for you. And what’s best for you right now is to obey your wives. Now if you want to have a rational open conversation with Margaret, Janice, Geena, Anne, Sariah, Beth, Vivian, and Tiffany, by all means bring them on down, but until that time quit your name calling and blasphemy or we’ll put you into re-education so fast your head will spin.” Smiling kindly, the Bishop made a shooing motion.
“One more thing, Bishop. What ever happened to the original church?”
“They’re around, an outpost of them survived across town, why?” the man’s eyes thinned shrewdly.
“No reason. Always had an interest in history,” said Roto dejectedly.
“Well let’s not let it grow into a passion. Stay away from those Latter Day Saints now, and stick to our version of the scriptures and listen to your wives and you’ll survive alright. You hear?”
Roto left the office convinced that he must escape what had become the most cunning counterfeit. He wondered how he could get eight simultaneous annulments and a dissolution of his forfeiture contract. He just had to find the real church. He started away from the church at a fast trot. By the end of the block, he was sprinting.

Joseph sat on an overturned paint can surrounded by a large gang of street thugs. A month ago, he’d been a scared child separated from his family, but now he was much, much more. His team, as he liked to call it, was slowly consolidating power in the Docks, effectively keeping the Makros zombies and fanatics out. The last thing they needed was a group of them asking questions or taking people off. John Makros was in charge by all accounts. Superficially, he looked to be as good as his word, but Joseph knew better. The man masquerading around as John Makros was as much the man as he was. It was the same zombie that’d led him to the Docks to be jumped only a short while ago. Joseph didn’t know why he’d decided to do that, but he knew he wasn’t a friend of his, and he knew as long as he was somewhere where the Makros cult thrived he would not be safe. That’s when he decided to persuade some others to join him. The others became more and more. Some even joined out of free will. Joseph hadn’t even had to convince them mentally. It was a measure of how much better Joseph’s methods were than John’s. He’d never remove someone’s self, he’d only show them how it was in their best interest. Smiling coldly, Joseph told them all mentally that he was thankful for their coming and their strength in the face of evil. He told them as he told them time and time again that what had happened those several months ago was not a revolution, only a power struggle between two different forces of evil. They were fighting to see who would dominate us entirely, and now we know who will try: John Makros.

President Walton stepped off the craft with as much dignity as he could muster. His staff followed after him hesitantly. Prof. Strongold’s AG craft was not made to specifications as he ordered, but it was a mechanical marvel nonetheless. Before leaving he’d been able to get the racing stripe removed and a small American flag embossed on the side. The patriotic flair was not lost on those that greeted him as he landed. ‘America the Beautiful’ was being played by a string quartet somewhere out of sight. Walton beamed at President Muenster broadly and shook his hand heartily. The man smiled at him like an old friend, and rest a hand on his shoulder in a friendly way. Things were starting off on the right foot.

Coasting over the jungles of Brazil, Albert scanned for the telltale signs with an eager light in his eyes. When he’d stopped to eat a mango for breakfast, he’d smelled the thick acrid scent of ozone. The jungle that he’d read about as wild and dangerous was tame and silent as if the strange animals and giant insects had all fled. It was eerie, but exciting. Albert knew he was close. Once during his breakfast he’d heard a bird cry. It was a solitary sound in an empty world of lush green and vibrant colors reds and yellows. He felt that he was nearing it now.
Five minutes later the undulating jungle gave way, to nothingness, true nothingness. It was as appalling as it was breathtaking. If Nietzsche could only see this, thought Albert in awe. The undoing of creation. The reverse of light. The opposite of matter.
Albert was so taken in his did not see the small aerial droids, even when it passed over him, because by that point there was nothing to see.

Chapt 19

2010-03-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

Alvin Baask had watched the President wake this morning. He ran a large black hand over his patchy, graying beard in anxiety. It was clear. There was no longer any options left. The President of the United States was clinically insane. He’d written up his official reports and sent them via B.I.R.D. earlier that morning before the sun even began to lighten the night sky.17 Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he wondered how long it would take to go through the hierarchy and what they’d do when they decided upon his removal. An animatron could easily replace him, but then public appearances would be out of the question. At least he wouldn’t have to appear for reelection. The vice president was squirreled off somewhere in a dirt mound island south of Appalachia and who knows his mental status. Alvin shuddered at the thought of monitoring another president with possibly worse symptoms. Massaging the bald spot in his short-cropped black hair, Alvin decided this was most definitely the last. He’d resign. He’d earned it. A vacation and a semi-permanent retirement were in order.
Just then there was a knock at his door. A most unlikely occurrence as his door was behind a bookshelf in the Presidential library and unknown to all of the members of Air Force One. A cold sweat spread evenly over his whole body. He was instantly soaked. Who could it be? He quickly switched his cameras and jumped as he saw the entire library full of armed men, service men. They’re slim, suited forms lithe and violent in their unassuming stances. Checking chargers and safeties. Loading weapons. He watched as they knocked again. He felt himself shrink in terror. He knew they knew he knew perfectly well. This is how it comes around, thought Alvin, with a gun. He pressed the release button on the door and lifted his arms up and closed his eyes in anticipation of a hail of bullets and a blinding of lasers.
Instead a cool, steady voice said, “Sir? Alvin Baask? You are the Presidential Psychiatrist, right?” The young man looked worried but held his gun casually like a prop.
Blinking in relief and finally breathing again, Alvin licked his lips, “Yes I am. I… I assume you got my reports via the NSC?”
“Of course, sir. We are all on a need to know basis and we were instructed to your whereabouts only recently, sir.” This time the young man saluted when he finished. Others close to him did the same. His little army. The President’s own personal guard no less. His paranoia would probably in the end be all proven right. How ironic.
Pointing a long black and pink finger at the young man with pale white skin, nearly translucent, and closely cropped orange hair, Alvin said, “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Johnson, sir. At your service.” He saluted again.
Alvin made no move to salute back. He thought the whole idea of saluting him ridiculous as he had no military experience or rank. He was a psychiatrist, and no more. He didn’t even think he could manage to fake one of those stiff handed salutes. Instead he said, “We must arrest the president, alive if possible, and detain him for medical treatment. I need to get on the phone to the NSC pronto and secure a replacement Presidential Council. I assume that you all are qualified to handle this on your own so I will stay out of the way and let you go to work.”
The men saluted as one and filed out of the library. Alvin felt dirty and soiled as he watched their freshly washed and smartly dressed forms leave the room. He needed a shower and a shave. He needed a drink and a full night’s rest. He would get none of these things. The fate of the United States government rested on his shoulders and he needed to make some very important phone calls.

Nicola Kerova stared out from the exposed office wall of the Portland Birthing Centers. They’d done it. The prophecies had been fulfilled. The old man had been right. Now she herself would lead the all the Northern Tribes when her father passed away. She had proved her valor this day and killed many men, resorting to hand to hand combat more often than not. Lasers and projectile weapons ungainly and inaccurate, she found her knives were faster than most men’s fingers. All except one who managed to singe her shoulder. A green biopack was suctioned to it now and she could feel the uncomfortable sensation of flesh knitting itself back together. Within the week it would be good as new. It was more than most could say. She’d lost nearly half her men and women. It was a great day for heroes. Without the turncoats, Makros provided, it would have failed. She met the man midafternoon and wondered at his stern, unrevealing nature. Quite a powerful sense of control in his face. It was shocking to know after all these years: John Makros, alive and well. His entire operation was a manifestation of his mother’s and now he’d freed himself and all his members only to discover that none of them want to leave him since they claim it was he they were following in the first place. They called him, The Savior. A romantic notion thought Nicola, but helpful in their case, without them it would have been a close thing, very close.
A man in a caribou hide limped over to her. Rudon, a bear of a man, with beefy mitts for hands and a grizzly beard that hung in braids halfway down his chest. His piercing gray-blue eyes held her. He offered her a beaten metal cup. Silently she accepted it and toasted to the open air drinking the coarse vodka down in one swift gulp. It burned something vicious but it was good. It was real and raw like the day itself. She returned the cup with a grave expression. Now the real challenge: the rebuilding and the talking, which was always harder than fighting. You could always lose fighting and all that would happen would be you’d die but with words anything could happen.

