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OBLIVION SOCIETY
By
Marcus Alexander Hart
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Oblivion Society
Marcus Alexander Hart
The Oblivion Society
Copyright © 2006 Marcus Alexander Hart
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Double Dragon eBooks
PO Box 54016 1-5762 Highway 7 East
Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada
http://double-dragon-ebooks.com
http://double-dragon-publishing.com Cover Art Available at derondouglas.com
Edited by Will DeRooy
ISBN-10: 1-55404-378-6
ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-378-1
First Edition August 2, 2006
Also Available as a Large Type Paperback Now Available as paperback and hard cover A Celebration of Cover Art: 2001 to 2006
Five Years of Cover Art
[Companion calendars also available]
www.double-dragon-ebooks.com
www.derondouglas.com
ALSO BY MARCUS ALEXANDER HART
Caster’s Blog
A geek love story.
Walkin’ on Sunshine
A quantum physics sex farce.
MarcusAlexanderHart.com
A website. On the Internet.
CREDITS
This book was copy edited by Will DeRooy.
www.WillDeRooy.com
All cover and interior artwork is by Michael Greenholt.
www.MichaelGreenholt.com
The official Oblivion Society typeface is “Tom’s New Roman” by Tom 7. fonts.tom7.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not exist had it not been for the encouragement of Michael Greenholt, Timb Kuder, and Amanda Dague, or as I call them, “Audience Alpha.” Mike has inspired me with his Oblivion artwork from day one all the way through the final book cover. I hope that someday I can repay him for everything he’s done for me and for this book. Timb always found something nice to say about the story, even when it sucked. And the world has Amanda to thank for the fact that this novel no longer contains a chapter based on explosive diarrhea.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Gary Fixler, Ben Jerred, Austin McKinley, Jer Warren, and Brian Young for their insightful critique. Thanks also to Will DeRooy, for doing such a fantastic job editing my labyrinthine prose into coherent English. Additional shouts of appreciation and praise go out to-Mariah Day and Gina Faustino, for promoting this book at Comic-Con 2005; Scott O’Brien, for a Lost in Space rant from which I shamelessly plagiarized jokes;
Irina Gelman, for teaching me to curse in Russian;
Tom Murphy VII, for his generous font licensing;
Sherrie McKinley, for a ghastly suggestion;
the bang. improv family, for treating me like one of their own;
the LiveJournal community, for answering all of my dumb questions;
Mom and Dad, for understanding;
and all of the other helpers who have been expunged from my memory due to time, age, and cheap beer. You know who you are, and I thank you.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I would like to thank you for reading The Oblivion Society. When you’re finished, be sure to tell your friends exactly how much ass it kicks. The power of your word-of-mouth publicity may be the only thing that ultimately stands between Oblivion and … well, oblivion.
- Marcus Alexander Hart
February 3, 2006
DEDICATION
For Amanda,
without whom I could not survive.
PROLOGUE
The summer sun rolled around the North Pole in a lazy circle, just as it had done through the countless summers of countless past millennia. There was no reason to expect this, at least, to change at the end of this particular millennium. After all, Earth’s axial tilt would not be affected by the impending Y2K bug.
On the northern tip of Norway, just inside the Arctic Circle, a single rocket stood amid the bustle of a busy launch pad. Through an agreement with NATO, the Fimbulvetr Astronomical Institute had obtained this obsolete Wormwood-132 long-range missile from the U.S. military. Although it was originally designed to carry an atomic warhead, in the hands of researchers it had been retrofitted with a sophisticated array of daytime auroral imaging instruments to be launched deep into the heart of the northern lights.
This mission was an admirable use of wartime technology repurposed to deepen Man’s understanding of his universe, and the nations of the world universally commended the institute on its noble endeavor.
Or rather, they would have commended the institute, had they bothered to read its launch announcement. But the world’s leaders had much more important business to attend to than some insignificant Norwegian science experiment.
The president of the United States stuck his nose into his armpit and took an investigatory sniff. He recoiled with a pained wince and quickly re-buttoned his navy-blue suit jacket.
“Hoo-boy, Bubba,” he thought, “you smell like the McDonald’s fryer at the end of a long day.”
He shrugged. “Well, the coat’s not coming off tonight anyway.” He leaned against an ancient white oak and let his gaze drift through the heavy tree cover and into the hazy yellow glow of a Maryland sunset. For a so-called
“presidential retreat,” Camp Bravo afforded him precious little privacy. It had taken him an hour to lose his Secret Service escort, but now he was finally alone. As he had promised the American people, the president had spent the afternoon trying to reconcile with his wife and daughter, but that wasn’t really why he had come to Camp Bravo. The real reasons were these dense woods, this forgotten corner, and that collapsing perimeter fence.
