“Right.”
“An inner concept...competence in action first requires competence in understanding.”
“Damn, damn, damn more than fine altogether, Karrell.”
Formally, he shakes my hand and asks, “Anything more?”
“One last thing....”
“Thought so,” he says.
“Well, Karrell...we’re fortunate my current EB tourist is a perfect fit. His name is Peter Wernt. I’ll outline everything I’ve experienced and what was spoken of over the last few days. Okay?”
And he nods. “Okay Dad.”
“While I’m doing this assign items to your Foundation and note where each fits.”
“Done deal, Dad.”
“One other thing...I’m recording most everything.”
“Oh?” Karrell says, frowning.
“Some things I won’t record. Those hook into our primary treasure, our UWMD...I won’t record them in case something happens to me and my Nomadi falls into hostile hands.”
“Are you okay Dad?”
“Yes. I’m good. Times dictate this and my work demands it...you’ll get why but make no mention of any details.”
“Okay, Dad. You scared me there.”
I shift about until more comfortable on sand and outline what transpired between Wernt and myself through to sitting here doing Karrell’s Moment in Time. I watch as he arranges the information, extracts parts and assigns them to his education and discards the irrelevant.
Block upon block his Foundation grows until with a jolt he gazes up at the Star-of-Hope and says, “I’ve fit each item.”
“Now. Get the one thing you know nothing about. Get that. Thread its idea through all.”
“Okay.”
For much longer Karrell sits deep in thought, his forehead furrowed. After some further time during which he frowned more-n-more his brow abruptly unfolds. He turns and stares with wonder upon the dark desert and says, “Oh my hangdog-garb! I know how to deploy our Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction.”
“Damn right you are!” I declare.
He eyes dim, he frowns again, rubs his chin and falls back into deep thought. After several minutes pass by, he turns to me with a sense of loss and says, “Dad...it won’t work! Something is missing. I get the potential...at the same time too much is...not....”
“Here, make yourself comfortable and I’ll outline the end piece for you.”
He stands, stretches, slaps sand off his pants, sits down and I begin. “Listen well, but stop me if you must because I’m going to give you details and examples—real fast.”
“Hangdog-garb.”
“First, in the Preamble to our Declaration of Independence our Founders mention a fundamental concept to waging and winning a war is to divide and conquer your enemy.”
He nods yes.
“The best way to do this? Find your enemy’s strengths, adopt them as your own, pervert them then attack and destroy your enemy from within—with these...their very own strengths.
“The United States of America was attacked in many different ways and a prime example was by perverting Freedom of Speech into the Freedom to Lie. Then was added condemnation of those who don’t or won’t lie and those who don’t accept lies as truth or fact.”
He nods yes and gazes at the hamburger patties warming at the edge of the fire but changes his mind.
“There’s also the perversion of words by changing their meaning, their definitions.
“For example, conspiracy was redefined to mean something only insane people believe. No mention was ever made of the fact that those who wish to enslave and control others have a plan on how to go about it.”
“Yes, Dad—I already know that!”
“Here’s more...people, through education are taught an economy is a pie of a fixed size—pie graphs are shown as proof of this. Therefore, by using perverted logic, the richer others become the less pie there is to go around and so the rich are stealing from the poor.
“But that’s false information—an economic pie expands and contracts naturally. The more individual success taking place in an economy, the bigger the pie grows. The more a Government takes out of the economy, regulates or legislates into it—the smaller the pie gets. Any questions so far?”
“No, Dad.”
“Okay. Religion was destroyed by equating bad Priests or an individual church member’s personal wrongful deeds with a whole religion.
“Freedom of Speech was further destroyed by condemning any who spoke out in criticism of politicians who wanted successful people to pay higher taxes, and all other reasonable criticism was attacked the same way. Those Politicians promised to distribute the extra tax money to the poor.
“Yet they kept the poor dependent on government and in poverty by giving them just enough in handouts to stay alive, and nothing more. Therefore, and thereby, the poor became slaves to government handouts.
“This was kept up until the entire Constitution, and Bill of Rights of the United States of America was destroyed. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“All these actions I’ve mentioned fall under one title...propaganda. The Nazis, as do all socialists or slave masters, ran propaganda to demonize targeted groups of people. First, they attacked hobos and transients. Next, the physically and mentally handicapped. Then tiny minorities like the gypsies. And so they came to their actual target...the Jews...an industrious and productive culture. All these groups were condemned as useless eaters and exterminated or almost so.
“Later came Mao Zedong Communist leader of China and Joseph Stalin Communist head of the Soviet Union. But Mao inverted his targeting by starting with the wealthy and productive people then working his way down to the workers themselves. Which method was also used by the socialist active in the USA.
“Later yet, in the United States, the Governor of a State with a Jewish last name actually condemned some of his State’s citizens for drinking too many sugar drinks. And even for eating too much sugar foods and for becoming overweight.
“He concluded by saying his State could no longer afford these obese people. Which was the same propaganda used by the Nazis...useless eaters but with a modern twist...cannot afford them...pretty much the same idea as useless eaters but more politically correct.
