by Estes, David
The doors open and the guards wait for him to exit under his own power. They’re on their best behavior, fading into the background, not speaking, merely guiding him up the stairs and through a waiting door. A tall, thin man with a petite mustache greets him inside. “Please, come with me. Can I take your coat?” he asks, as if Michael’s an invited guest.
“I’ll keep it, thanks,” Michael says.
They pass through an atrium with a massive crystal chandelier providing amber ambience overhead. Michael remembers the gala he and Janice attended here shortly after they were married. They were in awe of the elegance of the president’s home, but also shocked at the excess. Although he’d never been truly hungry in his life, he’d seen the impoverished on the streets, begging for scraps or a single food pill. Why would one man need so much? he'd wondered at the time. Of course, then it was a different president.
As they make their way down a long red-carpeted hallway, Michael sees a familiar banister leading up a flight of stairs to the right. Another memory steps forward: Janice had gone to the restroom. He was drinking a glass of vintage wine from the presidential cellar, leaning casually on the banister. He was speaking with Jeremy Ford Jr., Corrigan Mars, Jeremy’s brother Terrence, and Charles Boggs. Having recently completed their degrees at Saint Louis University, they were in high spirits, already plugged into the government scene, working their way up the respective ladders in their areas of interest. Corrigan and Michael were dead set on Population Control, both of them idealists who wanted to ensure the survival of the country through effective resource management. They’d already landed entry level jobs at Pop Con. Charles Boggs was law enforcement all the way, like his old man had been. He was currently a beat Crow working on the south side of the city, but he had aspirations of placement in central Saint Louis. Jeremy and Terrence had big shoes to fill. Their father, Jeremy Ford Sr. had been the President of the RUSA only eight years earlier, which was how they were able to land invites to this particular event. Yeah, they were going to be rock stars, all of them. It was a total ego-fest, each braggart’s claims getting bigger and bigger until Jeremy announced, “I’m going to live here one day.” They had laughed and said Yeah right and Good luck with that and gave him a pretty good ribbing, even though they all knew he had a fair shot, considering who his father was. Terrence had joked that Jeremy would have to beat him first. It was all in good fun, typical brother competition stuff.
The memory fades and Michael realizes he’s stopped and is just staring at the banister. How did they get to this place? Two of the five boys are now dead, Corrigan Mars at the hands of Terrence’s disturbed son, and Terrence himself gone because of Michael’s own cold-blooded order. When did they cross the line between the innocence of youth and the reality and cynicism of adulthood?
“Sir?” the tall, thin man says, noticing him stopped. Michael shakes his head and forces his legs to carry him forward once more, his mistakes like half-ton anchors strapped to his ankles. Former presidents stare at him from the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him with each step. It’s beginning to feel like a death march, and he almost expects to find a doctor with a syringe at the end, ready to stab him with a lethal dose. But no, the only lethal dose is pressing against the inside of his cheek.
A door to the left is open, and the—butler?—guide waves him inside. “The president is waiting for you,” he says, and then strides away, as if he has much more important tasks to complete.
“Ah, Michael,” the president says when he enters. He’s sitting in a high-backed leather chair, his back to him. Vapor from an electronic cigarette wafts toward the ceiling. A half-empty glass of amber liquid rests in a multi-faceted tumbler on a large oak desk. Aside from the drink, there’s a holo-screen resting face up, a single photo facing away, and a ceramic figurine—a woman dancing with two children, both boys.
Michael wonders if he could cross the space fast enough to stab him with the pin. While he mulls it over, the moment passes as Jeremy Ford Jr. spins his chair around and points a gun at his chest.
“Is that any way to say hello to an old friend?” Michael says. He doesn’t fear this man—only that he won’t be able to kill him in time to help his family.
“You have a funny way of defining friend.” Although the president’s face is clean-shaven, he looks old, at least as old as Michael feels. His dark hair is lined with silver, and his eyes have a wariness they didn’t used to. Michael wonders if his do, too.
The president uses his other hand to brush a fleck of dust off the shoulder of his freshly pressed black suit. An immaculate red tie is knotted around his collar. Michael says nothing, waiting.
“Do you expect me to do all the talking? You came to me, remember?”
Michael relishes the confidence in Jeremy’s tone. No, his former friend hasn’t changed at all. What he used to find somewhat endearing and slightly humorous now grates on his every nerve. “I only wanted to give you the chance to see how badly your nephew failed. Even you couldn’t save him in the end. The people have spoken.”
Michael thinks he sees the slightest flash of surprise cross Jeremy’s face, but then it’s gone, replaced with a smile. “So you figured it out? Took you longer than I thought it would, but then you always did score lower than me.”
“The thing I’ve been trying to work out, is why you would protect your nephew, but not your brother. You used me to kill Terrence.” Michael doesn’t really care, but he knows he has to keep him talking so he doesn’t decide to shoot him just yet.
The president laughs. “You have been busy. Where did you find the time to do so much research? In between Domino’s torture sessions? You face isn’t healing so well. I fear your good looks may be gone forever.”