The president smiled as his eyes scaled the twelve-foot fence that guarded the interior of the presidential retreat from the heathens of the outside world. This ever-vigilant sentry encircled the entire compound in an unbroken barrier of heavy-gauge chain link and razor wire. Unbroken, that is, except for one lapse of weathered steel that some force of nature or decay had broken through, slashing its mesh into a pair of rusty curtains.
The Secret Service didn’t know about this place.
The first lady didn’t know.
The Camp Bravo groundskeepers didn’t even know.
Only one other person did.
The president pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He put it in his mouth but didn’t light it. He almost never smoked cigars, and when he did, he didn’t inhale. The sun
had now completely slipped below the horizon, and the president looked at his watch eagerly. He worried that perhaps his signal had been too subtle. No, it was fine. Unmistakable. He twirled the cigar in his fingers and daydreamed about what he could do with it if he wasn’t going to smoke it.
Just then he heard a rustling, snapping advance through the bushes on the other side of the fence. The president flicked his tongue over his dry lips and waited a long, tense moment. He could hear hard-soled shoes pounding through the loose brush, step by weighty step. Finally, when his sense of anticipation had fully filled out his trousers, he saw a jet-black mound of hair emerge from the foliage, followed by a round, female face.
The president’s relationship with this particular White House intern had become somewhat sticky in recent days, literally before figuratively.
The intern walked up to the fence and peered through its corroded mesh coquettishly.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” she purred. “Are you alone?” The president grinned back at her from his side of the fence.
“It depends on how you define ‘alone,’” he said flirtatiously. “I see you caught my speech this afternoon.”
The intern blushed.
“I know you were addressing the entire nation, but I felt like you were speaking only to me,” she cooed. “I especially liked the part about breaching the walls at the darkest twilight to meet between the tall trees. ” The president’s impossibly wide grin grew wider.
“Well, if you like trees, come on in and I’ll show you the executive branch. ” With an excited squeal the intern put her palms against the rusted scar in the fence and shoved her way through its ineffectual barrier. But while the ancient chain link of the perimeter fence slept on the job, its sharp young apprentice opened up one eager eye. Just as the intern’s heaving bosom pushed through the fence, it also pushed through the beam of an invisible laser grid, shattering the air of Camp Bravo with an earsplitting security klaxon!
The air was calm in the People’s National Strategic Control Centre just outside of Beijing, China. Chairman Qian leafed listlessly through the evening’s state-sponsored newspaper. It was full of the same old propaganda touting China as the most powerful nation on Earth. He sighed and took a sip of his oolong tea. If only it were true.
He looked around the room at the thirty sharply uniformed young men and women sitting at their computer terminals and tapping quietly at their keyboards. Actually, just young men. The chairman couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen a young woman. He sighed again.
One of the officers turned to him with an expression that completely failed to be surprise.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “we’ve just received an urgent military communiqué
from one of our operatives in the field. There’s been an international incident, sir.” The chairman stood up and smiled hungrily. It was about time. What good was being the leader of the largest standing army in the world if you never got to do anything with it? Finally, this old dragon was going to get a chance to roar! He put down his paper and teacup and issued a giddy order in his most restrained voice.
“Identify.”
The young officer’s short fingers clattered efficiently over his keyboard.
“It’s from one of our agents in the United States, sir.”
The smile dropped from the chairman’s face, and he threw himself into his chair petulantly. Of course it was the Americans. It was always the Americans. He sulked. What good was being the leader of the largest standing army in the world if it was only the second most powerful? Contempt dripped from his voice as he issued a second terse command.
“Clarify.”
“The personal fortress of their president has gone to a state of heightened alert, followed by several other military installations in the area. We do not know the reason.”
“Classify,” the chairman grumbled.
“There seems to be no specific threat, sir, but it would be prudent to raise our own alert level accordingly.”
The chairman nodded his head. Sure. Raise the alert level. Just like always. He sighed heavily. He could already see that he was in for another long, dull night of playing follow the leader.
Two technicians waited out another long, dull shift in the dreary control room of a radar tracking station somewhere in northern Russia. A smattering of faded maps clung to the desolate walls, each depicting the former Soviet Union pierced with dozens of red pushpins that no longer signified anything at all. The station’s gigantic radar dish still scanned the skies twenty-four hours a day, although exactly what it was looking for these days was something of a mystery.
