by M C Rooney
“Father,” he called out.
His father was discussing matters with leading members of the tribe, including his old friend John Carter and his sons Fergus and Fraser, but when he noticed Buzz, he waved away those men and walked up to him.
“You look troubled,” said Hockey.
“Our people are dying,” Buzz replied.
“Ah, just the weak ones.” His father flicked his hand as if batting a fly away from his face.
“They are our people, Father!” Buzz said, and as always, was shocked by his father’s lack of regard for his tribe.
His father just grunted in reply.
Rod was just the same. Perhaps those two had more in common than they thought. But Buzz wouldn’t dare to air those views. His father had not beaten him since he was a teenager, but Rod had received beatings right up until he disappeared. Thinking of Rod, he had to ask.
“Have you heard anything yet, Father?”
“About that shit brother of yours?” asked Hockey.
Buzz nodded in the affirmative.
“Not yet,” his father replied. “But judging by your brother’s complete ineptitude, Sam should be bringing back his suit pretty soon.”
Buzz didn’t know what to think of his father’s order to hunt and kill his brother. Rod was an idiot, of that there was no doubt, but he was still his brother. He was still his tribe.
“I’ve been talking with my friend,” Buzz said. “I believe the sick should be separated from the healthy. I think this will help reduce the spread of the disease.”
“Well, do you now?” Hockey said in surprise. “That friend wouldn’t happen to be that mad bastard over there arguing with himself, would it?”
“He is mad, yes,” Buzz replied, “but he is from the old world, and they knew how to contain such diseases.”
And you are from the old world, too, Father; you know it is the best thing to do as well. Besides which, it makes so much obvious bloody sense to do it! he thought angrily and clenched his fist tight in order not to yell at his father.
His father could see his anger and met it with his own. It was his only way of communicating, really.
“You will do as I say, boy,” he said and clenched his own hands. “I rule this tribe, not you!”
“You rule with no compassion or love for our people,” Buzz spat out. Shit, did I just say that? he thought in near panic.
Hockey looked stunned for a moment that anyone would defy him, let alone his favoured son.
“Love for our people! What are you, a girl?” Hockey said spitefully.
“What a stupid thing to say,” Buzz replied with disdain. “Yes, I do love our people and am proud of it.”
A large number of people were now watching the argument between a father and son who were so similar in looks that only the grey hair and scars of Hockey made them look any different. Included in the onlookers was the professor, who had now gone quiet and was listening with great interest.
“Did you just call me stupid?” Hockey said menacingly. “I give the orders here, boy. You’re not too old for a bloody beating.” He had only struck Buzz twice, really, and not very hard at that. Unlike Rodent.
“Yes, I am too old for a beating, Father,” replied Buzz and stood straighter with a determined look on his face.
His father looked impressed at Buzz’s rebelliousness for a split second, but the angry face quickly returned.
“I rule, boy,” he said quietly.
“Rule?” Buzz replied. “What about the Martin clan? They left two years ago, along with about a thousand people. They rule the west now, not you.”
Mentioning the Martin family name was a great risk, as his father’s feud with them went back a long way. But a strange look came over his father’s face. He couldn’t place it because he had never seen it before.
“They can have it, Edwin,” he said in a desperate voice. “I travelled to this land for you,” he finished with a gesture and a look, as if trying to convey something he couldn’t quite put into words.
Buzz never for a moment entertained the thought that his father had travelled to this land for him. He thought it was purely for the power of the tower. Maybe wearing the suit for these years had given him that impression. It was indeed exhilarating to have all that electrical power released from your hands, albeit through a suit.
“But what is land without our people?” he replied with a pleading look at his father.
His father’s face almost crumpled, and as he was about to speak, he lifted his hand to his sweaty forehead and quickly bent his upper torso so he faced the ground as he made a loud sneeze. This was soon followed by another and another as his nose started to run.
“Cover your nose and mouth now, Buzz,” the professor called out forcefully. Thankfully, he was fully clothed now. “You say you love your people,” the professor continued, “well, now is the time to prove it. Separate them. Save them.”
Buzz looked at his father as he started to cough. He was still facing the ground. Everybody nearby had now moved a considerable distance away, except for his old mate, Carter, who came forward to help him.
“Father, step back,” Fergus and Fraser called out.
“He’s saved my arse so many times, boys,” Carter said. “You wouldn’t be here if not for him.”
Buzz then felt the power of the tribe shifting in his mind. His father was ill and possibly dying. He had ruled by brute force for so long. Would someone else try to take his place? Of course they would; Buzz had to move fast. “Cover your faces now,” he commanded and was relieved when everybody followed his order. “We need to wear full clothing from now on.” This went against a decades-old rule of so-called bravery. “Fergus, Fraser,” he called out. “No contact with your father.” Nor me with mine, he thought in anguish.
He was pleased that the Carter boys didn’t go to their father, but the grief was plain on their faces.
“Gaul, Cheng, Begovic, Bronson,” he called out to his friends, “round up as many healthy people as you can. We need to move them away from the sick.”