Michael takes a step forward and the president’s gun dances higher. “Mind if I sit?” Michael says.
Jeremy takes a moment longer than usual to answer. He’s smart to fear Michael, even if he’s pretending not to. “Of course, of course.” He waves to the chair across from him.
Despite the president’s nonchalance, his gun never leaves Michael as he methodically steps to the chair and lowers himself down. Although Michael’s doing his best to hide the pain he’s still in from his injuries, he can’t hold back the grimace.
“Someone looks like they should be confined to bed rest,” Jeremy says.
“I’m fine.”
Seemingly at ease with the entire conversation, the president comes back to Michael’s original question. “Domino was an experiment,” he says. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure that much out. My brother, on the other hand, was a pesky gnat who needed to be swatted. I couldn’t have my immediate family committing capital crimes like Unauthorized Births. How do you think that would make me look?”
Instead of answering the question, Michael says, “An experiment? What kind of experiment?”
“Could you at least try to catch up?” the president says in his typical haughty tone. “We’re not only defending ourselves from nature here. While the seas rise and close in, our enemies are circling like vultures. No, more like sharks, sensing blood in the water. We’re weaker than we’ve ever been, and there are those who want the resources we have left. Strengthening our military is priority number one.”
“Cyborg soldiers?”
“Now you’re getting there. In the last World War, we proved how ineffective our robots were against enemies who are quickly gaining on us in technology. We were lucky to get out with a tenuous truce. If there’s a next time, we might not find victory so easily.” He pauses, letting Michael consider things. “We need soldiers that are as strong, fast and as tenacious as bots, but with the human creativity that computers lack. Cyborgs are the future of warfare, and my nephew, Domino Destovan-Ford, the Destroyer, or whatever you want to call him, was the first. I think he proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the program has potential.”
“Potential for what? Creating an army of serial killers? He was psychotic.”
The pr
esident shakes his head. “That wasn’t a function of the machines we built into him. Domino was a troubled youth. He would’ve turned out that way regardless of what we did.”
“So you took a monster and gave him super strength and speed, and then set him loose? You’re as crazy as he is.”
“As crazy as your wife?”
Michael bites down hard, holding back a snap retort. He’s losing control of the conversation. “She has nothing to do with any of this.”
“No? Isn’t she your backup plan? Isn’t she ‘the key’?”
His heart stutters. Oh no. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? What about your plan for the concert tonight? Janice has some code you gave her, right? Something that will detonate a bomb you built into the new mainframe?”
It’s all Michael can do to keep his breathing even. BloodyMary. In the end, she managed to protect them in the only way she knew how. She gave him enough of the plan to make it sound like the truth, but managed to lie about the most important aspect—the endgame. He doesn’t know about the complete destruction of data they’re planning.
Michael bites his lip, closes his eyes, and stares at his lap, defeated.
“Nothing to say? Did you really think blowing up the new system would matter? We have dozens of latencies in-built for just such an occurrence. We’ll be back on our feet in days, not years. You were the Head of Pop Con, you should know that as well as anyone.”
“The people will rally up around us,” Michael whispers.
“The people are sheep. They will rally around whoever I tell them to.”
“You should include that in your next speech.”
The president’s staring at him with disgust when Michael finally opens his eyes and looks up. “So you’re going to stop Janice tonight?”
“Yes, no, doesn’t matter. Just for the fun of it, maybe I’ll let her succeed. The citizens will be terrified. They’ll look to me for strength and comfort.”
Michael pretends to look out the window. Really he’s checking for cameras. He wonders how long it will take for the guards to enter the room after he makes his move.
“You know, you’re not even the only one trying to blow up Pop Con tonight,” Jeremy says.
He doesn’t flinch, just keeps looking at his battered reflection in the dark glass. “The Lifers,” Michael says.
“I got wind of something they have planned. They cut the power at Pop Con. Something is about to go down. I guess one way or another a bunch of people are going to die. Hopefully they find enough of your wife’s body to bury her. Not that you’ll be around to do it.”
Michael springs to his feet. He forces a look of complete rage to his face, even though he’s as calm as he’s ever felt below the surface. “I’ll kill you if you say one more word about her!” he yells. It’s a very real threat disguised as an empty one, and President Ford Jr. laughs loudly.
He jabs his gun at Michael with each word. “Please. Try. Make this more interesting.”
Michael lets the false rage melt away and he covers his face with his hands. He thinks about Benson’s and Harrison’s childhoods. Equally terrible, in completely different ways. He thinks about Janice strapped to her bed, spitting at him, screaming at him, writhing and twisting and biting at her restraints until they pumped her full of sedatives. He thinks of the children murdered under his watch.
He cries. He cries very real tears into his hands, choking out sobs of self-loathing and pain and regret.
At the same time, in the deep, dark recesses of his mind, he waits…
Sensing the exact moment when Jeremy Ford Jr, the leader of the Reorganized United States of America, lets his guard down…
And that’s when he attacks.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The rear entrance to Pop Con is dark. In fact, all of Pop Con is dark, as if someone decided to conserve energy tonight. Still, Check and Rod approach the gate warily, their eyes scanning the area beyond the metal bars.
