The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence

by Corin Reyburn

  “You’re right,” he said, “very easy.”

  “I hope this latest crisis doesn’t affect that raise you promised me last week,” she said as he slid his hand between her thighs, feeling the ribbed stripes of her stockings.

  Norcoford grunted, really getting into mauling his sexy assistant. “Won’t affect it at all. Don’t you worry.”

  “Good, that’s what I like to hear.” Three years ago, Michelle had been repulsed by his nonstop come-ons, by his small, too-close together eyes piercing through her, his freakishly smooth skin, his once swollen gut now clamped firmly into place. Now, she got off and got off quickly from her manipulation of him. Men were so easy.

  “I actually did need you to show me how to use my contacts,” he said, slowly pulling her stockings down to her knees. “Anyone who steals from us is gonna pay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A RUSH AND A PUSH AND THE LAND IS OURS

  “How many of those messages have we received?” Jeeves inquired of Benson Bridges, seated on opposite sides of a folding table at the new headquarters of the Arcana. Benson’s nose was buried in several screens as Jeeves milked him for the latest information.

  “1,861 death threats, 5,793 general fuck-you-up threats,” Benson said, slumping down further in his chair, exhausted from continuous sleep deprivation.

  “And how many of these are we taking seriously?” Jeeves propped his feet up on the table, his crossed ankles twitching with nervous energy.

  “It depends. Some were sent anonymously and I haven’t been able to get past their VPNs yet, but we’re working on it. I’ve got an alert set up for anything that hails from an IP within a five-kilometer radius of Westminster.”

  A loud beep from Benson’s tablet startled the two men, both snapping their heads up like puppets.

  “What was that?” Jeeves screeched.

  “Oh, just needs an update,” said Benson, his eyes scanning quickly across the display. “I gotta change the alert sounds on this thing.”

  “They’re watching us,” Jeeves tittered nervously.

  “Course they are. That’s what they do. But we’re watching them, too. Plus, it’s been this long, and still no one’s shown up.”

  “They may be slow in gearing up, but they’ll come,” Jeeves said.

  “They’re calling us bioterrorists, you know. Next thing you know they’ll get King Billy to sign a proclamation declaring us traitors to the Crown.”

  Jeeves closed his eyes, placing a thin cigar between his lips. His nerves popped and sizzled, a fact he wouldn’t share with young Benson. The bastards had to pay, but he hoped the kids wouldn’t. They would be fine. They had enough people on board, he knew it. You can’t fight the masses.

  “I’m sure they’d like to arrest everyone using GGcoin,” Benson said, “but it’s been catching on so fast they probably don’t know where to start.”

  Jeeves sighed, holding onto the table by his feet and leaning so far back in his chair that it was only luck or incredible balance that kept him from falling. “They’ll arrest Foxy first,” he said. “Make an example of him.” He dropped his legs from the table, the weight of the chair landing against the floor with a hollow, reverberating sound. “See that all members of our inner circle are present and accounted for, and that no one leaves without taking proper precautions. Especially Sam.”

  Benson pressed his specs against the bridge of his nose. “I’m a programmer, not the fucking underground railroad.”

  “You’re getting cranky,” Jeeves said, waving his fingers around in front of Bez’s face until he swatted them away. “You need yer sippy cup?”

  “Is this all a game to you? People we care about could die because of what we did.” He paused. “Because of what I did,” he added quietly.

  “You lack faith, baby,” said Jeeves, holding his own pointy chin in hand with his arm twisted at an impossible angle.

  “Stop calling me ‘baby’. I know it ain’t exclusive to me but it’s feckin’ weird.” Benson cracked his knuckles, kicking his chair in as he stood.

  “Where’re ya goin’?” Jeeves asked.

  “To get some sleep,” Benson gestured vaguely at his various holo displays. “Nothing’s even making sense anymore.”

  “I never said you couldn’t take a break.” Jeeves smacked his lips in the air, placing his head atop tented fingertips. Benson left the room in silence.

  By Jingo, it’s not like I want any of these kids to suffer, Jeeves thought. The youth of this generation. You give them a little hard work and they crumble. Look at all we’ve accomplished! I couldn’t have done it without them.