“Now! After our ancestors had emigrated to Here-Born, we evolved into three separate groups. Those are we the Free Marketeers, the Nomads and the Desert Drivers, yet we stand united by the concepts of Here-Born citizenship, Honor, and Neatness. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now should anyone of us, Nomads, Desert Drivers or Free Marketeers, come under attack, each group understands they may soon be attacked as well.
“To defend ourselves and defeat any enemy and in particular an enemy from within, an Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction was created. Good so far?”
“Good so far.”
“The UWMD was designed so one-third of deployment was a natural part of each of the three Here-Born groups. In doing this, the knowledge and capabilities required to deploy our Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction was divided by three.
“Now, when attacked there’s no defense for any one group unless we unite and implement.”
“So you’re saying we need the Nomads and Desert Drivers and Northerners as much as they need us?” Karrell asks.
“Damn right we do.”
“But if we split in a permanent fashion. Some argument or upset. Won’t that be the end?”
“If that happens, one person, or many, from each group or even each State, must rise above any upset and lead the way to a unified defense of Freedom. This represents the depth of Faith our Founders had and laid upon future generations. States are expected to band together in self-defense. And violent conflict is the absolute last resort. More often than not, building something new alongside the old will end the old sooner or later.”
“Oh.” He thinks and asks, “Anything else?”
“You’ve learned encryption and high encr
yption?”
“Yes.”
“Take your understanding of our UWMD...encrypt it then encrypt a second time but deeper.”
“Okay.”
“Place all this into a folder. Encrypt the folder.”
“Okay.”
“Now write upon that folder as your only response when questioned. Well now. You see. Our UWMD has never actually been deployed. So, most of us pretty much don’t know what it is. And so you guys figure it’s nothing more than a rumor. Good?”
“Okay. Done.”
“Link it to your inner-mind-mechanism, Karrell. So even if you’re drugged or probed in any way it’s all they’ll find, altogether.”
Done he nods a little pale in face.
“Your Moment in Time, one-two-three and altogether. Like I experienced when I was young, and your mother as well.”
“Not sure about Mom, Dad,” he says.
“Why’s that?” I ask a little afraid of the answer.
“Mom’s mentioned her Moment in Time. She did not sound good with it. Nowhere hangdog-garb. More like nothing changed for her.”
“Hmmm. May explain—altogether. Thanks, Karrell. I think I’ll drink some....”
But the sky turns orange and minutes later the heat is thick.
We change into cooler clothing, pack and head on home.
CHAPTER 39
Of Deidre’s Moment In Time
Charging homewards across the desert I take a moment to address what’s on my mind. “That EB tourist who came to visit your mother...was he tall and thin and wearing a plain silver-gray but expensive fan-n-fit?”
“No to both Dad. He was around your height but not as broad in the chest. Why you asking?”
“I’m curious...she said you’ll regret being my son...even more.”
“Well. I have no regrets. You see...if I need you I know you’ll come.”
“Yes, I will.” I pledge.
We race over the top of the final dune.
Glancing homewards, the sight of Deidre’s SandRider parked at my front door turns me cold. She turns from knocking at the sound of our approach, wipes sand from her jacket, enough lifts to mist around her.
She has apparently driven here in haste.
I dismount as, with eyes averted she strides towards her SandRider in that stiff, angry way of hers. Her three-finger high heels sink fully into sand with her every step. She mounts, tosses her hair, crosses her arms, and with eyes narrowed and mouth a thin hard line, waits in silence staring off into the distant desert.
I understand that I am not worth even seeing. I walk over as angry as she appears to be and say, “What are you—?” But she cuts me off.
“Once-Other!” she barks. “I’m sorry. Something came up. I need Karrell at home...today. Nothing I can do about it. A legal matter.”
“What...ah...a legal concern and Karrell? What more-or-less?”
“Well...it involves myself and Bordt but Karrell needs to be present. Once-Other! There’s no need for that.”
Her lips twist into a snarl at having picked up my thoughts on the subject. Somewhat critical and unpleasant they were, and not of the kind one wishes to share with recordings.
I swallow another harsh retort threatening to erupt like a long frustrated volcano, and with nothing more to be gained say, “Karrell mentioned your Moment in Time to me, and I’m curious.”
“Now you want to know!” And she points her nose to the sun and the back of her head to me. I get the impression she is hiding something with regards Karrell.
Something terrible.
“Deidre,” and I choke on her name, “just tell me.” And I bite back fears for Karrell.
She looks back and says, “Only if you don’t make a fuss and Karrell leaves with me.”
My heart races with sudden bad intent, galvanizing limbs to action as my thoughts erupt with violent desires. My nose pinches closed as I inhale and pops open as I snort out. A gleam sparks alive in her eyes.
The corner of her mouth twitches a smile. She runs a finger along her upper lip, inspects it and frowns as though puzzled. She has always had this effect on me. She has always enjoyed it to the fullest.
“Well?” she says. I swallow the bile of bitterness rising in protest and acquiesce to her blackmail with a stiff nod. “Okay then,” she says. “The fast version...I was the same when I came back.”
“No change?” I ask.
“Let me know if I’m wrong. That’s-what-I-just-said!”