Bertrand Velour woke that morning with a gun to his head, literally. It was the muzzle of a glass and lightweight carbon Z5000 Laser, EU government-issue, and he knew without waiting to hear his rights read to him by the commanding officer of the arresting party that they were EU secret police and that he was under arrest for the attempted assassination of the President of the European Union. His life, fortune, and lands were all forfeit. He vaguely wondered as they hog tied him and threw him into a plastic mesh sack if they’d make a decent profit off of his house. He’d just renovated the Southern Wing with its greenhouse and sunbathing room complete with up-to-date UV filtration windows. He almost felt inclined to mention it. It was as if he’d made it ready for them, ripened the cherry for the plucking. He wondered if it was the assassin who bungled, but no, it couldn’t be. Those men don’t make mistakes or talk. They kill or die. There is no inbetween. And then it came to him like the sun from behind a cloud: Spain. That Mendoza and his beautiful minx of a daughter. His anger quickly faded. He was in no position to do anything about it at all. He didn’t even have the luxury of anger. It was a waste of emotion. He contented himself to watching the light come through the cracks in the meshing. It looked like stars or sunlight through your favorite worn out t-shirt. It reminded him of his childhood in Nice where he’d swum in the ocean before it was too polluted for his body. He felt himself hauled into a vehicle of some sort and darkness descended. He wondered how long they’d keep him in this sack. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. It was the hogtying that got to him. He couldn’t scratch himself anywhere, but at least the mesh was abrasive enough that he could itch his face. Itches elsewhere else were less important. Probably the nerves. Whole lot of nerves in your hands and face. Always feeling and receiving. No way to turn them off.
For a while, Velour tried to sleep. He knew that his career was at an end and he was already working on accepting that. What he was struggling with subconsciously and it was causing him some distancing and detachment, was the possibility of losing his life. Treason worldwide was a capitol offense, punishable by death, always and everywhere. He knew that, but somehow, he felt that he’d be jailed. That he’d still be Bertrand. He’d still have something going. Not his house or backyard or vacation home in the Alps. No more mistresses and bottles of wine from distant decades before authentic wine became a rarified art. He dreamed himself a loophole to freedom. He imagined himself years from now even being released. People then saw how he’d simply had the EU’s best interest at heart. It was reasonable.
When at last he was lifted out of the vehicle and carted off to his next destination, Bertrand Velour was convinced that he could talk his way out of any sort of real punishment. He may lose his money and his power, but he’d still have his greenhouse, new sunbathing room, and his wine cellar. No one could appreciate it like he would. He knew Hans Groelmech was a good man, a man’s man. The practical sort that would show amnesty and graciousness when necessary. He’d learned his lesson. A trip in a sack would do that. Bertrand was a receptive guy. He saw it all now. The great vision of Muenster. The EU would be raised to a full-fledged global giant perhaps the first world government. Hans was right, and he’d been wrong. He saw that now.
Bertrand was dropped roughly to the floor. This momentarily perturbed him, but he then thought that maybe it was an accident. The man had obviously slipped. The sack opened and was dragged off of him. He blinked in the harsh light. He was in a square squat room with a low ceiling. There were three men before him and two guards on either side of him. They must have carried him all the way from his home.
He was about to thank them for their efforts when a booming voice interrupted his thoughts. The center man before him with his arms crossed in front of his barrel chest shouted, “BETRAND VELOUR YOU ARE HEREBY CHARGED WITH TREASON BY YOUR PEERS AND IN REVIEW OF THE EVIDENCE IT IS CLEAR YOU ARE GUILTY. I VOTE FOR NO TRIAL!”
The other two men boomed in unison, “NO TRIAL!!”
Bertrand gulped and was truly frightened for the first time that day. What was this all about, no trial? He tried to speak and was again interrupted by the frowned square headed center man with the protruding lower lips and squat flat nose, “THE PENALTY FOR TREASON IS DEATH!! I VOTE FOR DEATH BY THE ROPE!!”
“BY THE ROPE!!” came the response.
This time Bertrand found his voice and shrieked, “NO NO NO!! You’ve got it all wrong. Let me talk to Hans. I-“
“SILENCE!!” boomed the center man and the guard on Bertrand’s left clamped a hand over his mouth to quiet him while the man on the right fitted him with a muzzle. ROPE!! ROPE!! WHAT THE HELL WAS HE TALKING ABOUT!!! Bertrand Velour squealed shrilly and bucked wildly against his bindings but was held fast. He was hardly aware of their final words, “TO BE CARRIED OUT IMMEDIATELY!!”
This time there was no sack to hide him from the reality. Bertrand was dragged by the shoulders between the two guards past rooms of various torture and execution devices. A cold awareness came over him and he realized that he was completely in the right to try and overthrow this kind of man, that though his ways were underhanded he was never one to systematically control and torture a populace into order. His thoughts returned to Africa and he felt a thrill of fear and sympathy for its inhabitants. He’d never felt anything for the members of that continent before. In fact, he’d thought them backwards and subhuman, but now he longed to warn them. This man would stop at nothing and would and will destroy anything and everything in his path. Reminded again of his own demise, Bertrand struggled against his bonds and chewed viciously at the rubber gag in his mouth to no avail. The guards held his arms in vice-like grips. They dragged him to a room at the end of the hall. A single loop of a rope hung from the ceiling and chair sat below it. Bertrand failed to see the threat. He even grew slightly hysterically, hiccupped and laughed against his gag as the guards untied him and lifted him onto his feet. He swayed unsteadily and leaned on their thick arms. His legs were cramping and the return of blood to the muscles made them ache and burn. He worked his fingers and he reached for his gag only to have his arms bound again behind his back.
They hoisted him up onto the chair by his elbows, and that is when Bertrand realized the function of the rope and the chair. He ducked and tried to dive away from the two men, but one of them punched him in the solar plexus right below the rib cage and knocked all the air out of him. Bertrand struggled to breath through his nose and around the gag. It was difficult and he panicked. He felt the course rope around his neck tighten and then he felt the gag as it was removed. He gasped sweet air and felt a wave of relief.
That’s when they kicked the chair out from beneath him.

Joseph walked with the guard down a large road filled with panicky people. He knew it was a road because he’d heard about such things in Sunday school. They’d existed in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Sodom, and Jericho. Pa Jo had said he’d make a fine teacher when he was older. It made him sad to think about Pa Jo and how he wouldn’t be there when he returned home. He was distracted from this thought by the people who were saying all sorts of crazy things. ‘Shot him in the face!’ What did that mean? City police are rallying near Town Hall! The battle between the Makros Order and the government, Joseph gathered. The sites and sounds of the city were eye popping and jarring to Joseph. He’d not seen any of it on the way in, and now he was dizzy and disoriented with the overload. His guide did not seem to notice, though Joseph distantly thought that John Makros most certainly did. He ogled. There were women and men with yellow hair and blue eyes. He held himself back from pointing. Some men and women leaned out of doorways with nothing on but open-faced robes. They smiled invitingly and beckoned to Joseph. He hurried his step and tried not to look too closely. He gulped a large knot in his throat. What would his mother say?
The guard said mechanically, “It’s a left here right down to the water. A boat will be waiting. I have other things that require my attention and I need all my people present. I hope you will be able to operate the controls, it is rather self explanatory.”
Controls? thought Joseph, what does that mean? “I can handle a boat,” said Joseph confidently, “I’ve was raised on the water and that’s where I’m at home. I… Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I should be thanking you. It was your mind that saved me from my mother. Now I have the opportunity to right all the wrong she’s done. I wish I could do more, but until that time, farewell.” This time the man did raise his hand and waved it jerkily. He did not smile but his eyes followed Joseph as he walked away.
Joseph felt relieved to be away from his guide but at the same time lost amid the bustle of the street life. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Growing up in a small village where everyone knew each other’s name made it easy to feel safe. Here he knew no one, but soon he would be free of it. He glanced back towards the man, but he was already gone. Judging by the buildings in this area he guessed they must all be very wealthy. Garbage and refuse lay over everything. Someone must be coming to clean it up for them soon or they certainly wouldn’t leave it that way. He was amazed. A large furry animal screeched and ran out from under a large square refuse container by the smell. Joseph jumped and a soft voice next to him said, “S’arright, just a cat.” Joseph jumped again and even gasped a little as he saw the largest man he’d ever seen loom over him, resting a paddle sized hand across his back, “What’s you so jumpy about anyhow? Boy like you, strong beefy shoulders. Imagine you could lick the lot of us. He he.” That’s when Joseph noticed the rest of the men. Joseph got the immediate impression that this was definitely not the ‘good’ or safe part of town and that his ‘guide’ had led him astray purposefully, but why? thought Joseph suddenly. He could have killed me right then and there and I- The thought was squished right there. They all drew to a halt simultaneously.
Joseph stared up into the large black eyes perched in a hatchet face and seated around a large pointed nose with thick black hair poking out the nostrils. He was so large that Joseph could see the pores in his nose even at the distance of several feet. The men were all laughing, and Joseph was frightened because he knew that what was funny was not funny. A small flame of anger deep within Joseph arose. These men. These were the same as the snake man. The same as the one who killed his grandpa. Joseph balled his fists as the gigantic paw closed over his neck and fiercely closed his eyes.
“Haw haw,” he heard the coarse voice boom inches from his face. He could smell the stale, sour breath of the man. Joseph reached out and grasped both sides of the man’s head.
Immediately, his surroundings changed. He was still in the alley, but it was not the alley. It was all aglow in a purple light there was only him and a little boy with a big nose and black eyes. He stared at Joseph in awe and fear. Joseph took a step towards him the boy who cringed and shrank backward, dropping to a knee.
“Please don’t hurt me,” whimpered the boy.
Joseph said, “I won’t hurt you on one condition.”
“Anything,” pleaded the boy through bubbling lips. His eyes were closed firmly and tears leaked out through the corners.
“Protect me and help me at all costs,” Joseph said.
The boy opened his eyes and smiled in reverent gratitude, “I will.”
Joseph released his hands from the man’s face. His name was Deedum and he’d been born in a back alley two blocks away. He was a professional bully and he made good money at it. He looked Joseph in the eyes judging him, weighing him with respect and even a little fear in his features. He placed him on the ground and said to his gang, “Leave him alone. I know who he is. Mix up. He’s one of us.”
“One of us? What are you talking about?” piped up Ewan, a skinny, bald kid with bad teeth and bags under his eyes. “He’s not one of us! What’s friggin up in your head?”
Deedum back handed Ewan casually lifting him off his feet into a bunch of other boys behind him. “Shove it off. Down now. He and I are going for a walk. Get lost all of you.” Putting a protective mitt on Joseph’s shoulders, Deedum guided Joseph away from the bewildered gaggle of men staring after them with anxious and confused looks on their faces.
“Deedum I need a boat,” Joseph said once they were out of earshot.
“A boat? No problem. How big? Or uh... How far are you going? That’s a better question,” he patted Joseph on the shoulder like an old pal, though Joseph was sure the man would have throttled him if he hadn’t been coerced. Strange, was this how John Makros did it? But this man wasn’t a robot now. He wasn’t a piece of me, empty of himself. He was still him.
“I’m going to the Rockies. Do you know where that is? Or how far?” Joseph felt safe knowing that Deedum was his guide. He could trust him. He’d seen his mind and now he knew him, more than any other human being could ever know him.
“The mountains?” Deedum asked incredulously.
“Yes, that’s where I’m from. I need to get back to my family,” Joseph said matter-of-factly.
“Uh… Well, about that.”
“What about them?” Joseph stopped and faced Deedum.
Looking embarrassed, Deedum looked anywhere but Joseph. He rubbed his giant nose with a giant finger. He said cautiously, “They’re not really there anymore. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but…”
“Let me see,” Joseph said and he reached with his hands towards Deedum’s face.
Sighing in defeat, Deedum hoisted him and held him like a baby before himself and let Joseph touch his face. Both men gasped as the connection between minds was made.
Joseph saw the mountains explode, all the mountains, and a great green mushroom cloud rise from the ruins and block out the sun. His heart ached and he cried out. Deedum echoed his cry and dropped Joseph as he collapsed from the intensity of Joseph’s pain. He passed out cold on the pavement, twitching. Joseph looked around wildly. Home. Home. Home. Where was home? Green smoke!! His family was gone!! His mother! His sisters! His brothers! ALL GONE!! Where could he go? All he had in the world was a giant bully and a man who controls people’s minds and now he can somehow do the same thing… kind of.
Joseph felt nauseous and upended a large amount of bile on the filthy pavement. He then realized it had been a long time since he last ate and he felt the pain of hunger gnaw at his belly. Crying over the loss of his family, home and friends, Joseph struggled to understand how he could possibly be hungry at a time like this.

