Brice laughed, “Brad, just look.” He pointed towards one of the large flat screens at the far end of the room which silently displayed the feed from CNN. There, Brad Cobb could just make out the headline which was emblazoned across the bottom of the screen, ‘Breaking news: White House security staff claim President Allan Tiernan is alive and well.’ Brice changed channel to Russia Today, which showed footage of crowds gathering at the Kremlin, the footer feed declaring, ‘Prime Minister Zhenechka Tamirov welcomes President Abakumov!’
Cobb collapsed back into his chair, massaging his temples with both hands he tried to fight off the tension which he was sure could break into a fully fledged headache at any moment. He kicked his keyboard away in contempt, “How is AP out in front of this before us? What the hell are we even doing here hmm?” He stood up again and walked over to Brice’s workstation, “If Tiernan is alive, who the hell am I chasing?”
Brice was indifferent, “Until we are told this is no longer an active investigation, the news doesn’t effect anything.”
Cobb paced, fingers working slow circles, feeling the skin of his forehead move against his skull, “We still have an attempted assassination.”
“Exactly.” Brice agreed, “and on that note,” he pointed at the in-box on his monitor, “two site admins have just granted raw access logs. If I can convince another three of the smaller sites to buckle, I’m sure I can get a fix on our man.”
“How long?”
Brice shrugged, “If the right people are awake, fifteen, twenty minutes perhaps? Failing that, we’re looking at four hours or so … I’d guess eight thirty?”
Cobb nodded, “I’ll get on to New York field office, arrange entry clearance.”
Ahken Kith Tiarsis did not typically allow much time for introspection. He didn’t often have cause to ask what ‘it’ was all about, because throughout most of history, there had been ample evidence that it was about him. The good parts at least. Whenever his inner monologue did take over, he thought of himself as Alan Tiernan. It was healthier that way. Ahken Tiarsis had existed as a role he had played for many years, but hadn’t he played many such roles? In private, his parents, still referred to him as Ahken and he knew that it was their wonderfully petulant way of trying to keep him ‘on the level’ and ‘down to earth’. They still thought of him as their child, and it appalled him that they were capable of such base and human thoughts. He used the term ‘parents’ loosely, because it was convenient, but it was preposterous to him that such a relationship should hold any validity beyond that.
As his father paced the floor of the oval office, Tiernan wondered when he had really stopped thinking of him as a father figure. The process had been gradual, starting with his earliest understanding of his father’s fallibility; a rationalization and acknowledgment of the many mistakes his father had made. His first meeting with West was a turning point, certainly. Never before had he met a man who was more powerful, more in touch with the world than his father. Perhaps this was the reason he still felt such a burning desire to know what West was doing.
He gazed at the woven carpet, the patriotic iconography, the trappings of the presidential office and he felt his impatience grow to a shivering fever pitch. “David Beach has fled Washington.” He looked up and made eye contact with his father, “Is it Julien Beach? Did he come to his son’s aid?”
“I don’t think so.”
Tiernan’s eyes fell back to the carpet, “Then you think it’s West?”
Lucas Miller shifted his weight uneasily, taking a step back from his son, “Ahken, two FBI agents were taken out of action, both Blood-Brood, both hand picked by you. They called me a little under an hour ago … I called you, then I called the others. Agent Carmichael informed me that their assailant offered extreme unction, before introducing himself rather grandiosely as the grounds keeper of the void garden.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re heading back to report in. After they left, Hicks sent me a text to say the FBI picked up a call from Hannah Beach, and preliminary traces indicate that David is in New York. That information marries up rather well with Carmichael’s other tidbit.”
“Which was?”
“An exotic car with New York plates was parked outside the Beach’s residence.”
“I take it you’ve tasked a squad from Arctum?”
Lucas Miller exhaled slowly, “The DC Bureau has been handling this investigation so far. They don’t have an exact location on Beach yet, but if we just let them do their jobs, we can have an infill squad from Arctum meet up with them.”
Tiernan’s voice came softer now, and more menacing for its stillness, “You should have killed David Beach at the first opportunity. This is your failing.”
“We needed to know if he was in league with Julien.”
Tiernan brushed his hands over the smooth surface of the desk, “Why? What does that matter? I told you in March that whether or not Julien had involved his son, killing David would only further the narrative.”
Lucas Miller stood motionless, mesmerized by his son’s lack of humanity. Of course, there had never been a moral compass. His son had been brought up with the teachings of Antrusca, narrow and clear, allowing no room for questions of faith. Antrusca’s word was science, fact and law. When Allim fell, Ahken had turned to his own dream, the Somnium Mirificum to guide him, but there was no morality there. For Ahken, the events of the great dream became his covenant, and any attempt to pervert the dream was heresy. His son had never needed him, because he had lived beyond the scope of morality. He stared into his son’s cold blue eyes, “What narrative? The dream is over Ahken. There is no narrative anymore. You’re just marching towards damnation, and you’re bent upon taking the whole bloody world with you.”