“Right. Right. Ah? Who did you go with?”
“A parent.”
“Yes. Which one?”
“My father.”
“Now don’t take this the wrong way. I’ve had a successful Moment in Time and it appears Karrell has as well.”
“Damn successful,” Karrell says his eyes twinkling.
“Say it,” Deidre barks and spares Karrell a chastising glance.
I utter my words with all the sincerity I can muster—on behalf of Karrell’s future with her. “Take some time off. Go to your parents. Grab your mother. Head off into the desert. Do a Moment in Time with her.”
She glowers at me but behind the flames of spite realization lights up but hard Deidre rises and quashes both. “Mount up Karrell,” she barks. “Let’s go.”
She points her nose up again, but something grabs her attention and she freezes rigid as stone. I follow her line of sight to Hellbent II ticking as she cools behind me.
Deidre examines it and then me in detail. I sense calculations of price and cost clicking over behind her forehead. They end and her eyes widen and inform that she is not happy with either.
As I recall, she never seemed happier and more loving than during those times when I struggled. Not that she failed to point out my failures—real or imagined. Of course, unless money was rolling in the door bed was a cold and lonely place despite double-occupancy.
“Get on Karrell!” she commands.
He climbs up slowly, deathlike. His eyes plead for my intervention but I must let him go. I cannot sour this into a custody battle as much as she would want me to.
She waits expecting contention.
I take a step backward and Karrell’s face drops. He stares down at sand and my heart breaks. Triumph dances across her face in partner with waves of glee. She smiles with cold deliberation but her icy glare shatters as Karrell jumps down, rushes over and hugs me long and hard.
Despite her SandRider being lost to view out ahead of its own sand-cloud...I can still feel his arms around me.
Listless, I while most of the day away curled up on Della Comfort.
Similar to what happened out on the open desert last night, Crier poison hits me all day long and about an hour apart. Each time it hits my vision blurs, my limbs grow sluggish and my heart beats faster-n-faster.
I consider taking my classic for a ride but decide Karrell should partake of that first ride. I spend the day reading, writing, eating and snoozing each time the poison claws at me.
Throughout a restless night nothing much changes.
Come morning, I find myself slightly improved but poison still announces its presence with strict regularity.
I spend my personal four hours checking Hellbent II and giving my classic motorcycle another damn fine wax and polish before cleaning up the garage and self.
Today, while dressing in front of the mirror I mix-n-match colors.
Red shoes stylishly crumple black pants into which is tucked a pure white shirt. Around my waist a two-finger broad red leather belt highlights my trim hips.
I generously apply Fat-n-Grease by Hardins, which holds my red hair stiff in even the strongest wind and provides additional responses from the surprised.
To top it all I fasten a stars-n-stripes bandana about my neck this morning.
CHAPTER 40
Of Franciscoa’s Choice
Far beyond several intervening dunes a flock of Arzerns circle against a bright blue sky. Beneath them, though out of view, lies a Crier warren.
With the wind in my face I catch the faint sound of wings beating the air and the gnash of beaks in anticipation of the feast. The smell of sand is thick and dry with faint traces of Crier odor musty, sweet-n-pungent.
A Great Black swoops down and drops from view behind a shark fin dune. Moments on it climbs back into the sky a Crier clasped in its talons.
Wings thumping at the air the Arzern levels off and glides, releases the Crier and plunges down in pursuit. The hissing snarl of a Crier at death’s door mingles with the screech of an Arzern’s delight. I jolt at the thud of Crier upon sand and the vision of an Arzern landing to feed.
I hunch down, tickle the throttle open and Hellbent II responds with a subdued snarl. Beneath me a sudden dust devil leaps to life and Hellbent II’s front end drops into soft sand. Six tires fight for grip, sheets of sand spray and I pray it is not quicksand.
The tires howl protests as Hellbent II lunges forward in starts-n-stops. Dust shoots up under the edge of my helmet and beneath my bandana seeking my mouth, eyes, ears and nose. One or two grains sneak by and into my eyes. I blink them away. One refuses to leave. Tears gush fighting the grain grating as though sandpaper. I snap the face shield up and grab a handy-wipe from a pocket as Hellbent II coasts.
I clean my eyes, face and nose altogether, wipe the visor clean, pocket the handy-wipe, pull the bandana back up, kick down three gears and yank the throttle open.
Instantly, I find myself staring straight up into the sun. The front wheels suddenly drop shooting the sun upwards and out of view and the desert surface reappears. A loud thud as the wheels hit sand bounce-n-grip.
The full-blooded howl of her V8 comes on song—the flash of the rev-counter needle almost too fast to track. I hang on for dear life arms at full stretch. Snaking, I swerve down an on-ramp and accelerate onto the freeway. Once in my chosen lane I back off allowing her to amble along engine burbling easy and lumpy.
Commuters storm by. Some congratulate me, others mumble an envious, “Damn.”
While headed down the last dune into Sand Lake Flats Maggie pulls up to the left and Madsen on my right. They both frown at my mix-n-match. I smile without evidence of one.
“Way all colors, Once-Other,” Maggie says and glances at Madsen who looks me over shaking his head in disbelief.
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