He sat before a green screen, the boom microphone hidden above him. He’d make his unscripted speech, alter his image and mask his voice, put the images and slides in behind his silhouette.
He pressed the recording button, counted to five, and spoke.
“In our last episode, my friends, we spoke about the discovery of the Time Capsule. We explored the truth of that discovery. We learned that those who discovered it redacted key portions, and sell those portions off in exchange for control and money and power in the political and economic systems established in both West and East. Those same discoverers and their progeny remain in control today.
“Today, I’d like to share with you the type of knowledge hidden in those redacted sections of the time capsules. You’ve been taught since childhood that the stories of the Golden Age are myths, fairy tales told during the Dark Times to preserve hope for the future. I’m here to tell you that the myths are true. You’ve been taught in your science classes various facts that simply aren’t true, taught so that you never tried to think and test and experiment and learn with direct experiential evidence the lies fed to you since your births.
“Let me tell you about one of those lies. You’ve been told that air travel is impossible. Stories of an interconnected globe in the Golden Age, linked by high-speed air travel, are thus provable myths. And yet I’m here to tell you that those running the megacorps, like Oswald Silver, know the truth. They know air travel is possible. And they know that because they possess operating aircraft.”
He turned and pointed to the blank screen. “And this, my friends, is the exact aircraft owned by Oswald Silver. Think it’s a fake? Then look at this video. It’s not just a simple picture. It’s actual live footage of Oswald Silver’s personal aircraft.”
He paused after turning back to the camera. “How long will you put up with this, my friends? How long will you allow the rich and powerful to hoard the greatest technologies for themselves? How long will you allow them to enslave you in relative poverty while they laugh in luxury you can’t imagine?”
He leaned forward. “If you do nothing, they’ll destroy you. Act now. Before it’s too late.”
He stopped the video.
He smiled, wondering just how Oswald Silver would react to the news that his great secret was now public knowledge.
three
Roddy Light
…the two major Alliances remained in a near-constant state of warfare or threat of warfare, saved from more frequent combat by the thick ice covering the extended polar caps and the broad oceans separating the territories… specially trained warriors able to withstand the grueling travel between lands engaged in the only open combat between the warring factions…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 184
The first rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds in the forty-second floor apartment, and Roddy Light’s eyes snapped open, his senses on full alert. He felt his muscles tense as his mind processed sensory input. It took him three minutes to calm his racing heart, to remind himself that he wasn’t in the middle of some godforsaken desert with enemy guns blasting at ear-shattering volume levels, pinning him down while his brothers screamed and fell silent.
He sat up, bare feet upon the floor, cold sweat slaking over his bare chest, taking several steadying breaths until he calmed down. He turned his head toward the sleeping form of his wife, his eyes taking in the generous, soft curves, and realized that he was as far from that hellish existence as he could be. No one shot at him, no one cut down his colleagues in cold blood, and his wife’s beauty caused every man’s head to turn and mind to fill with explicit ideas of what he’d like to do with her.
Roddy had come to suspect that at least one man had done more than imagine such an encounter.
He stood, his bare feet sinking into the thick carpeting, and used the faint sunlight to guide his steps outside the bedroom. He ran his hand along the wall, felt Deirdre’s office door, and finally stopped moving at the second door. He flipped on the light switch, blinking, as he stepped inside his own domain and shut the door silently behind him.
He’d achieved an elite level of fitness during his stint in Special Forces, and the thought of losing that edge, of growing soft and flabby, left him sick. The equipment didn’t look like much, but he collapsed on the mat an hour later, his body warm and slick with sweat, his lungs heaving in a desperate effort to recharge his starving cells. He gave himself a single minute on the floor, a minute he considered a moment of weakness, before he pushed himself to his knees and then stood. He left the room, darkness hiding the visual evidence of his workout, and moved down the hallway to the kitchen. He blended together a mix of vegetables and proteins in a drink, smiling at the surprisingly sweet taste, and he headed back to his office. He sipped on his drink, feeling his energy return, as he scanned the news of the day—including the stories hidden from the general public. The public didn’t read the reports of Eastern Alliance troops massing along the coasts and wonder why they’d do such a thing. The public believed that the oceans protected them from the enemy, thousands of miles of rough water that would sink an invading fleet before the ships neared Western Alliance shorelines. The public wouldn’t wonder if perhaps those troops prepared for a possible invasion of Western Alliance troops because the public believed the West suffered those same ocean travel restrictions.
The public was wrong.
He glanced at his Internet searches. Special add-on software and tricks from his days in Special Forces allowed searches for those who approached the truth of human existence in this era. He regularly found no hits, but today found a new series of podcasts from a user called “RedBirdSings.” Transcripts quickened his pulse rate. “RedBirdSings” had inside knowledge. Who supplied him—or her—with that information? Roddy fired off a series of heavily encrypted emails to former friends still active in the service. They’d figure out the identity of the speaker—and Roddy would use that knowledge in his search for the leak.
He had no love of the elites, but neither did he have illusions of their altruism. One of the elites provided that information. That insight, coupled with the troop movements, told him that war—actual war, not shouts and empty threats—approached with a heavy hand.