Chapt 18

2010-02-02T16:02:00.001-08:00

Avery lay on a bed of thatched grasses with a high fever. He was dying. His shirt was ripped open and his chest exposed. It was covered in red welts and sores. They’d done the unthinkable. They’d defeated the Appalachian Air Force, but at such a high price. Almost all the men had succumbed to radiation poisoning after their return to the New Mexican airstrip and day’s ride out to the abandoned caves. Stewie had been the first to go. His old body had stopped working nearly a day afterward. They weren’t even sure it was the radiation that got him, just pure exhaustion. Too many G’s. He looked at rest when he passed. Now it was days later and all of them were showing signs: bleeding gums, blindness, dermatological nightmare’s, high fevers, vomiting, diarrhea, and aching joints and muscles. Avery knew he was dying.
It was during the night that a messenger arrived with the news. The Rockies had been attacked full force and there was nothing left. A strange neon green cloud hovered above the remaining rocks and ridges like a warning: radiation. So, they weren’t the only ones who’re going to be poisoned. It’ll be millions before it’s over. Maybe even more. A neon glow? That’s got to be so much more than normal, because he’d only heard of that as a penumbra directly around nuclear material and never a part of a nuclear blast. They must have loaded it with all they had, filthy. Oh, well, he’d done his part. He wouldn’t live to see the rest. That means his wife was dead too. Sarah. If she’d only come here where it was safe. She was always headstrong. Tears leaked out the sides of his eyes but the two young ladies tending him did not notice; it mixed in far too well with his sweat.
I can die now. He thought. I no reason to stay. No children. No wife. I’ve served my purpose and now I can die.
Within the hour Avery Pratt died.

Terra sat across from Sly Louie in his apartment’s office. The receptionist had been unsurprised by her request for a meeting and she’d swiftly admitted her after a brief intercom conversation subvocalized through throat mics. Interesting, thought Terra, I must get myself some of those. The receptionist waved her in with a comforting smile on her cold face. It almost looked unnatural, but she shed that thought. Smiling she strode in confidently. This was going to work.
The short, thick bald man waited momentarily behind his desk appraising her and then marched out from behind it and presented her his hand. She shook it vigorously and noticed that he, despite his obvious strength, did not overpower her with his grip nor did he limp-fish her. That was a good sign, a sign of respect. He smiled like a cat. Terra became conscious of her appearance at that moment for the first time in several years. Her hair was no longer in braids secured by piercings into her skull. It was thick and unruly: an unmanageable mess somewhere between nappy and frizzy (she’d never been able to decide which). She wore no makeup, no bra, only a man’s t-shirt, rubber wader overalls, and thick seal-top boots. He was looking her over. It was shocking but complimentary too. Terra fought back a blush in the first few moments of their encounter.
The period of silence stretched awkwardly for Terra, but Sly Louie soon filled it, “I should hug you, you know.”
Blinking in surprise and feeling off balance, Terra said, “Why?”
“Because you’ve solved so many of my problems so quickly and easily. The police, or the greater part of them, are gone. The government is in tatters. New New York is Old Chinatown now, and nothing else. The Europeans weren’t lying when they described their Erasure bomb. I have videotapes of what happened. All New New York disappeared down to the dirt, water and all within a milli-second and the surrounding water simply rushed in and filled the gap. I don’t know what this does to the scientific theory of matter. You know,” at Terra’s blank look, “Matter can neither be destroyed nor created. So they’ve either teleported it somewhere else or popped it out of existence I do not know, but you are the reason we survived and you hold the key to our continued survival.” He smiled again and released her hand. She hadn’t realized they’d been holding hands still. She did blush this time. What was wrong with her?!
Embarrassed, “Well Josh Brewer is the real reason we survived. That and Albert Strongold. Together they worked out the Anti-gravitational field. Well, Josh did the practical application of it and Albert supplied the Anti-gravity-“
“Eh.. Brewer? Nephew to the President?” asked Sly Louie with a shrewd look of infinite possibility on his face.
“Uh.. Yes, he’s been helping us for years. Albert Strongold even was under government protection or I should say incarceration for years before we freed him. Don’t think that just because he’s the nephew of the-“
Lifting his hands defensively with a wry smile of delight, Sly Louie said, “I wouldn’t dream of it. By the way, what is your name? I know where you are coming from because of my secretary, but she didn’t supply a name.”
“Terra.”
“Earth,” mused Sly Louie.
“What?”
“Your name it means earth, or home planet. Either way it is fitting that you are leader of Square One.”
Feeling it a ripe moment, she said, “That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Of course you did,” smiled Sly Louie unsurprised. “Who will rule the New New New York? Such a mouthful. I think I liked it better the original way: New York. Well not the original way, not Manahattanoes, but all the same: New York. How bout that? Easier isn’t it?”
“Y-Yes, but realistically, a democracy should remain in place and we should continue to be a part of the United States. That is once we assign a new government without NSC control and reinstate the election,” she hesitated at this point seeing that he watched her intently, waiting for something else, as if knowing her next words. “We will need law and order at some point, you know.”
“My dear Terra, I know all this and I’m expecting it. Anytime a criminal tries to rule overtly he gets killed, goes insane like our Mr. Brewer, or goes soft, and I desire none of these things. I understand you want to make a temporary partnership between my forces and Square One to reinstate the city power and structure, eradicate the remaining corrupt and loyal eunuch police officers, quietly yes, and bring order back to our fair city. Yes, is that right?”
Scrambling, Terra said, “Yes, but-“
“But what do I want? Yes… I want you,” he pointed a finger at her.
“Me?!” exclaimed Terra in shock. She took a step back.
“Yes, you for dinner tonight. I was all prepared to have myself exempt from all laws and regulations but that would defeat the fun of it. Right? Now let’s go out to dinner and celebrate. We’ll start fixing things in the morning, okay?” he held out his elbow for her to take.
“Okay,” mumbled Terra accepting his arm awkwardly. He was attractive in that bald, muscular sort of way.
As they went through the doors of his office, he said non-chalantly, “I really do think I’m not being too old fashion to want it back to New York. Simple. Easy. All this New New. Retro Retro. It’s all garbage. Repetition. You shouldn’t have to repeat New York. It’s New Friggin’ York for Chrissakes! See you later tonight Vera,” he waved to his secretary and then they stepped into the elevator and left.

“You’ll go,” the President of the United States said suddenly. His finger jabbed in Charles’ direction.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not sure that I am-“ began Charles.
“Nonsense! Modesty has no place here. You’re who I trust! Only you can convince this man of our supposed good will. You must get close enough to him. It’s the only way,” the President’s sunken eyes pierced him. He was no longer the vibrant and strong leader that he’d come to respect. He was a wasted husk of a man, aged before his time. His knuckles were knobby. Bags pouched under his eyes and spider webs of skin cracked around his lips and eyes. He was dying, and swiftly. There wasn’t much time left.
“I… I’ll do it, sir,” and then a warm, wave of confidence welled in his chest. “I can do it. You can count on me, sir.”
“Great,” he said with a pat on his back. Then he waved to his head physician as if he’d forgotten the whole encounter already. Charles waited a moment and then left to prepare for his journey.