Kurchatov leaned back in his chair and took a swig from a half-empty bottle of vodka. He was bored. Bored bored bored. He took another drink and glanced dully at his co-worker, Sakharov. In contrast to Kurchatov’s own drooping countenance, Sakharov’s face was tensed in concentration as he pounded the keyboard of the station’s main computer bank. A bead of sweat welled on his forehead as he chattered to himself anxiously.
“No more of the stupid Zs!” he snarled. “Come on, you piece of junk! Give me the long one! The long one!”
Kurchatov stood and glanced over his comrade’s shoulder just in time to see him lose his ten-thousandth game of Tetris. Sakharov smashed his fists into the splintering desk in frustration.
“Govno na palochkee!” he cried. “I hate this stupid game!” He rammed two fingers into the keyboard, closing the game window and revealing a monochrome screen of green text. In all the years that the station had been in operation, the dish’s readout had never changed:
Radar Tracking Station 99
0000 Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles detected.
0000 Submarine Launched Ballistic Missiles detected.
Kurchatov slouched back into his chair and scowled.
“If you hate that stupid game so much, why do you sit there and play it all day?” Sakharov tapped his finger on the desk in an impatient fury for ten full seconds before reopening the Tetris window and starting another game.
“The high score is 200,000 points,” he snarled. “I’m not quitting until I beat it!”
“Well, how close have you come?” Kurchatov asked.
“199,999.9999899.”
“Well, why don’t you just round off, you dolboëb? ” Kurchatov snapped. “That’s not even a real score! It’s just a computer error!”
” Nyet! There’s nothing wrong with the computer!” Sakharov said bitterly, tapping the sticker on the front of the computer’s case. “Intel inside. American technology. No mistakes.”
The deafening wail of Camp Bravo’s mistaken sirens smashed against the American president’s skull like a sledgehammer. Between the trees he could see a distant commotion of confused soldiers rushing between the buildings, trying to identify and neutralize a threat that did not exist.
He pulled his cellular phone from his pocket, punched a speed dial button, and clasped it to his head. Even with his palms crushing down on his ears, he could barely hear the voice on the other end of the line.
“Camp Bravo Command Center.”
“Listen, kid! This is the president!”
“Mr. President?” the officer gasped. “There’s been a breach of the outer wall, sir! You may be in danger. What is your location?”
“It’s a false alarm!” the president screamed. “Turn off the klaxons!”
“Yes, sir! Er … no, sir!” the officer stammered. “I’m sorry, sir, but a trigger of the perimeter alarm automatically puts every base on the East Coast on precautionary alert. I can’t just turn-”
“What do you mean you can’t? This is the president of the United States giving you a direct order, soldier! Pull whatever plug you have to pull to cut off these damn alarms!”
“B-but, there are procedures, sir,” the officer stammered. “There’s no way to just cut them off without completely resetting the emergency CommNet! It would be a huge breach of security, sir!”
�
�Lieutenant, I don’t care if you have to shut down the whole North American power grid!” the president screamed. “I want those alarms off now! Understood?”
“Y-yes, sir!” the officer stuttered.
Against his better judgment, but on the direct orders of the commander in chief, the young officer hammered the appropriate security codes into his computer, gaining access to the nation’s emergency communications systems. Within a few minutes, he had manually reset every circuit that carried some small part of the security network’s data with a blatant and mandated disregard for any other traffic those nodes might have been carrying.
Somewhere deep beneath Cheyenne Mountain, every computer screen at NORAD went blank. The surprised officers tapped on their terminals with curiosity and, ultimately, confusion.
Admiral Jack Teller dropped his Big Mac and leapt to his feet.
“What in the corn hell just happened, boys?”
A husky slab of officer poked at his keyboard nervously.
“I don’t know, sir. Every base on the East Coast went on alert, and before I could make an inquiry all communications were completely cut off.”
“What do you mean ‘cut off’?” the admiral yelled. “What in the name of Sam Hill is going on out there?”
The top-heavy switchboard operator tapped on her headset and looked at a panel of dark bulbs. She snapped her gum and twisted a bronze finger through her platinum hair.
“We’ve got like, nothing here, sir. No lines in or out,” she reported. “Computers, phones, even the satellite links are all totally out.”
“Impossible!” the admiral roared. “That’s impossible! All this Captain Kirk crap down here is connected to the outside with redundancy out the ying-yang! The only way we’ve got nothing is if the whole damn comm network is down, and the only thing that could take down that network is a full-scale …”
A troubled look rushed over the admiral’s features.
“What was the last thing we got before we lost the world, boys?” The husky officer reviewed his logs and answered numbly.
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