  But this was war. Sacrifices had to be made. It was unfortunate, of course, indeed, it hurt his very soul. But he didn’t make the rules—it was the law of the jungle.

  Still, he worried. He saw their minds getting dark, and he saw them blaming him. Blaming him for giving them a purpose, these lost children who weren’t there to see all the times the world spun round and then fell on its ass again.

  He supposed it couldn’t be helped. They were a product of their generation, after all.

  

  His Majesty’s Armed Forces contained 260,000 men and women who were children willing to die for King and Crown. They enlisted for all the wrong reasons. They enlisted because it was what their dads and grandads had done and they wanted to make them proud. They enlisted because they believed the adverts promising greatness and heroism.

  They enlisted because they wanted to kill.

  Prime Minister Waterman did not bother to pretend that he didn’t have sovereign control over the Armed Forces, any phone calls to the King were made after orders had already been executed.

  What affected the city of London affected the nation. The virus was spreading, reports of it popping up in York, in Manchester, in Devon, in Glasgow. While the city police scrambled around aimlessly trying to tame riots or Sherlock out the location of the terrorist movement’s leaders, Waterman was preoccupied with arming his troops, preparing to fight technology with technology. A ragtag group of individuals held loosely together by strings of downtrodden camaraderie was no match for personnel armed with VLe .410 electronic smartguns.

  Now he just had to wait. It wouldn’t be long before these little terrorists made a big mistake.

  His cabinet ministers agreed. The government was eighty-five percent funded by London banks. It was paramount they protect their investment, and everything else belonging to them.

  “Prime Minister,” Waterman’s assistant said over the com system. “A Mr. Norcoford here to see you.”

  “Send him in please, Ben,” Waterman said.

  Lucas Norcoford entered the Prime Minister’s office on shaky feet, dressed impeccably in suit and tie. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands clenched, fingernails digging into his palms.

  “Norcoford,” the Prime Minister’s forgettable face schooled into pleasantry as he greeted the CEO.

  “Hello, Harry,” Norcoford breathed out, sinking into an oversized leather armchair opposite Waterman’s desk. “Looks like you’ve done quite well for yourself. Most likely to end up P.M. indeed. The lads back at Eton got it right.”

  “Not much choice. It was either politics, or wind up CEO of some big corporation like you. I’d rather serve my country.” Waterman ran his fingers across the smooth surface of his desk, his gaze of no discernible expression directed at his former schoolmate.

  “Full of rubbish as usual, Waterman. We both know you’re useless without people like me—everybody knows. Hell, that’s why you called me here, isn’t it? It isn’t to talk about the good old days. We never were very good mates, after all.”

  “Of course.” Waterman leaned forward. “Down to brass tacks, you know. Primary Illusion has always been key in funding our troops. And now, with everything at stake and these wolves amongst our sheep, you choose this inopportune moment to withdraw your support. I must ask why.”

  “Honestly, Harry,” said Norcoford, his whole
body pinched together as if in a vice, “you’d think they could get someone brighter than you to run the country. What kind of blockage have you got in your head that you don’t already know the answer to that?” Norcoford pressed his index finger to his forehead, made impossibly smooth by botox and custom-manufactured ointment made from sheep’s bladder.

  “Guess I just wanted to hear you say it,” said Waterman, crossing his long fingers. His expression seemed almost pleased. “You’re money’s locked up.”

  “Of course it’s locked up. Switzerland won’t make any transfers to London right now. Utterly ridiculous, really. They’re not the ones who are infected. It’s all one big scam. Deploy your fucking soldiers, Waterman.”

  “I’m about to, Lucas,” Waterman said. “But the Chancellor wants to see the numbers add up. Your contribution is one we depend upon.”

  “Then make them add up.” Norcoford ran a hand over his bald head. “You’ve been doing it for years, I’m sure. What do you want—my permission? Go ahead. Annihilate those mingebags.”

  Waterman, all business, produced a form on the display interface integrated into his desk. “Sign here,” he said.

  “What’s this, an IOU?” asked Norcoford.