The world undulated before her and the austere surroundings of her reception hall became a stinking morass of bog and sinkholes. Quickly sidestepping, Verithia screamed as she saw a hand protrude from depths she’d nearly missed. It was the pasty white color of death and it was contracted as if in pain. It was reaching, reaching for her. It swung blindly in her direction. She screamed again, and with it the hand gained strength and became an arm and an elbow. It gripped the mud around the lip of the sinkhole in fistfuls working its way towards her. Verithia stepped back against a tortured tree with a twisted blackened trunk like it’d been burned in a severe conflagration. Branches broke off at her touch and withered into ash before reaching the ground. She slipped and her ankle shot out within reach of the hand. Sensing the closeness of its prey, the hand whipped out and latched itself firmly to her ankle. She let out a shrill scream, the sound painfully ripping through her throat. The hand was icy cold and she felt frostbite creep around and up her leg. She struggled and kicked but the hand only gripped harder and she felt as if her bones would surely break. A head bobbed to the surface. Lank, black hair tangled over a hollowed out face with sightless fish belly white irises. She screamed in horror. She knew that face. It was her son’s face. Her dead son. The one she’d killed for money, for power, and in that moment she realized that she’d never wake from this nightmare, because it wasn’t a nightmare.
The figure stood before her now. Laughing with its head back. Its still sightless eyes staring towards the heavens because he knew. He knew her thoughts. Every realization, every pain, every fear, he knew and fed upon. He was the nightmare that she’d created.
“Yes, mother, that’s right. You’ve done this all to yourself,” the soft voice like slithering snakes uncoiled in her mind.
Unable to prevent herself, she screamed and screamed knowing that it was useless, completely useless.

Joseph sat watching the woman twitch, moan, cry and whimper on the floor in a heap for several minutes before he decided to leave. He chewed methodically at his bonds but found that he couldn’t even bite through the tiniest piece of the rubber. It was strange. His teeth felt loose from trying and he felt a moment of panic finally arise and he pulled and jerked against the bonds but couldn’t get further than an upright sitting position. He began to yell for help over and over. The twitching woman on the floor did not cease her convulsions. If anything they increased steadily. Her cries became louder into yelps of pain. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Just then the doors burst open and one of the guards that had captured and brought him here walked in. His eyes on Joseph he looked as if he didn’t notice the dark haired lady at all. She rolled over on her side into a tight ball, whimpering.
He spoke in a loud clear voice, “Joseph, I am not here to hurt you. My mother will not be able to hurt anyone ever again. I want to thank you for your help and set you free, but I first want to talk to you.” The man walked over in front of Joseph.
Joseph eyed the man suspiciously, “Why not free me first?”
“Well, I imagine you’d simply flee. I don’t think you’d listen as closely as you would now, unable to do or think of anything else. I don’t want to cloud your mind too much. I want to clearly communicate,” the man spoke in a fluid manner but did not have the body language to accompany his voice. It was as if his body was frozen rigid and couldn’t move. It gave Joseph the chills.
“Alright,” answered Joseph wearily.
“My name is John Makros. The woman on the floor is my mother. She started a religious order known as the Makros Order and used me, her only son, biological son, to further her own needs. She faked my death to make me a saint of a kind, a Buddha, and a martyr without a cause besides holiness. She is corrupt and I hope you know that what I do to her now is nothing compared to what she has done. She is behind almost every world conflict to date. She is responsible for more damage and suffering than anyone I have ever known. Know that she deserves what she gets and nothing more or less. But that aside I’d like to talk to you about your family and your home,” the numb face spoke these words tenderly but it was frightening coming from the emotionless zombie.
“My family?” asked Joseph skeptically.
“Yes, where are you from? You are not an ordinary American. Otherwise my mother would have had very little use of you and would not have taken the time to interview you herself. It was very fortunate that she did it herself indeed. Vicariously she is weaker and sometimes reverts to physical coercion which despite your amazing abilities, would have overcome you.”
“What abilities?”
“Hmm. You don’t even realize do you?”
“What abilities?” asked Joseph again, mildly annoyed. He tugged at his wrist bonds again with a jerk.
“I was not the one who forced my mother out of your mind nor the one who cut her off from the network. That was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You gave me the chance to reorganize the reception and direction of our mental network so that I was in the position of power and so I could control her instead of her controlling me.”
“Are you controlling this body right now?”
“Yes I am. His name is Boyd Straight and he was a police officer until he joined the Order, under powerful suggestion. My mother forced many into her ranks but most she just tempted with power and money that they never saw and never will. Their minds are all wiped out. Gone. The only ones with a chance are the ones running around with chips in their heads. Everyone else is zombied out and dead in the head. It is a shame but right now, I am overthrowing the city officials and government in the name of the Makros Order. Soon I will rid this city of all that seek to control it. The corrupt will be punished and the law abiding preserved. The police state and the slavery of the Makros Order will end. The truth must win out.”
“Why are you taking over the city?”
“Because it must be that way. In order to reestablish order the old order must be broken. Only then when all components are revealed and destroyed will the occlusion of the common man end.”
“A clue shun?”
“Blindness. A fancy word for blindness.”
“Who are you fighting?”  “The people that worked with the Makros Order, the NSC, the military, and the government.”
“I don’t know who or what those all are.”
“Open your mind to me and I’ll show you.”
“No. My mind is my own. It’s private. You have no right to-“  “Yes yes. I understand Joseph. I wasn’t… I understand. I should have understood. Me most of all. Tell me of your home and your family. Where did you grow up?”
“In the Rocky Mountains, in our village. We didn’t have a name for it. It was ours. I don’t think we needed a name. There was no place to go other than home. It was the water. The cliffs. The mountains. The tents. The meeting halls. The boats and that’s it. We heard about other villages that had once been, long long ago, but none of us had every seen anyone else… Except for the Snake man from the tunnels but I don’t think he was a man like us. He was… different, sick in the head and the heart. He killed my grandfather. My father’s dead. I… I wonder how my family’s doing… I’m in charge of the fishing now and with Pa Jo gone it’s too much work for the little ones. I-“
“Did you drink the water growing up?”
“The water? Yeah, why? Sometimes it was too salty and we boiled it and caught the steam into whale bladders. That’s the best water. Oh, man. It’s a chore, but it’s worth it. I can remember-“
“You drank the water of the inland sea? Repeatedly?”
”Yeah, what’s with you. Yeah, I did. All day long. Okay? Anyway. What’s happening right now. In the fight?”
“It’s rather strange. Other people have arrived from the North. I have or I should say my mother had a contact with them whose now mine and I… Yes, we’re fighting together now. Now it will be easier.”
“Will you let me go?”
“Of course I will. I was just wondering if you needed any help getting home?”
“Umm…” Joseph stared at the impassive face, knowing that he did not want help from this man or the man controlling him but he did need some kind of help. “I just need a boat. That’s all, and someone to point me in the direction of my home.”   “Easily done. I will start to make preparations,” as he said this the man walked up to the large machines to Joseph’s left and pressed a few keys on a rainbow key pad. His rubbery bonds released and retreated into the table itself. He felt and heard a soft click as the cords that connected to the base of his skull on either side released their hold and snaked back and out of sight. Joseph felt gingerly at the back of his skull and felt hard, metal circular holes in the back of his head.
“I wouldn’t put your fingers in there. New inputs, very sensitive, easily infected. You must leave them be. I’m sorry I can’t remove them. It’s an irreversible procedure. I really wish I could meet you in person, but I am not in the greatest of health and I will need time to recover. I will guide you to your boat as soon as you are ready.”
“I’m ready,” Joseph said eager to get as far from this new creature as fast as possible. It was something to be addressed from within his own head, but another entirely to be addressed by someone through another someone. Besides that, he felt somewhere deep inside him that John Makros was most definitely not his friend.