“Hola!” Rod yells, making Check practically jump out of his own skin.
“Holy bots, dude,” Check hisses.
Rod shrugs in the dark. No one responds.
“Weird,” Check says. “Give me a boost.”
Rod helps him clamber over the gate, and then Check finds the button to open it from the inside. The small form of a guard hut looms on their right. A mound sits just in front of it. The mound is moving. “Uhhh,” the mound groans.
Check presses a finger to his lips and grabs Rod’s arm, yanking him toward the door. He hopes that with the power out, the door will be unlocked. Instead, they find it ajar. “Double weird,” Check says, but he’s not about to stop now. Not when Geoffrey might be moments away from doing what he thinks he’s going to do.
They steal through a large dark space and through another set of doors, also standing open. A long corridor stretches out like a dark, inky line in front of them. They throw themselves against the wall when they hear footsteps slapping the floor somewhere in the distance.
The echoes fade and Check does his best to take deep breaths and slow his heart rate. It won’t do anyone any good if he has a heart attack. They tiptoe down the hall, ready to duck into one of the many doors lining the sides if they sense danger.
Check knows they don’t have time to check every room, but he does pause to listen for sounds. Each time, silence greets him. Until it doesn’t.
More than halfway to the end of the hall, he hears a muffled voice through a door. He raises a hand and Rod stops. They press their ears to the door and, sure enough, the distinct timbre of what sounds like a single voice pushes through the cracks.
Check holds up one hand, and Rod nods. One voice. He knows that doesn’t mean there isn’t more than one person, however. In fact, if someone is speaking at all, it implies there’s someone else listening. He squints, scanning the area around the door and the door itself for something to identify what’s on the other side. Nothing. It’s unmarked.
With no other excuse to delay, Check holds up three fingers. On three. He counts down by removing fingers, one at a time. Three, two, one…
He turns the handle and bashes inside, hurling himself forward with Rod right behind him.
~~~
When the door bursts inward, Geoffrey isn’t ready at all. With ten minutes to go before the appointed time, he hasn’t connected the detonator or flicked on the strange wireless switch that Jarrod instructed him, at the last minute, to use for this particular mission. He was staring at the bathroom mirror, talking to himself. Well, technically he was talking to his sister, although he’s not sure if she can even hear him anymore.
Startled, he falls back, dropping the detonator, the wire curling around his hand. As his butt smacks off the hard ground and two dark forms charge toward him, he knows he’s failed. He’s failed Jarrod, whose trust means the world to him; he’s failed Luce and Gonzo, who deserve to be avenged; and he’s failed himself.
But then, just as the shadowy hands are reaching toward him, something explodes inside him, a curling fiery plume of anger and fear and adrenaline. “NO!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, throwing himself forward, lunging for the detonator, simultaneously pulling it toward him by the wires dangling from his wrist.
The hands are on him, but he’s got the detonator, and they’re trying to rip it from his grasp—and why haven’t they shot him? he wonders—and he manages to flick on the wireless switch, which maybe, maybe, maybe was a backup plan—yeah—a backup plan in case he’s not able to connect the wires to the nest of explosives strapped to his vest.
And his finger is on the button, just like he practiced, and there are four sets of white eyes over him, wide and scared and staring at his hand. Familiar eyes, two narrower than the others. He knows them, he knows them, he knows them and no, no, no he can’t do it. Not them. Please not them.
Can’t do it.
But he has to.
Blinded by tears and sorrow, feeling more exh
austed than he’s ever been before, Geoffrey slowly lowers his finger.
He does it.
He presses the button.
~~~
The ground shakes, the low rumble sounding like the earth has a bad case of indigestion.
Benson grabs his mom with one hand and finds the supply closet shelving with the other, hanging on as the ground seems to buck and try to throw him to the floor. There are distant booms, almost like a massive fireworks display, and the lights flicker. Unidentified items vibrate on the shelves, falling off one by one around their feet. Minda is crouched low, her arms out and to the side like a hoverboarder, the glow of the flashlight bouncing up and down.
Benson’s first thought is that the Lifers are here, that they managed to detonate a bomb in the concert hall, or in Pop Con headquarters itself. But no, the impact would be far greater, the very ceiling and walls crumbling and raining down upon them. Not this constant shaking. An earthquake perhaps? It wouldn’t be the first time, although the timing couldn’t be any worse. Then again, another distraction might only work to their advantage, giving them the confusion they need to complete their mission and get out.
When the shaking continues for four, five, six minutes, they eventually drag themselves to the ground and huddle together, riding it out, covering their heads as more stuff—some of it rather hard—falls from the shelving.
After more than ten minutes, the rumbling finally, mercifully, stops. “What the hell was that?” Minda says.
“Bad,” Janice says, probably the most accurate answer.
“Earthquake?” Benson guesses.
“No,” Minda says. “Something worse.”
The thought of something worse than the earth itself trying to shake humanity from its flanks makes Benson shiver in the dark. “Whatever it was, it seems to have stopped for now,” he says. “We should go.”