He sprang out of his chair at the sound of the knock, slamming his knee into the desk. He winced as Deirdre pushed the door open and peered inside. “I’m heading to the office, sweetie.”
Roddy moved to her and pulled her into his arms, feeling every gentle curve pressed against him. He wanted her to stay. He needed her to stay. The power she possessed rankled him, more so because his suspicions of her infidelity still weighed on his mind. He suppressed his desire with the steely self-control born from years of hard living, and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Have a great day. Dinner out tonight?”
“Of course,” she purred. “Neither one of us knows how to operate the stove.”
He laughed easily and let her go. She gave him a brief, curious look and brushed her lips across his. She hesitated. “I’m sorry I’ve been so… distant lately. The project… it’s been taking all of my… well, it will be over very soon. A few days.” She brushed her lips across his once more.
And then she was gone.
He took a deep breath. Damn her for how she affected him. He ought to be angry, cautious, and yet her presence intoxicated him beyond self-control. He closed the computer and glanced at the locked trunk in the corner, the one he avoided opening except in cases of extreme duress. Potential infidelity qualified. He’d spent much time studying body language, eye cues, and other signs to help with his prisoner interrogations. Deirdre’s actions for the past two months suggested she’d been hiding something from him. Her sudden decline in interest in lovemaking raised his mental alarms.
He had to know the truth.
The contents of the trunk would help.
With a sense of dread, he moved to the trunk and took the first lock in his hands. Mere contact with the metal tri
ggered more memories of death, of screaming, of incredible pain. He gritted his teeth as the memory of the pain overpowered him, squinting through the tears beyond his ability to control. The first lock clicked open, the sound like a gunshot. He nearly whimpered as he opened the second lock and removed both from the clasp.
He lifted the lid.
The smells overwhelmed him, triggered sounds in his mind so real he dove behind the trunk for cover, peering over the lid for enemy troops, feeling naked without his weaponry at hand. His breathing calmed as he realized he knelt on the floor, in his home, with no threat save for the damage to his pride if his efforts proved Deirdre’s infidelity.
He raised a hand to his cheek. Tender. Rug burn. He scowled. If Deirdre was cheating on him, he’d kill her and the bastard she’d slept with for putting him through this torture.
He ruffled through the contents of the trunk, his hands knowing just where to find what he needed. With the necessary supplies in hand, he shut the lid, coughing as a small bit of dust tickled his nose. He refastened the locks, stood, kicked the trunk with the heel of his foot, and wondered if he could make himself forget the combinations.
He looked down at the materials extracted from the trunk. Tiny video cameras. Microphones so small they’d be impossible to see if you didn’t know where to look. Surveillance equipment capable of transmitting audio and video the short distance to his computer for later retrieval and review—or to the app hidden deep inside his mobile.
He could spy on his wife.
But where?
Realistically, if she’d engaged in an affair, she’d do so at her office, where she could control access to every room. Or she’d find a hotel. He frowned. He’d never get the surveillance gear installed in her office without her consenting to his admission to the room… and she’d wonder why he wanted that access. No lame excuse would suffice. Her birthday wasn’t for another four months. And picking the right hotel—and the right hotel room—would prove nearly impossible. He growled, feeling the rumble deep in his throat. He couldn’t get the surveillance cameras where she was most likely to commit the deed.
Unless…
He turned his head to the wall nearest his bedroom. Their bedroom. She wouldn’t… she couldn’t… there was no chance she’d defile their bed with her lover. Would she?
If she’d cheat on him…
There was no turning back now. He couldn’t trust his wife unless he could prove her fidelity. If he saw it, the memories would never leave him, just like his memories of war.
But he needed proof, needed to know, if he was to ever know peace again.
He grabbed the box of gear and headed to his bedroom.
four
Sheila Clarke
…factories, farms, and residential areas inside city walls to ensure the greatest protection from the elements for society’s most critical resources… major corporate facilities, professional services firms, and government agencies sprouted in lesser-protected areas outside primary city limits…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 98
Few roads led away from the cityplex.
Humanity’s instinct demanded huddling in packs even now, two centuries after the discovery of the Time Capsule ushered in the rebirth of civilization. Cityplexes boasted residential space, agriculture, and factories, and few felt the desire to leave the safety of the walls. Roads existed solely to connect the cities for intercity travel. Truck drivers commanded mammoth salaries, braving the untamed wilderness known only as the Hinterlands, that space between cities without covered roads or walled cities.
The major corporations moved their office facilities outside city walls, and office space for professional firms serving the largest industries lined the roads leading away from the city. None of the firms left space exposed to the elements, though. Foolish though it might be, the fear of attack from the wilderness just beyond the roads was paramount in the minds of all escaping the walls for work.
Sheila Clarke stood on the steps leading to the entry for Jamison & Associates, a mid-sized accounting firm that served the varied holdings of Diasteel, one of the primary corporate conglomerates dominating commerce in the West. She glanced down at the professional business attire and scowled at the dirt on her shoes. No one would notice, because few people looked at shoes. They’d pay less notice to her shoes when the box arrived.