Walton hated not knowing the current situation. This Strongold fellow may have saved their hides, but Kirri had a point. He was crazy. This whole toy car business had people making jokes all over the grounds. It was enough. He was responsible for all his people, but he was also responsible for their dignity and this time it had gone too far. His newest gadget was over the line. Sacrilegious in intent and downright ridiculous. American Angels, indeed. Gurney Warwick was even swayed against him. It was time. The shield must be lifted. The funding pulled. It was time to rely on good old-fashioned reconnaissance and man to man combat. The pilots down south couldn’t all be wiped out and he bet that if they lowered the shield, Hal would pop out of the rocks and tell them what’s up. Settled on this course of action, Walton stood up from his desk with full intent to send his secretary on assignment to tell everyone just that, when he heard a knock at the door.
“Yes?
“Sir, it’s me,” Rheynoald Grevneck poked his pumpkin shaped head in the door. He smiled his plastic teeth.
“Yes, Rheynoald, what is it?” relaxed, jut Rhey.
“We have a visitor, upstairs waiting,” he smiled knowingly as if at a private joke.
Tiredly, Walton asked, “Who’s outside waiting?”
“A government man. A general, judging by his outfit. Came in on a personal jet. Just set her down upstairs like no to do either way,” he wiggled his eyebrows at that. Walton sighed. A general. Well… a politician would’ve been worse.
“Lower the shield get him in and send our reconnaissance people out. We’ll reopen everyday for fifteen minutes on the hour once a day shifting the hour each day to the next hour, so tomorrow will be starting at,” he glanced at his watch, 5:34, “Six o’clock. Got all that.”
“Most certainly, sir. Right away. Oh and sir would you be caring for your coffee sir?”
“When the general, if that’s what he is, comes in, and… keep an eye on him, keep close I don’t feel all that comfortable. Military, you know, not like us. They’re different.”
“Of course sir,” he winked and was gone.
It seemed like no time passed at all before a sturdy man in his early prime stepped into his office and shook his hand vigorously. He seemed a touch nervous which was to be expected. His eyes took in everything. It was a sign of anxiety and caution. Walton was trying to be just as cautious. Would Brewer send someone valuable to assassinate him, or merely to appraise? Would he think it would lure him into a sense of confidence or respect? Walton had very little idea of the mind of President Brewer. He only knew him by his works and they were sloppy and prideful. A mistake would reveal itself sooner if not later, hopefully not too late.
“I’m President Walton of the Twelve Elders of Square One. I welcome you to our humble abode. I’m sorry our accommodations are not the greatest but they serve us well,” Walton smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way.
“I am Charles Fahey, High General of the United States Government, cabinet member of the President of the United States, and assigned negotiator for the United States in the matter of conflict between Square One and the United States Government,” the man spoke as if by rote. He must have rehearsed it all day. Walton watched the man flex and stretch his hands. Nervous. He looked at his eyes. They darted. This man was dangerous. Dangerous indeed.
“Well, General Fahey, what are your terms for surrender?”
“Surrender?” the man was momentarily stunned, he blinked and looked at Walton straight on and said, “We’ve devastated all your forces here in the Midwest and the coasts. You have no leg to stand on. You alone here in this complex are all that remains of your Square One organization. I suggest you consider your position, realistically.”
“Au contraire my friend, I believe it is you who are in the poor position,” just then Grevneck chose to enter the room with a tray table covered with coffee cups, spoons, sugar bowl, milk pot, and coffee pot, all family heirlooms, and the general jumped up on his feet like he was spring loaded. Suddenly a gun was in his hand an anti-personal laser gun with a wide gray, gold muzzle. He moved it from side to side between the two of them.
Grevneck watched the gun and the man gravely still holding the tray and walked slowly towards Walton as if to place the tray down on his desk. Charles fired but did not fire to kill he simply burned off Rhey’s leg off at the knee. Grevneck fell and dashed the tray and all its accoutrements to the floor. President Walton rose to his feet in horror. His most beloved assistant and friend flailed and swore on the floor. Strange, he’d never heard the man swear in his life. He’d thought him incapable, but great pain brings out the strangest in a man. He then looked at the man from the government, this Charles Fahey. His face was white and the hand holding the gun trembled. It was his left hand. It was funny the things one noticed at times like these. It had been a good life. He’d served his country and its people well. He could die with that knowledge.
“I don’t want to do this, but I must. I am all there is left between destruction and America,” he spoke through gasps and clenched teeth. He raised the laser and lowered it for a moment and said, “I am sorry.”
A blue laser shot from in front of his desk out of the frame of Walton’s sight and lanced across Fahey’s midsection. In reflex, the general pulled the trigger on his own laser and sliced the desk, the floor and Walton’s legs in half. Landing hard on the cold concrete floor, President Walton cried out weakly. He felt something break upon landing, probably his hip. He was old, too old for something like this. The intense heat of the laser had cauterized his wound. He would not be bleeding to death, only in severe pain once his nervous system recognized the full extent of the damage done to him. He heard someone around the other side of his desk struggle to breath. President vaguely wondered where everyone else was. They must have known that he was meeting with a representative of the government. They must have known. His brain felt fuzzy and he wondered why he was crawling. A voice from somewhere in his mind said he was in shock. He heard the gurgle, winded noise again and remembered: Grevneck, old friend. He’s hurt. He rounded the corner of his desk to see his old friend in pieces. The laser had slashed not only the desk in half, but Rhey in half. His heart had been sliced and cauterized. It had a hole in it and still pumped. He was running out of blood in gushes. The square, squat head swiveled toward the sound of Walton’s gasp of horror. His eyes were bloodshot and mad. This was not the friend he always looked forward to each day. A laser, an assassin’s pocket style was gripped in his disconnected hand a few feet away. He made to grab it with his stump but couldn’t. He was weakly gurgling and grunting something over and over. Walton watched in horror as Rheynoald ground his teeth making a squeaking noise and sending spittle down his chin, and then he realized what he was saying, “KillKillKillKillKillKill” over and over. Who was this man who’d posed as his secretary? Finally, he looked away feeling burned and drained by the image. He saw Charles Fahey with his hands over his abdomen. His lower torso and his legs were off to his right looking like a discarded toy. He was definitely in shock. He was gasping again and again pushing the exposed parts of himself upward, trying to keep himself inside. He was shaking and twitching as he worked. The image was too much for Walton who fainted in horror and disgust and didn’t wake until he was safely tucked into his own bed hours later sedated and his legs biopacked.

“So do you think I’ll get pregnant?” asked Susie mildly amused. She sat across from Josh in a Chinese restaurant on Canal St. known as Louie’s, named for its owner, Sly Louie. She fished around in her Dim Sum with her chopsticks for any more pieces of tofu. A soft red light emanated from paper lanterns strung across the ceiling. The table was black polished metal.
Josh rested his elbows on the table as he ate. He took a moment to consider, “I guess it would be likely if the causes for the pregnancy plague remain. I could look into it if you’d like.”
Susie shrugged, “I don’t know. I think it might be nice to be a mom, you know.”
Josh choked on his noodles and covered his mouth with his napkin. He managed a strangled, “What?”
“Yeah, but I’d need a husband. The whole family unit you know,” she was looking into her soup now with a cocked eyebrow and a smile quirked on her lips.
“Uh… What?” asked Josh again, completely at a loss.
“Will you marry me?” asked Susie. This time she looked at Josh directly with a naughty look of mischief on her face.
“Um… Okay,” Josh said, food falling out of his open mouth. His eyes wide in worry. Was she kidding?
Susie squealed and yelled, “We’re getting married!!!” And then the entire restaurant yelled and howled, banging utensils and cups on the table, stomping the floor, and lifting glasses.
Josh felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead and his back and all he could say under his breath was, “Oh balls.”

Chapter 17

2010-01-07T20:55:00.000-08:00

As preparations were being made the next morning, Josh and Susie could not help but be distracted by each other. They kissed constantly and spoke in hushed tones. Everyone turned a blind eye, except Sam and Tripp who pointed, giggled, and aped their every action. Terra was unusually stern with everyone, though she’d been colder since Sister Fox’s death. She’d removed her scalp piercings and unbraided her hair. It now resembled a gnarly bush with semblance of previous cultivation. She no longer wore makeup.
Josh was speaking, “So again, for a moment the shield will be neither here nor there. I won’t be long enough for any of us to notice, but it will be noticeable on a molecular level. The walls and settings we’ve spent so much time on will react. It’s essential we have ourselves suited up and our fingers on both triggers. No mistakes. You feel the wall giving and you pull the pin. We can get you out. You’ll have plenty of oxygen. And if this does happen to any of you, remember do not panic. If you cannot inhale deeply enough for a full breathe, you won’t suffocate. It will be uncomfortable but temporary. Okay? Any questions?” Velvet Sun raised his hand. Of course, thought Josh. Susie squeezed his hand reassuringly.
“Why must the children participate?” his face was stony and his blonde hair unkempt, even for dreadlocks. His narrow eyes were narrower than usual, a sign of pent up anger. To be expected.
“There are not enough of us for all the tunnels. We’ve placed them on the safest tunnels below us, far from the crucial areas. We’ve double sealed those areas just in case. You saw to it yourself as I recall,” Josh said reasonably.
Tightening his jaw and swallowing excess saliva, Velvet said, “I know what I have done, but I do not trust you and your shield since your doubts. Only yesterday we called this off. Why the rush? Why now? Let’s wait. There is no reason to risk so much! Terra!? Do something! You are our leader! This action is ridiculous. Running around blindfolded with a knife in each hand with-”
Terra cut in, “It wasn’t my decision. Nor was it his. Or yours. It was all our decisions. A democracy is still a democracy. Don’t make me recite the Federalist Papers to you!”
Closing his eyes in anger Velvet Sun did not speak another word.

The city itself was not making any preparations for the coming assault. It was the joke of the day on Wall St. “The Socialist Revenge!” headlines read that morning with a large semi-animate cartoon of a bomb exploding over New New York and mustaches flying out to attack and attach to all the citizens faces. Somehow near midday, a large shipment of fake mustaches made its way into the financial district below New Greenwich Village and before long nearly everyone was wearing mustaches and making anti-EU jokes.
At noon lunch breaks extended abnormally long and most people did not return to work. No one seemed to notice. It was a day off in some ways. Most people didn’t believe anything would happen but still they believed they could avoid doing what they normally did as an excuse. The subways were clogged with wandering businessmen and bored housewives. Some had children with them. It was a beautiful day. Almost unreal in its warmth, ‘Early spring’ was the constant comment of the day. Strangers talked openly to each other and lovers walked hand in hand. Traffic cops were lenient. Cars double-parked on almost every street. Very few tickets were issued. There was a commensual day off and even the eunuchs ceded to it. Chinatown was brimming with life. The street vendors were making a winter weeks profits in a day. It was amazing. Many of the pregnant women even swindled their way out of their wards and found themselves gawked at liberally by pedestrians on the street. Doctors had assured everyone the entire week since the unexplained plague of pregnancy that it was not contagious yet people still shied away and covered their faces, especially the men.
At exactly 1:14, sections of downtown shifted slightly on their foundations. In the first newscasts, it was reported to be an earthquake of minimal importance and that all foundations under city control were undisturbed. Within minutes it was discounted and then the suppositions began. Chinatown was now under a large cloudy globe. It hadn’t done anyone harm directly. One survivor who’d actually experienced first hand the EU Separation and Quarantine Strike as it was quickly dubbed, actually was bounced outward from within the spectrum of the field and he suffered only minor scrapes and bruises. The main concern now, reporters said, was how to penetrate the wall before their oxygen ran out. One newscaster was heard to have said, “Well, it’s a nuisance, but Geiger no!16 It’s pretty lame for a weapon! It didn’t even kill anyone!”