“How do you not understand this ? Hmm?” Sitting calmly behind the desk, Tiernan continued, “We have been delivered to them so that they may worship. The dream ended with the world in our hands, the children of the delvers enthroned, the bastards of the void bent to our desires. We’ve watched for eons as they refined and whittled away at their philosophies, ever searching for a Saviour who could lead them, ever grasping at straw gods. Why were we delivered upon this time if not to be raised up?” He licked his lips, savoring his father’s turmoil, “How perfect, that we should be returned to them. How righteous shall be our rule. That narrative father. The only narrative that doesn’t make calamity of so long a life.”
Lucas Miller watched as his son’s eyes took on a glassy, forlorn look to them. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was mere manipulation on his part. Even if he believed in Ahken wholly, he knew that he must challenge his reasoning. Without someone standing as an advocate for the devil, he was certain that his son had the capacity to believe unswervingly in his own place in the universe, “You’re not a god Ahken. You’re barely even a man. You’re blind to the devastation that will be wrought by your ambitions. You think that the people of this world are so easily swayed in their faith, because you’ve never had faith in anything but yourself.”
Allan Tiernan leaned into the chair back, smiling dryly, “You aren’t responsible.”
“Pardon?”
Tiernan smirked, malice whistling white noise in his ears, “You think you’ve created a monster, and you’re forgetting that I was a monster of my own making, many times over. I am as I have ever been. My redemption will come in their salvation.” His eyebrows arched impishly as he watched his father make to leave the office, heading towards the impromptu conference which had been called for White house correspondents, “Prepare my way father. Today is born a new pantheon.”
Stephanie Beach dragged Stanwick in tow, her hand trailing out behind her as her feet slapped short, fast footsteps. Stephanie didn’t know where she was going, but north on Madison Avenue seemed as good a bet as any in her search for a deli. Her eyes passed quickly over the glowing sign for a 7-Eleven, dubious that their hallowed cooler cabinets would be home to anything resembling a good cut of
steak. Onward she marched, fueled by a delirious third wind, sniffing the air in some vague hope that she’d be led like a cartoon dog on the trail of an enticing scent.
West felt disinclined to mention that they were walking away from several fine grocery stores; his mind was filled with the bleary morning chatter of the city, the voices of a million world weary souls dragging themselves into action. He wondered how much longer it would be before their world was turned entirely on its head. For some of them it had already began. He heard Tiernan’s name on the wind, felt the growing buzz of hearts awakening to the possibility that there was something magical in their world, something spiritual beyond the scope of their overburdened imaginings. He was thrilled. He knew that Stanwick felt that same quickening, her heart pounding with the first distant shots of the battle.
Their fearless little leader headed west on 36th, then south on 5th avenue. Charlene called ahead to Stanwick, alerting her to the presence of a deli on the far side of the street, and with a gentle tug in the right direction Stanwick guided Stephanie’s attention to her mark. With wide clean windows boasting deliciously stocked cooler cabinets, and nestled as it was between two cheap gift shops which catered to clueless tourists, ‘9th Street on 5th’ seemed completely misplaced. West shopped there often enough, and was given to wonder which city had lost it’s beautiful 9th Street deli, because he knew it certainly wasn’t Manhattan.
“Can you believe this shit?”
The deli clerk didn’t turn away from the flat screen when the door chimes alerted him to customers. However, the sound of a child’s feet slapping excitedly across the tiled floor did give him pause, “Pardon my French,” he turned his head slightly, eyes still riveted on the news reporter, “but this is some nutso way to start the day.”
West stopped at the counter by the door, watching the worker as he waved his hand, long fingers fidgeting carefully as he summoned up a dizzying array of smaller images, rows of news stations all broadcasting the same image; President Lucas Miller standing behind a small podium, an American flag hanging behind him on the left of each little screen. West took hold of Stanwick’s shoulder as she made to walk past him, and she came to a standstill, with Charlene and David both huddling beside her. All eyes on the TV, the worker pointed to one of the small images, and it filled the screen now.
“Do you folks mind?” He finally turned to see who had graced his establishment with their presence. He leaned over the counter, squinting at West, “Ho ho holy crap… Rapunzel no more.”
West shook his head, “You mean Rasputin?”
The clerk looked at West like he was a moron, “Rapunzel dummy… chick with all the hair. Who the fuck are you talking about?” He leaned further across the counter, “I’m just shitting you bro.” He offered a hand of friendship which West accepted gladly. Pleasantries exchanged, the clerk’s eyes flitted impatiently in the direction of the TV. West nodded, feigning indifference.
“Don’t mind us.”
Raising his hand with his palm facing the ceiling, the worker turned up the volume of the TV until Lucas Miller’s voice filled the store.
“ … Members of the House of Representatives and fellow Americans, thank you for your patience, your courage and your faith this morning. As a nation, we find ourselves in an unusual position today. Barely has any one of us had time to come to terms with our grieving over the loss of President Tiernan, a man who filled each one of us with a passioned sense of hope … hope for America’s future … hope for the growing spirit of cooperation between the nations of the world. Barely have we begun to understand how to take those first steps towards healing, as a nation. We have all looked for sense … for peace in the aftermath of a tragedy which has effected every man, woman and child on this planet.” He paused, resting both hands on the podium as he allowed his words to ferment in the minds of his listeners.