She’d never seen Jamison so obviously terrified. She and the others had seen what looked like a clean, rapid demolition of a building the enemy feared compromised. He’d seen something else, something far more sinister, in the gaping crater with the smooth walls and lack of debris.
She’d thought him about to faint at the sight of the large box with the strange markings.
His terse commands made clear the danger of the box, or more accurately, whatever existed inside. He’d wanted the box brought here for safekeeping. She’d asked why they’d bring the box here if it posed a grave danger. “It’s not a danger until it’s activated,” he’d replied. His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, his eyes distant as some horrific memory replayed in his mind. He’d snapped out of it long enough to tell her that they needed to get it into storage in their secure space before that activation occurred.
The storage space couldn’t be accessed without letting everyone working at the accounting firm realize that the building wasn’t there to house an accounting firm.
Sheila decided they’d leave the box in plain sight until they were better prepared to store the contents.
The delivery truck pulled off the main road into the small parking lot. Most workers and client visitors parked in the underground parking garage, and the arrival of a delivery truck—or any vehicle—in the parking lot sent ripples of curious whispers through the building. Sheila could feel dozens of pairs of eyes on her, the owners ready to send text messages to friends on other floors describing the delivery event.
Murphy, Crandall, and Porter climbed from the truck cabin, dressed in the hastily acquired uniforms of the fictitious delivery company. The curious might walk outside and touch the paint on the truck to find it still wet. Sheila doubted any would bother. Her true coworkers played their parts to perfection. Crandall and Porter slid around to the back of the truck, raised the door, and lowered the ramp before clambering inside the truck’s storage space. Murphy took the steps two at a time, asking Sheila to sign for the delivery. She signed—nothing more than an incongruous squiggle—and watched as the “delivery men” carried the coffin-sized box to the door.
“Where to?” Murphy asked.
Sheila spun on her heel. “Follow me.”
They walked across the tiled floor, Sheila’s dirt-covered shoes clopping in a staccato tone, the others slamming boots into the ground with heavy thud after heavy thud. They headed for the elevator that would take them to Jamison’s office, where they’d leave the box under Sheila’s personal guard until the office emptied that night.
They’d put the box in storage at that point.
Jocelyn Whitfield, the office receptionist, watched their progress with hawk-like eyes. She rose from her desk and moved to intercept them. “Mrs. Clarke? What’s going on?”
It’s none of your damn business, Sheila thought. Voicing such sentiments out loud would blow a cover she suspected wasn’t nearly as tight as she’d like. “Mr. Jamison scheduled a delivery and asked me to personally ensure it arrived safely in his office.”
Jocelyn frowned. “Why wouldn’t he ask me to coordinate a delivery?”
Why indeed? Jocelyn handled most package deliveries, signing for the delivery companies and ensuring recipients received notification of package arrivals. The lie formed fully in her mind with an ease that disturbed her. “Mr. Jamison found a sculpture in the city by a local artist that moved him deeply. He wishes to place the piece personally in his office.”
Jocelyn’s eyes widened. “Ooh, it’s a piece of artwork?” She clapped her hands. Sheila fought the urge to roll her eyes. Hand clapping? “Did you
know that Molly worked at the art museum in the city? You should have her set the piece up with the proper lighting and angle with the furniture and—”
“No.” Sheila didn’t mean to sound as if she were shouting. “Mr. Jamison made it clear: he is the only one who is to open the box and place the piece. If he needs assistance, he’ll ask for it.” She fixed the receptionist with a steady stare, ignoring for the moment the physical strain and additional sweat from the “delivery men” waiting for the conclusion of the dialogue. “Is that clear, Jocelyn?”
“Molly has a very practiced eye, and we can wow Mr. Jamison with—”
“I said, am I clear? Jocelyn?” Sheila folded her arms this time.
Jocelyn’s mouth hung open. She snapped it shut before opening it again to respond. “Okay. Sure.” The receptionist turned and slunk back to her desk. Sheila caught the quick glances back at the box and sighed. Jocelyn thought Sheila wanted to set the “artwork” up herself and get all the kudos from their managing partner, Mr. Jamison. No doubt she’d track down Molly, a woman who worked on the second floor, and figure out how to get in to Mr. Jamison’s office to properly stage the sculpture.
Sheila sighed inwardly. It was too late to change the story now. She’d stay with the box until the office cleared out and Jamison arrived. They’d move the box to storage, and Jocelyn and her friend Molly would never see the artwork. If pressed, Sheila decided, she’d just tell them that Mr. Jamison decided he preferred to display the work at his home.
The door to the elevator opened, and the men carted the box inside. Sheila followed and pressed the button for the fourth floor. She glanced at the three men.
“I thought she’d never leave,” Crandall muttered. Sweat glistened on his face and neck.
Sheila had tried to lift a corner of the box while they remained at the original site, but hadn’t managed to do more than move it a few inches. She couldn’t imagine carrying the box, even with help. She moved in to take a corner and relieve the burden. “Sorry about her,” she muttered. They didn’t need to hide anything in the elevator, but paranoia kept them quiet.
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