  “Something like that.”

  “You’ll have the money when I have it, old mucker.” Norcoford hastily signed the digital form with his finger. “If and when you blast those bastards into their primordial particles.”

  “Thank you, Lucas. You can go now.”

  “That’s it, eh? You’re not going to offer me a brandy or cigar for old time’s sake? To extend the royal hospitality on behalf of His Majesty?”

  “We are at war, Mr. Norcoford,” said Waterman, touching icons on his oversized display to organise and transmit. “Perhaps some other time.”

  Norcoford rose to his feet, his recently-shined shoes squeaking against the marble floor of Waterman’s office. The tense set of his shoulders sat parallel with the lines of Waterman’s display screen, rapidly displaying and analyzing numerical data.

  “Good luck, Lucas,” said Waterman as Norcoford strode towards the door.

  “Same to you, Harry,” he said over his shoulder. “Just like when we were kids. It’s kill or be killed.”

  “It’s not so bad as all that,” said Waterman, adjusting the data with precise hand motions. “At least now we’re the ones holding the rod.”

  “Spare the rod and spoil the children,” Norcoford said as his hand clasped the brass doorknob.

  “Don’t you worry, Lecherous Luke,” Waterman replied. “They shall not be spared.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  FOLLOW THE COPS BACK HOME

  D.I. David Ewan Thomas beat an ominous rhythm on the door of Sam Numan’s flat at a quarter to two.

  “Police! Open the door,” he shouted.

  Sailor, dressed in a teal green robe and white fuzzy slippers with polar bear heads on them, slid the metal door partway open, wide eyes taking in a pair of stocky and stern-looking officers.

  “He’s not here,” he said. “Neither will I be in a moment. Just grabbing the last of my things, taking one last bath in the ol’ tub...” He was cut off as the cops shoved the door open the rest of the way, barging past him into the flat.

  “Where is he?” barked the second officer, a short man with a heavy brow.

  “Hell if I know,” Sailor said. “Saint Fox has scampered off. Either of you lads like a cold beverage?”

  D.I. Thomas scoffed. “He could still be here. Search the place.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant?” Sailor protested, but was thoroughly ignored as the officers stormed through the flat, emptying drawers and upending furniture.

  “He ain’t in the medicine cabinet,” Sailor called out. “Surprisingly enough,” he murmured to himself.

  “What’s this?” The detective held up a sandwich baggie half-full of white powder.

  “It ain’t baker’s sugar,” Sailor said, “and it ain’t mine. You know how musicians are.”

  Detective Thomas handed the bag to his partner to tag and file. “You the flatmate?”

  “Ex-flatmate. But you lads already knew that, right? Got all our photos in a spreadsheet somewhere next to our NI numbers, what our favourite flavour of ice cream is, whether we take it up the arse, and whether or not our dads or uncles or nans ever killed anyone.”

  “Keep talking, Margaret. One way or another, we’re arresting a bioterrorist today.”

  “I ain’t no bioterrorist,” Sailor said. “I recycle.”

  The other officer, the one with eyebrows to spare, pushed an upended chair out of his way and grabbed Sailor roughly by the throat, shoving him against the wall.

  “Tell us where Sam Numan is,” he demanded.

  “Your guess is as good as mine!” Sailor shrieked. “I ain’t seen his slick self in weeks. Now let go of me.”

  “Not so easy,” Eyebrows said. “That group. The inane Arcane. Bet you know where we can find ‘em.”

  “I swear I don’t,” said Sailor, struggling weakly in the officer’s grip. “I’m just here for me trousers and me bath beads. I’ve no idea what those revolutionaries are up to. Cross my heart and hope to wear plaid and stripes on the same day.”

  “Cheeky bugger,” Detective Thomas said, striding over. “You use GGcoin?”

  “Don’t you?” Sailor asked. “You wanna risk infection?”

  The officers shared a glance.

  “We’re wasting our time,” said D.I. Thomas. “He don’t know nothing. Let’s get out of here.”

  They left as ungraciously as they had entered, leaving Sailor slumped against the wall, rubbing his neck. He glanced around the wrecked flat, his former home.