“Our nation awoke this morning, as if from a dream of mourning a loved one; we awoke to confusion and questions. We are not alone. Fifteen other nations awoke from that same dream …”
He paused again, his eyes unwavering as he looked at the array of cameras.
“There have been events throughout the history of our nation that have given rise to insidious whisperings of conspiracy and subterfuge. If, for reasons of national security, an administration is unable to disclose all of the information available to them pertaining to a matter of public significance, there will always be people who fill those gaps in understanding with that hateful utterance, ‘conspiracy’. As I stand before you today, I intend to put paid to any such talk about President Allan Tiernan and his administration.” Now, he made sure he took some time to look directly into the lenses of each of the network broadcast cameras, “On March 10th, Sixteen of the world’s presidents and prime ministers were assassinated by what we now believe to have been one man acting alone. On this day …”
President Miller bowed his head, readying himself before looking back to the cameras, “On this day, those sixteen men and women, each of them taken from their people before their time … Each one of them has returned to their people; returned from whence it is not in my power to say. Let this be a matter for theological discourse … Let this be a subject for philosophical debate. My fellow citizens, in years to come do not discuss these events in hushed and conspiratorial tones, rather remember today’s events as a rebirth, a renaissance of consciousness. On this day …” He raised his right hand from the podium and started to emphasize his words with strong gestures, “Your president … President Allan Tiernan … has been returned to you …”
The deli clerk waved the TV into silence, muttering to himself, “They can keep him, wherever he’s been.”
West laughed, “You weren’t a fan?”
The man pulled on his waist band as he turned, “Nah, he don’t give a rats ass about the little man, ‘n Miller’s no different.” He picked up a bottle of disinfectant and wiped down the counter in front of him as he talked, “I ain’t no Wall Street economist, but I sure as shit know that one world currency malarkey don’t wash.”
Stanwick smiled and nodded, patting West’s back as she followed Charlene and David down one of the small isles of groceries. West hitched his thumb towards the cooler cabinets, “Your steaks fresh in?”
“Four O’clock delivery bro. What kind of establishment do you think I’m running here huh?”
West smirked, “I don’t come here because you’re cheap, that’s for sure.”
The man nodded in the direction of the isles, “Family?”
“Of sorts.”
“Say no more. Who’d have ‘em eh?”
West smirked as he tried to recall some small detail about the clerk he’d met numerous times before, “How’s your better half?”
The man rolled his eyes, “You’re looking at it, and you god damn know it. My lunatic alter ego is out window shopping with her rat bastard sister.”
“Well, as long as it’s window shopping right?” West laughed.
“Yeah, except her whole family thinks window shopping is where you go out and buy every piece of crap you see in the window.”
West tilted his head towards the isles, “With those words of wisdom in mind …”
The man nodded knowingly, “Yeah bud, you go keep ‘em in check.”
They waited until they were out on the street, groceries in hand, before any of them broached the subject of the news broadcast. Charlene, who had been fighting the urge to grab West by his shoulders and shake an explanation out of him, somehow managed to subdue herself and ask in a rushed whisper, “Does someone mind explaining what we just saw in there?”
“Breakfast.” Offered Stephanie, rather unhelpfully.
Stanwick huddled one of the grocery bags under her arm, and slung her other arm over Charlene’s shoulder, “What you just witnessed my dear, was the first manic misfires of the Tiernan - Miller propaganda machine, lurching into action in an attempt to get out in front of a problem.”
Charlene leaned
away from Stanwick’s embrace slightly, “What problem?”
Stanwick frowned, “Well, us of course.”
David staggered as he started to walk backwards so that he could face the others, “That quickly? Because of my phone call?”
West looked dubious, “No, I would imagine that something else has spooked them into action. Possibly just your flight from Washington David, but more likely the fact that two progeny of the void were attacked in the process.”
West’s explanation disturbed David - the fact that he had not used the phrase ‘attacked and killed,’ suggested to him that there was a real possibility that the men that he’d driven off a cliff hadn’t drowned in the back of the van. Perhaps West had known that they wouldn’t die. He watched his daughter, skipping along without a care in the world, and he felt overcome with guilt that he’d even brought her with him. He turned his back on the others and scowled at the pavement as he walked, “We aren’t safe are we?”
West watched as Stephanie sidestepped towards her father and took his hand in hers. The truth was that everyone was safe except for Stephanie. He picked up his pace until he was walking alongside David, “I’d say we have perhaps a couple of hours to get our affairs in order. Possibly less. But first, an army marches on its stomach, so we eat.”
Brad Cobb stood slack jawed and motionless, his eyes flicking from one screen to the next as the various news stories broke around the world. He barely noticed the two agents as they filed in through the heavy door to the right of the banks of monitors. The two men made for the executive assistant director’s office, paying no attention to the pandemonium that was buzzing about the FBI headquarters.
McMahon knocked politely, but opened the door without waiting for a welcome.
The man behind the desk got to his feet slowly, towering slightly over McMahon and Carmichael. He pointed towards the outer office and grinned, “This your doing?”
Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Page 24