President Brewer sat on his plush, authentic leather couch and watched the television in his doppelganger living room. Charles Fahey perched next to him uneasily. The rest of the staff and cabinet officials watched in horror. What does it mean? thought the President. How is this useful as a weapon? What is it?
“AGS,” somebody muttered off to his right. All eyes turned at once to Secretary of Defense Taylor Damson who jumped visibly. The President and Charles both rose to their feet swiftly.
“What do you mean? AGS?” asked the President with quiet horror in his voice and accusation in his eyes.
“Well, it sounds like the Anti-Gravitational Shield we had that Professor working on. The one who was kidnapped?” Taylor retreated a step and winced at the looks on the fierce faces around him.
“That Professor?!” screamed President Brewer and his eyelids receded far back into his skull revealed his full orbs of white.
On the tail of the president’s words, Charles issued in a cold, booming voice that he’d never used before, “ARREST THAT MAN!! TRAITOR TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!”
Taylor squealed and turned to flee but two secret service men held him fast in a blur of movement. He looked like a child in the hands of two college football linemen.
Shaking the President walked back to his couch. He was muttering and twitching like he was having an episode of some sort. Fahey divided his attention and tried to listen to both men. Taylor was saying he was innocent, something about a mistake and his mother. The President wasn’t making any sense from the few words he could pick out. Giving up on Taylor, and thinking the President his first and foremost responsibility he turned his full attention on the distraught man.
“Mr. President, sir? What’s wrong? Is it something else, sir? Sir? SIR?!”
The man’s face had frozen and he stared straight ahead in horror, and then Charles realized he was watching the television. Charles Fahey was raised without the luxury of television and thus was untrained in the art of television watching and its telltale signs of zombie-ism. The President was transfixed in horror and amazement at what he saw on television. It was a standardized test signal of some sort Charles realized. It was a spectrum of colors and a message marquee that marched across the bottom of the screen. Not something to be concerned about. Nothing to be shocked about. It was strange.
“Sir?” and that’s when he noticed everyone watching the screen with the same expression. Even the guards who were holding Damson paused. Damson himself was silent and still. What was it about this screen? thought Charles. And then he appealed to one of his new aides, a gift from the President from his own staff, a young, disheveled looking youth with pimples and an overlarge nose, “Drake?!” he grabbed the gawky kid by the collar and shook him, “DRAKE!! What?! What is it?!”
Coming out of it. His eyes refocusing on Fahey. He looked terrified and said, “The signal broke.”
“Yeah so?”
“It’s never broken. I’ve never heard of it ever being broken. I don’t know how it could be broken. It was…”
And that’s when a messenger came running in, his face red and sweaty, he screamed, shrill and unmanly, “New New York is GONE!! And ALL OUR SATELLITES ARE GONE!! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!! OH MY GOD!!!”
So Charles did the most sensible thing he could think of to do at that moment. He punched the messenger square in the nose and knocked him to the ground. In the momentary silence that followed his felt a great wave of satisfaction despite the direness of their situation. Outside of self-defense classes, Charles had never used violence to express himself. It felt good.

The boy lay on the metal initiation table strapped down with thick, black rubber bonds. It was cold. Verithia knew it was cold not because she’d ever experienced it, but because she’d felt what every ‘applicant’ as she liked to call them felt at this point. Two long serpentine cords were attached into the young boys skull behind the ears. They fed directly into the brain using nano circuitry that her son had mastered and then used on himself and her, only, he’d screwed it up and given her control. No one ever said he was a genius, just hardworking and sweet. Verithia to this day appreciated that last fact. It was why she was perhaps the most powerful woman in history. The boy’s name was Joseph. The name of Jesus’ father. Strange, though Verithia, he has in the wrong religion. Though he is not scared which is interesting for a boy his age and in his position. He’s not dumb, just ignorant. From what she could ‘see’ and ‘feel’ of his mind, the boy was raw determination with only a hint of anxiety. Perhaps he thinks he can escape somehow.
“There is no escape,” Verithia’s whisper boomed in the silence of the tall metallic chamber of machines and torturesque paraphernalia. Deep in the boys consciousness fear began to worm about gobbling up confident thoughts and crapping out doubt. Yes, it was rare that she dealt with such fragile minds, but they were just like stupid ones, underdeveloped. He would be easily coerced.
Into his mind she spoke, to further the unsettling, Tell me where you were going?
Aloud, Joseph shot back, “Who are you?”
Chuckling aloud and telepathically, Verithia said, “My name is of no worth to you. I am the Spider. Your mind belongs to me. I will be removing your will power soon enough. I simply want to know from the horse’s mouth. Where were you going?” she stalked up and down the space cleared for her in front of the initiation tables. Her heels sounded dull clunks on the thick metal flooring.
“I don’t know,” he answered truly.
Hmm, he’s telling the truth, Verithia decided. Telepathically, What do you know about Square One’s Plans?
“I… ah..” he gasped against the mental pressure. Verithia tightened her grip on his mind feeling for cracks and lies, the dark billowing lightenings that crackled across the commensual lapsum. The boy would talk, she thought fiercely. “I… I… Aghh!! Ak…” The boy was struggling against the controls This happened from time to time. Usually an unusually strong person, mentally, can resist up to a point. It was obvious this was one of those times. The boy was holding back.
Digging her nails into her pale white palms, Verithia squeezed her purple eyes shut and concentrated on a vice squeezing the child’s brain into submission. The essence of Joseph squirmed under her grip and glowed a light pink. That never happened before. “Tell me…” managed Verithia as she struggled to crush the mind of the child.
Sweat poured down Joseph’s face and his back muscles were so taut that he arched so that only his head, his hands, and his heels touched the table. Incredible, thought Verithia momentarily distracted by the situation itself. She felt oddly detached from the struggle. She distantly recognized this as a bad sign. Suddenly a neon light stretched across the bridge of Joseph’s mind and a low throaty hum rang from his mouth. Wherever the light touched Verithia’s tendrils of consciousness, she felt burned and pulled away in shock. She screamed and yelped as she watched with blind eyes her control quickly dissolve. Her face drained of blood. The boy was now sitting up and tugging at the restricting bonds watching her unruffled by their exchange. His eyes held no fear and she didn’t need to be in his mind now to know his thoughts. Quickly she tried to call one of the guards in. She found that she was blocked somehow. She could feel him just beyond her mental reach and she scrambled at that connection but to no avail, and she knew, he had control. This boy. This freak, thought Verithia, he was telepathic without electronic aids. He was a natural phenomenon, which was even more frightening since there was probably more like him back from whence he came. She slowly backed away from the table towards the exit.
Why are you leaving, Verithia? We have so much to talk about.
At that moment, Verithia chose to scream. She fell forward and banged her knees on the unforgiving floor. The voice she heard was not Joseph’s. It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years. It was the voice of her son.

Bertrand Velour slid the thick, black credit card across the cherry wood table in his study to the man in the mask and thick robes without a word. He was an assassin. The best kind. One that didn’t exist. He would be briefed via the credit card’s lock box and it was untraceable, thanks to Switzerland’s long standing neutrality and banking codes. No one could pry into the doings of any bank within Switzerland. That’s why several decades ago, all European banking became the business of Switzerland alone. For tax purposes and legal ease, everyone, great and small simply migrated all their money to Switzerland. Every EU country’s treasury resided there. All EU’s hard currency rested in the hands of the Swiss, and that’s just the way they liked it. The man, at least he was pretty sure he was a man, accepted the credit card with a graceful, gloved hand and a slow nod. Pleased Bertrand sipped his wine and smiled. By the time his wine left his lips, he was alone. Effective and invisible, the best.

Chapter 16

2009-12-07T20:55:00.001-08:00

Roto Veritable sat in front of his holo-screen preparing to write his latest slander on the supposed survivors in their midst of Square One. Escapees that’d slipped through the claws of the Secret Police to infiltrate the ranks of public office and business elite alike. He sipped his drink of choice, a Gintonic, and nibbled on a spicy Hash cake that made his mouth burn as he sipped the Gintonic.
To the air he said, “Record: The fantasy is over. Square One has been unmasked and executed, but as in rebellions of the past the remaining criminals at large exist as a threat to all. Worried mothers clutch their children close. The public office has been infiltrated. No doubt this Verithia is the true name of the so-called Terra, or Earth, the leader of Square One, and was controlling our dear mayor through a microchip in his brain. The outraged public has demanded justice and to a degree they’ve been given it, but what of those who have escaped? They still provide a threat. Terrorism must find no mercy … at hands of … justice… hold us all sway… stop recording. Erase last sentence. There. Okay. Record: Terrorism has no place in this city. We have felt its effects. Our women. Our men… Stop recording.” Crap, why was he meandering. He sounded downright bombastic and hardly credible. He sipped at his Gintonic again, feeling strange and out of sync with himself. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his arms.
“Erase all. Close file,” what would it take to win back the public’s ear. He’d nearly sunk himself with that pro-Square One article and his apology almost buried him. They didn’t need the reminder. I guess the article had reached too many people for them to be reminded of the shame of it. It was a shame. They’d all been taken in, but then after that precinct went down and took a few blocks with it. Everyone who’d put in a good word was black listed, and Roto nearly with them. He’d only got off by saying it was the booze talking. Looking down at his left hand he stared at the Gintonic in his hand. Maybe it really was the booze talking, or the Hash cake he was nibbling on. Either way, maybe it was time to do something about it. Roto turned off his desk and grabbed his jacket and headed down to the front lobby.
Hailing a cab he asked for the nearest detoxification center, and found himself delivered to a humble looking building with a neo-modern looking design, rather quaint and out of a pre-flood America, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the run down slums of Old Chinatown. As he stepped out of the cab, vocally identifying his payment method and adding a tip, he read the welcome sign in front of the now recognizable church. He turned to call the cab back and saw that it was already around the corner. Probably headed uptown. Crap. Well you wanted to get clean.
With a dour look of resistance, Roto scrubbed his lank black hair with its green streaks out of his eyes and headed inside.
A clean-cut young man with a full suit and a nametag greeted him at the door with a wide smile on a mouth too big for his face, and said, “Welcome brother, my name’s Elder Frick. Please come inside. We were notified by the cab driver to your condition and a meeting is already in progress. Help is here, brother. What’s your name might I ask?” His cheery, blonde attitude was grating on Roto’s nerves, that and he was still mid-buzz from that first Gintonic, or was it his second he couldn’t recall. I guess I do belong here, he thought wryly.
“Roto, and I’m not here to convert. I’m here to get some perspective,” managed Roto.
The young man nodded sagely as if he understood, but judging by the pimple in the crevice of his nostril he most definitely did not understand.
He was escorted into a large room full of men in crumpled suits and drab work uniforms and haphazard women of tired faces and sad mouths. This is the pits, Roto thought. This is where I have ended up. The bottom rung of society. I’m in a Mormon church at an AA meeting. What could be worse. He sat down next to a young woman in a purple, plastic mini skirt and stretch top see through bra that left nothing to the imagination. She held a blanket balled up in her lap, probably provided by the missionaries to cover herself up, but she’d shed it upon entering the meeting. If she wasn’t all coated in a thick layer of makeup she might be attractive, thought Roto, then again she might have something. NP or NP2 or pregnant. Ugh. The thought made him a little sick but he still sat down next to her and glanced at her routinely. She did not once look up at him and listened to the speaker intently.
The speaker was an elderly gentlemen with a short, missionary haircut and a lined and scarred face, his voice was high pitched and brittle, “-used to be. That’s right used to be. Now look at me. Alive again. Living. Just like Christ. Reborn. You can do it too. I used to drink paint thinner and poke myself with used syringes from a hospital dumpster to get a kick out of anything. Course, I think that half the time whatever I got I ran into the cure eventually I tried so many of those damn things. But, for serious, I know the Lord was behind me the whole time guiding me to this very place. Saving me one moment at a time, for this moment. Now I’m married and I have a big family. Fine kids! All natural! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? At my age! Only through rehabilitation and the held of the church did I get my life back. I owe it all to them. I say all these things in the name of Joseph Smith the 12th and Jesus Christ, Amen.”