“What if they object?” Gaul asked.
“Then make them aware that if they stay here, they may die,” replied Buzz. He was not about to force loved ones apart, no matter the risk.
Buzz turned around and looked at the professor.
“Burn as much as you can, Buzz,” the professor said. “The bodies, their clothing and tents, everything.”
“Then what?” Buzz replied.
“Then wait and hope.”
The professor watched as Hockey faced the ground and started coughing his life away. He wondered whether Buzz knew his father had instinctively moved his face to protect his son. He also wondered whether Buzz knew that his father did love him as much as he could. He liked Buzz; everybody did, it seemed, and over the last year, the young man had begun looking more and more familiar to him, as if he was someone from the professor’s own past. And now, as he was watching them argue, a strange feeling came over the professor again, another case of déjà vu, perhaps? But no, this was different.
“Why does Buzz seem so familiar?” he asked the voice. “He has for a while, and I just can’t see the reason why.”
I’m not sure, the voice said.
“But he does,” the professor insisted as he reached deep into his mind.
Don’t go there.
“But the young boy looks so familiar,” he pleaded.
I said don’t go there! the voice snapped.
“Why? Why not?” he replied, confused.
The pain; the pain of the past, of course.
“What pain?” the professor replied. “I have lost a few friends, but who hasn’t at my age?”
You lost more than you know, McNamara.
“McNamara!” the professor said in complete shock. “That’s my name?”
No, it isn’t, the voice replied.
“But you just said it was,” the professor protested.
A mere slip of the tongue.
“You have no tongue.”
That was just a phrase, moron.
“McNamara,” the professor said thoughtfully. “McNamara and McLaren.”
The voice seemed to tense in his head, if that was even possible.
“McNamara, McLaren, and …”
Stop right there, the voice said in panic.
“Please tell me.”
The voice seemed to sigh inside his mind.
It was just your nickname to keep you safe, it said. We all had nicknames, all of us all over the world. But we all went under the one banner when on the Net.
It seemed to the professor that the voice was getting softer and weaker in his mind.
We were all anonymous, remember? the voice continued faintly.
The professor was starting to see memories of his past. His passion for old and new weapons, the secret meetings, and the hacking of government websites, the plans for the towers; there are so many of them all over the world, he remembered. The horrible but necessary plans. Someone had to do it; humanity was headed for the abyss as they worshipped a manufactured God that had enslaved them and was destroying the environment they needed to live. Someone needed to make the hard choice.
McKay did. He was the bastard to make the bastard choice. He did what was necessary through these towers, through the subliminal and the physical created by McShane the Insane, but what bloodshed, the professor thought in pure terror, what mass carnage they had started.
‘Of course they would kill each other,’ McLaren had declared angrily to McNamara. ‘Did you think they would just lie down and die like a Sunday afternoon Nanna nap?’
‘But we may have destroyed humanity, not saved them,’ McNamara had replied.
‘They were headed that way anyway. We all agreed on that,’ McLaren raged back at him. He had such a bad temper when riled. ‘I think you and McVicar were only chosen for our banner because of your obscene wealth,’ he said nastily. ‘Although the failure of his Mars mission did make me laugh.’
‘It wasn’t my fault I was born so rich,’ McNamara replied in embarrassment. ‘My family’s wealth caused some good.’
He remembered his family now, all living in the richest suburb of Sydney. All of them were well-to-do professionals who were involved in high finance and politics. All of them, except his mother and one brother named Gary, looked down on him due to his love of science.
‘Yes, yes, you did finance this tower, rich boy,’ he said testily.
‘I designed it,’ he replied with a little pride.
‘With me,’ McLaren objected with that deadly stare of his.
‘I made the suits,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes, you did that, I suppose,’ McLaren replied quietly.
Well, that shut you up, thought McNamara with inward satisfaction.
‘And my hacking skills,’ McNamara had said, trying to completely gain the upper hand.
‘Yes, I know,’ McLaren growled. ‘We know you’ve been teaching many young kids how to do that.’
‘You’ve watched me?’ he said, aghast.
‘Of course we have watched you. We watch everybody, and everybody watches us,’ he spat back. ‘Don’t believe for a moment that we haven’t noticed you selling your weapons to your online friends.’
‘They needed some protection,’ he replied.
“The Priest to the East has his God,” McLaren sneered, ‘and your footballer mate looks like he could crush their heads with his bare hands; he didn’t need a fucking railgun.’
‘That’s a good weapon,’ McNamara had said.
‘It’s a town destroyer!’ McLaren shouted. ‘And what is the deal with your conversations with that boy from the west? You didn’t give him any weapons, but talked for hours about the moon, and society’s woes and how to fix it. You even warned him about the planned day, which was against orders. You could have jeopardised the whole plan. You know the government watches everything everybody does,’ McLaren spat. ‘What was his name, Roberts or something like that?’
Roberts!
The professor’s breathing was ragged as he remembered the face to that name.