  “We were sorta happy here for a while, weren’t we, Sammy? Things sure got turned around. Stupid,” he said, unsure if he was talking to himself or to the friend that wasn’t there. Afternoon light streamed through the washed out blue curtains, the left one tattered at the edge where Binky had chewed on it. The worn blue couch where they’d spent many a night passed out on top of each other when they’d had too much to drink was flipped onto its back, mismatched cushions strewn across the navy blue carpet like forgotten islands.

  Sam’s things were gone. He’d packed up his guitars, his various array of garish women’s blouses, his scribblings of song lyrics and funny little limericks he’d written on scraps of paper. Sailor knew Sam wouldn’t be there when he stopped by—it wasn’t safe. Still, a nonsensical part of him had hoped to run into him, although he’d told about a dozen people that he hoped to never lay eyes on that egomaniacal cokebrain again. Now the flat was a ghost house, just an empty unit in an overcrowded building, soon to be snatched up.

  “Viva la revolucion,” Sailor said.

  

  “Come with me to Fiji,” Sam Numan said to Kit Alysdair on a Friday night. They were standing in the stage wings shrouded by black curtains, moments after playing a secret intimate celebration show, so secret that the venue had changed seven times and the crowd was exclusively limited, but it would have to do. Jeeves had decided that the kids needed a bolt of lightning to remind them to keep on keeping on, as he put it. They would record the show and share it through the airwaves afterwards, though he lamented that a secondhand show on a sad flat piece of fiberglass was less than one hundredth as exciting as being present for a live performance.

  It was enough for Sam. He was more than happy to play the rock star again, if only for a night.

  Saint Fox was decked out head to toe in leather and lace. Black glitter on his eyelids and white lightning coursing through his veins. The show that night was as sweet as it had ever been, in a club so small and obscure it felt like the first show they’d ever played. Sam shimmied and shook like a fallen prince, a junkie love slave. His vocals screeched and soared, his guitar squealed and sang, almost as if it were trying to get away from him, terrified of his mania as it flew high on the frontman’s coattails.

  Kit had noticed th
e extra surge of energy Saint Fox possessed tonight, waves of adrenaline pouring out of him in cascades and whips. He had more lung capacity, leapt through the air in defiance of gravity, was stronger, faster, harder, better, fucking sexy if she had the balls to admit it.

  And terrifying.

  Sweat poured down Sam’s neck and he dabbed at it with a towel, most of the liquid escaping to trail down his clavicle into the V of the ridiculous shiny charcoal vest he wore with no shirt underneath. He jogged circles backstage, trying to shake off the excess energy.

  It wasn’t cutting it.

  Sam wrapped his hand around the back of Kit’s neck, twining his fingers in her wild hair and pulling her firmly to him, kissing her without shyness or pretense.

  She placed her palms against his chest, her own post-show adrenaline coursing through her veins and making it nearly impossible to stop. Kissing Sam felt like playing her guitar in front of tens of thousands, like plugging into a live wire. Her long list of reasons for turning him down that usually played in the back of her mind were silent.

  “Been waiting forever to do that,” Sam said. His hand trailed down her arm to hold hers as he led her towards the dressing room.

  She didn’t say anything, but her eyes never left his and her hand gripped his tighter. He pulled her into the dimly lit dressing room, clothes and makeup scattered everywhere, and shut the door. Within minutes he had her up on the vanity countertop and her skirt pushed up to her waist.

  “What was that you said about Fiji?” she asked breathlessly.

  “We’re going. Right after this,” he said, dropping to his knees.

  “Why would we do that?” she asked with a laugh, bracing her hands against the counter.

  “Just need a little break,” he said, running his tongue along the inside of her thigh. “Come with me. It’ll be great.” His breath quickened as he slid his hands inside her stockings, yanking them down to her knees.

  “Wait, wait,” she said, grabbing both his hands in hers and hating herself a little. “We can’t go to Fiji. Even if there were any reason to do so—the airports are a disaster right now. You might think they’d let you on a plane ‘cause you’re a celebrity, but well...you’d have to be any celebrity other than you.”