While Velvet Sun and his crew finished the final setup of the shield, the rest of Square One was mobilizing to each node in the circle. It would require every one of them even the kids to simultaneously set off the reaction that would evenly enlargen the shield to encompass the still intact Chinatown. It was a mark of Josh’s genius that he’d figured it out without any working examples as he needed every little capsule of AG fluid he had. Susie despite the need for her to be elsewhere asked to stay with Josh, but was turned down by Terra. Not surprising, Susie had some choice words for their leader, but she still obeyed. In fifteen minutes they’d all be in place. Over the com came Terra steady, cool voice, “If anyone experiences a break-in remember to just hit your waist band and you’ll be sealed in a balloon of air and the entire corridor will be foamed. We will get you back, don’t worry about that. Just worry about making sure we aren’t flooding our house and home. Got it?” A communal “Got it” issued over the com in response. Josh rubbed his hands together. It had to work. It theoretically worked, so it had to work. His palms were sweating and his heart was racing. What could happen instead of it working? Implosion? Unlikely but definitely possible. There was enough gravity present to create a miniature black whole a period of a few seconds, and that would be enough time to decimate NNYC and all of them easily, not to mention most of the Atlantic. Oh, what a time to be doubting, came another voice in his head. You couldn’t have calculated that out could you? Why is it you always think of the bad possibilities right before you do something incredibly dangerous.
“Josh? Do you read me?”
“Yeah,” Josh answered weakly.
“I’ve been calling you for the past 30 seconds. What’s wrong? I’m calling off the countdown,” she switched to the main line, “Calling off shield update. Calling off. Everyone back off. Josh needs help. Velvet Sun, get over there fast. Susie you stay put. He doesn’t need any distractions right now.”
Josh was vaguely miffed at the fact that the last bit went over the main line for all to hear. He sat down hard on the garbage packed floor in a former main tunnel off the meeting hall and began to hyperventilate.
Within moments Velvet Sun was there, holding him up and pouring water down his throat. Spluttering and choking on water, Josh turned on his side and hacked and coughed. When he lifted his head a small audience awaited him. Susie. Terra. Velvet Sun. Tripp. They all watched him expectantly. He said shakily, “I got scared. For a moment I got the feeling that we were gonna trigger a black hole or something and destroy half the earth.”
Terra unfazed sat down next to him, “Is that a possibility Josh?”
Josh nodded numbly, and mumbled, “Maybe.”
He rested his head against the floor and Susie was there, he could smell her hair and feel her soft touch his neck and side. From far away he heard Terra say, “We need more research. Call it off. Velvet Sun round up all the equipment in the tunnels. I don’t want any tinkering,” she looked at Tripp meaningfully, “and we’ll try this again later. Maybe tomorrow. We’re safe as it is, if bored, but alive and I intend to keep us that way. Let’s go. Leave him with her. She can handle him.” With that Josh closed his eyes and felt himself go limp in Susie’s arms.

Captured, fumed Joseph. Probably planned it this way. He stared daggers at Hal, if that was his real name. The man had obviously sold them out. After convincing them to come with him to meet with this President Walton in his flying ‘balloon’, looked like a giant blue whale’s bladder to Joseph, they’d shortly been attacked by more giant flying bugs. Hal had exclaimed ‘The Army!’ before he could stop himself and Joseph and Tom’s fears were confirmed: Hal was a fake. Now they road in the belly of one of the bugs bound hand and foot with metal hoops that would have been more useful for links in a fishing net. They felt strong enough to handle a shark’s bite. Poor Tom, they’d bashed in his head as soon as he’d revealed himself to be from the cliffs. I guess they’re guys who destroyed our village, thought Joseph. He tried to force down the rising tide of panic in his chest. Hal was being worked over methodically. They kept hitting him in the same spot over his left eye and in the stomach over and over. It made Joseph want to throw up. He must be some sort of criminal to these people. They kept asking him about some ‘Professor Strangled’ and ‘Square One’ and ‘the other missionaries’. Hal was taking it well enough, though he looked like an older man. He hardly cried out when they hit him. He never spoke a word, just accepted the beating. After they’d identified Joseph they’d shoved a round ball in his mouth and strapped a black stretchy leather cord around his head to keep in his mouth. It tasted horrible like a whale’s liver and sometimes the junk they found in a shark’s stomach, but at least he wasn’t food for the sea like poor Tom. They’d kicked his body out of the bug and they were so high up and the bug was so loud that Joseph never heard him land. Just kicked out of existence. I wonder if the Bishop’s council knew this was going to happen and that’s why they were so hesitant to let them look for the way out. I guess that bully, Barry, was right all along. He’d be the one to watch over everyone and bring the village back to the cliffs. Kinda sad, thought Joseph unable to pull his eyes from Hal slowly getting beaten to death, a whole village full of Barrys. He suppressed a shudder. Finally they stopped and strapped themselves into seats around the inside of the bug. The bug was shuddering and bucking and suddenly everyone was yelling and a white light enveloped Joseph’s sight. Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing. It burned and he felt his own scream claw from his throat to join the others.

“The bombs went off one by one, winding down the Rockies. It all looked normal until here. See the neon green lining to that cloud. Research has uncovered that this is a former location of a large depository of nuclear waste that filled this entire mountain. The former US regimes had decided to hollow out several different landmasses for storage of hazardous waste. This was the first and only one on American soil. Interestingly, the region known as Guam became the second depository but was engulfed during the Floods and was considered one of the larger causes of the Ocean Fallout. If we’d had time to properly plan this offensive this may have been discovered, but in my personal opinion it wouldn’t have been found as it is a historical anomaly and we had to dig pretty far to find out about it. Either way it’s pointless now since it’s done. We suggest that we warn New New York state, Capitol Island, and Appalachia since the radioactive cloud certainly will be reaching them within the next few days. As a precautionary measure we have moved Air Force One above the jet stream to avoid any contamination, but we have set up a Geiger counter field just incase and though we are behind a thick wall of lead infused glass, we can’t be too careful,” Francis Teedle nodded to the president and then the rest of his audience and retook his seat. The image of the remains of this particular mountain, and it’s neon green lined mushroom cloud, remained upon the wall. The president sat silently scrutinizing it. Looks like a fake to me, he thought, though I’m no expert. Don’t be the first to speak, remember that, always remember that. Maybe Damson’ll add a knot to his noose, the traitor. He nearly growled the last thought aloud but restrained himself.
Instead of his secretary of Defense digging himself a deeper grave, High General Charles Fahey stood up with a grave and serious face He said in a steady voice, “We are at war, and despite the consequences of my decision, I stand by my actions. Our livelihood is at stake. Our way of life, liberty, and freedom are being threatened from within and without. The EU is sending plague after plague in spite of international decree against chemical warfare. They show no signs of fair play or mercy. We should and will warn our people of the coming radioactive dust cloud, but I must say that no word, none, of warning should be passed on to our enemy. We will have to tell our own people at the last minute, to prevent awareness from spreading too fast, even so it might not work. We will have to enforce Warning Level: Red, the highest level of security and shut down the city itself, hours before arrival of the cloud. It will be close, but that is the only way. They want to play it dirty, well, we will oblige.” With that, Charles sat down slowly and stiffly. Quite a changed man from their first meeting, thought Brewer. He was good, cold and hard, just the kind of man Tarfit would have wanted for a replacement. As good as the great McCarthy even.
Standing the president addressed the ensemble, “Gentlemen, I believe the High General speaks for us all. Let no American suffer, but let those that make us suffer feel our wrath!” He raised his gloved fist to the sound of cheers. Now, we have a war.