“Take me back,” he whispered to the voice.
What? the voice replied from what seemed a great distance.
“I don’t want to remember my old friends,” the professor said with tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to remember what we did to our island home,” he repeated.
Then close your memory, and let me take over again, the voice replied as its presence grew stronger. Let it be just me and you and the tower again, the voice finished kindly.
“And Molly,” the professor said thinking about her clear blue eyes which were so similar to her father’s and his own.
And Molly of course, McLaren’s . . . granddaughter. Now the voice was back to its usual strength.
“I want to build now, not destroy.” The professor sighed.
That was the plan, remember? Oh, forget I just said that.
“Why?”
No reason.
“But what plan must I remember?”
That … we must save Buzz … for I think he may be a bright hope for the future, the voice said desperately.
“We planned that?”
Yes, the voice said hopefully.
“Oh,” the professor replied, “I can’t remember planning that.”
The voice waited in silence.
“How do you know that he is a bright hope?” the professor finally said.
I have a hunch about Buzz.
“How do you have these hunches?”
It’s a talent of mine.
“Did I tell you that the boy reminds me of someone?” the professor asked.
That you did, the voice replied kindly, that you did.
Frank Carter stood in the distance and watched Hockey argue with Buzz. He was filled with hope at the possibility of Hockey killing Buzz. I mean, he did sanction the death of Rodent to that little bastard Sam, after all.
Maybe they will both kill each other, he thought with glee, but was disappointed when Hockey seemed to be pleading with his son, not attempting to kill him.
“What the fuck are they doing?” his brother Fred asked.
“I’m not sure. I was hoping they were going to kill each other,” Frank replied with the scowl he wore all the time. Laughter, joy, misery, hate, boredom, he and his brother wore the same expression, the one thing they had inherited from their bitch of a mother.
A scowl.
“Father is over there with the runts,” said Fred.
Frank looked over at his two younger brothers, Fergus and Fraser. Whilst Frank and Fred looked like their mother, with plain brown hair and pinched-up faces, his three younger brothers all had the dark hair and pleasant face of their father. They had inherited his placid nature as well.
Weaklings, Frank thought with disgust.
“Father is always with Hockey or the runts,” Frank replied. “And where has that little shit Flynn gone?”
Flynn had disappeared from the tribe, and nobody had seen him in quite some time.
“Perhaps he is dead.” Fred laughed.
Frank smiled, which looked like a scowl.
Suddenly, Hockey bent over and started coughing.
Frank and Fred looked over in amazement.
“The old bastard is dying,” Fred said with joy. His face continued to scowl.
This is my chance, thought Frank with a growing anticipation. He knew he would never be leader whilst Buzz was alive, but the suit changed everything. Whoever had that weapon would not just rule, but rule with an iron hand.
“Oh, no, what’s Father doing?” Fred said with a touch of sadness in his scowl.
Frank watched as their father went forward to help his old friend. What a stupid gesture, he thought, but Frank also felt just a little wave of grief. Whilst their mother was a nasty piece of work who never offered any love or encouragement, their father was a good man who did try his best.
“Oh we
ll, that was his choice,” replied Frank with a shrug and went back to thinking about the subject that really mattered. The suit and killing Buzz.
Tasmanian Lower Midlands
Tom rode comfortably on his horse, Pips, and was looking forward to the next stage of their journey. However, his two companions seemed to be in another world entirely.
“Do you think the recruits will be all right with Cazaly?” he asked.
Locke looked up from the ground. “What?” he mumbled.
“The recruits,” Tom said, “do you think Cazaly will do a good job?”
“Oh, yes … yes,” he said softly, and went back to his inner contemplation.
Tom sighed and turned to his other companion, who had spent half the morning ride turning around and looking back at where they had rode from.
“And what about you, Slinker?” he asked. “Do you think they will turn out as brilliant, skilled, and charming as us?” he said with a smile.
Renee looked across at Tom. “What … oh, yes … yes, I’m sure Cazaly and … the others will teach them well.” Then she looked behind her once more.
“We will be back this way soon,” Tom said kindly.
Renee just smiled and nodded. She never mentioned Daltrey, and Tom never mentioned Daltrey. It was a good understanding between the two friends.
As for The Breaker, well, Tom had no idea why he had become so silent.
“Should we worry about your silence, Locke?” Tom asked.
Locke Stoker looked up at his should-be nephew-in-law and came back to the present moment.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” he said. “I received some news that shook me a bit.”
“Nothing bad, I hope,” Tom said, concerned.
“No, good news in fact,” Locke said, then went back to his brooding.
Tom shared a look with Renee. Good news that he had no intentions of discussing, by the looks of it.
Tom sighed and, reaching for his spyglass, scanned the horizon for any sign of life, or death as the case may be. Way into the distance, past the nearest mountain range, he could see a major storm brewing just as he had seen before when poor Marissa had been attacked. That must be their destination.
He looked at closer objects and was surprised to see a man sitting down very close to the road, about two hundred metres away.