“Tara “SpellBinding” Seaver, John Fredrisk Appletower’s wife joins the Makros Order today despite her husband’s comatose condition to show no hard feelings between the mayoral family and the Order. A representative today said, ‘John Makros himself was a kind man and he would never have condoned such an action. It is obvious to any observer that it is not the Makros Order at fault but another group interested in power and politics. The Makros Order would never suggest any such action nor would it take any such action. It is a peaceful and tranquil order created for the harmony of mankind.’ Rumor has it that Tara will be doing a centerfold for Playboy this spring and don’t be surprised if she does it wearing the robes of her new Order.”
“China invades Antarctica and The Brazilian United Front no more? Tune in at Eleven.” .
Jack winced through clenched teeth. He’d managed to pry loose a corner of his body cast. He was getting out of here as soon as possible. Tonight if he could manage it. When his dinner came he’d tear a whole in the lady’s suit and break her microphone link to the other nurses, or was it a mental implant. Best to assume it’s a mental chip, though those need to be downloaded and uploaded, they weren’t a free exchange of information. She’d have to concentrate though a call for help was probably easy to make. He’d have to incapacitate her somehow. Knock her out, but how. Looking around for a weapon, Jack could find none. He’d just have to use his hands he decided. His constant use of the remote control had to have built up some strength. This had to work. Wincing and letting loose a high-pitched whisper of a squeal, Jack tore loose another section, just below his ribs away in the suit. He ribs felt cold and tender, most likely still healing. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea… yet. Maybe… No, he needed to leave now before he got too strong and then they’d watch him more closely. Now they probably recorded and reviewed. Hardly a notice in the media. They’ve got bigger problems. Bigger fish to fry. Not little old me, cripple Jack, all fragments in a sack, but he’d show them. He’d show them all. The anchorman droned on.
“-bombing today at Capitol Island. Sources say it was localized and not a breach, I repeat not a breach of the Satellite defense system, Star Wars, but was most likely an attack by the terrorist group known only as Square One. Though little evidence is apparent these terrorists have rumored links to the Realization Groups of the early 90’s and authorities say that it is just a matter of time before the remainder of these criminals are rounded up and tried, judged, and jailed. As to the condition of Capitol Island, there are no witnesses and satellite feeds say it registers blank in all visual trackings. It appears that a new type of bomb has been created. The President appeared in the Oval Office today, despite its rumored destruction and his safe house condition, and said-“
Jack glanced up from his work. How could the President appear in the Oval Office if it was destroyed. They couldn’t build the White House back up in a day, nor would… Oh… I get it. The White House never was on Capitol Island. It must be somewhere hidden. Underground in some abandoned mineshaft. He probably was born there and raised. Never seen sunlight, paler than an albino, like a maggot under a rock. Probably all the presidents come from this shaft community. When they reach the proper age they become president and then they get a new identity and outfit and become an aide or a cabinet member. It was all a sham, and they’d just revealed it on air, live, for all to see. Or was this a mistake, were the editing boys getting sloppy and making compound sentences into mixed up messages. No too good, too perfect. A cave-in and the entire government would literally collapse. Jack couldn’t help himself but laugh. It only made his side hurt even worse and he yelped in pain and gripped his side. Within moments the canine nurse was there with her rough, thick-fingered hands roughly gripping him into place. The evil woman found his split body cast and resealed it with a belt device of hers. She’d been prepared. The entire time. She even took the time to tie down his hands, though she let him hold onto the remote control. She made a scratching motion on her arm and waggled her finger remonstratingly under his nose. No itching I get it, nodded Jack. At least she didn’t think I was trying to infect her and escape. At least. The man on the television with the frozen wave of blonde hair droned on.

President Muenster stood before the cameras red faced and shaking. This was the final insult. Mercy was gone. The American pigs doubted! DOUBTED! that the EU could bomb them through their network of Satellites. The fools they’d signed their own death warrant. Bertrand Velour would have his campaign. The bombings would really begin now. Even Spain somehow overnight was behind them. It was a miracle. Though Hans smelled a rat, a French one by the stench, and in the next few weeks he would be careful to watch his back. His job was usually threatened but was rarely endangered; now it was, along with his life. The African farce could be done away with in spite of its success. They’d pick up where they left off after the US was eradicated. The Middle Eastern Empire was doing quite well on its own and soon all American holdings in the world would be compromised and return either to the rightful owners hands or to the EU’s.
Finally after a long pause, and a few tattered breaths, the president of the European Union addressed his people and the world, soon-to-be his people, “My countrymen and women, we have suffered long under the yoke of oppression both economically and militarily. The tyrannical United States has finally met their match. By denying the reality of our strength, they welcome defeat. They fight against themselves while we prepare for a massive attack. We’ve destroyed their political epicenter, and now they’ve forced us, ironically, as the extinct and ancient country, Japan, forced the Americans into bombing them twice with the original Atom Bombs during World War II. We are forced now to bomb them twice with the Erasure Bomb of France’s Gerard Fachonde and of the former Russia’s Vladimir Petrovich. It is an amazing invention and one that is undetectable and we are so confident in its abilities that we are announcing its discovery and our intent to the world. Be forewarned President Brewer, we are not doing this to your people. You are. It is your foolish decisions and actions that have cost your citizens their lives. How many innocents will perish for you stupidity and selfishness?” And with a wry smile, Muenster said, “Your pride, President Brewer, is showing. We will give you twenty-four hours to surrender and if you have not by then, at exactly 1400 hrs Eastern American time, we will bomb New New York out of existence. We await your plea, but we fear for your people that none will be forthcoming.”

Unaware of world events because of the disruption caused by the AGS shield protecting Square One in NNYC, Josh worked hard into the night doing proofs and testing in his limited capacity, without the aid of live anti-gravity tests, trying to figure out whether the increase in AGS fluid within a limited circumference will cause it to expand or invert into a black hole. As of yet he could only prove himself right, which was both heartening and terribly worrisome, since the possibility of being completely right seemed impossible, possibly. Oh, crap, this is too much. Leaning into the chalk board, Josh hit his forehead against the cool hard surface until something soft and warm intercepted him and pulled him away from the chalky air around the board and into a warm passionate kiss. Oh, Susie, why do you care for me, thought Josh.
Then aloud, “I can’t think with all this making out left and right.”
“That’s not what you said last time,” chuckled Susie. “And I don’t think banging your head’s gonna make your brain work any quicker. Let’s get out of the lab for once and go eat with the others, and maybe visit your room. I’ve never actually been in there, you know.”
Eying her sideways, Josh said, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she responded playfully.
“What are we gonna do there? Sleep? That’s why I have a hammock here,” he gestured to the dirty limp half sack suspended in the air. Susie couldn’t help but laugh out loud, a full-bodied laughter that shook her head to toe until tears filled her eyes. Josh watched in fascination. What a strange girl.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are ridiculous,” said Susie matter-of-factly and grabbed Josh by the collar and hauled him out of the laboratory despite his string of pleas and excuses towards his room. She would interrupt him with a kiss every few feet, and shortly they were there.

Red faced and pop eyed, Albert Strongold spoke in clipped succinct words, “A child could master its operations within the hour.”
“We have no doubts to your in-depth knowledge of children,” acidly spoke Kirri Tandem, one of the most backwards of the twelve. An ancient man with knobby hooks for hands and worthless stick legs that didn’t support his gaunt frame. He would not survive the month, decided Albert.
Turning his two-tone eyes on Kirri, he replied coldly, “Strange I was referring to the aircraft itself as the matter at hand. Perhaps I should simplify my language. Chew it up a bit, make it easier to swallow. It’s hard with no teeth. I imag-“
“Albert,” the musical resonance of Gurney’s voice held none of the warning he intended, yet Albert held his tongue.
President Walton sighed heavily. This was going nowhere. They’d set an ultimatum for the man-child genius and what he comes up with is as fitting as his mind, genius, but ridiculous.
The one-person desk-size aircraft looked exactly like an early model automobile from 1900’s for a child, a fossil fuel powered anachronism with rubber tired and red with flames painted on the sides,. It was ridiculous looking. Not something to inspire terror or even respect. It was a toy, even if it was effective as a weapon.
Knowing that they expected him to speak as leader of the twelve, he issued a cough and spoke in his most kind voice, “Albert, we are grateful for all you have done for Square One and the people of the United States. No one person has risked more or given us as much advantage as you have,” Kirri scoffed, but Walton ignored him, “It’s just that we were hoping for something different. We will give you some men to try out your… What was its name again?”
“Motor Death, Killer Car, or Sky Racer. I haven’t decided. I originally was going to call it just the Hot Rod, but that seemed hackneyed once I researched the number of usages. I think the combination of familiarity, ingenuity, and touch couture in the name will make the marketability easier. If-“
“Marketability? What’s he talking about?!” cried Evret Olin, his dentures exposed in an open mouth sneer of disgust.
Walton rubbed at his temples with one hand and rested heavily on the table with the other. Hal was missing. Half the Rockies were in great billowing dust clouds that passed over the AGS shield like smoke from a forest fire. The military was definitely on the move now. Hal’s Square One Air Force must have done a thorough job of stirring the hornets’ nest. He hoped they were all alright. And now this. There was no way of knowing. The AGS shield managed to keep out radio waves and any form of electronic communications, something to do with cross polarization, wavelength appositional composition, and dimensions of gravitational selection. Strongold referred to it as ‘a mere detail’! This meeting was never going to end.

Chapt 15

2009-11-24T20:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Chapter 14

2009-11-18T19:22:00.000-08:00

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.”