My thoughts wander and I stare without seeing consumed by Peter Wernt, and afraid of what is in store for Karrell. And worse! How will I find Karrell? Alas! There come no answers. I push my fear mongering aside and glance about the interior.
Ozerken drives as he always does, concentrated, silent, and thoughtful. Madsen stares at his back, eyes blank. Ozerken abruptly turns to us and says, “Something’s not right with the BA class of carriers. We hope you two can find out what.”
“What round-n-about you an’ all mean?” Madsen demands.
“We haven’t been able to find out why...but security appears to be almost non-existent on tankers bound for Earth-Born, which is strange, but a secrecy surrounds everything about them. We’ve made no inroads on this subject.”
Madsen nods as though suddenly realizing something new, sits thoughtful for a moment and says, “I understand an’ all.”
Ozerken says, “Several years ago we became interested in the BA series of Inter-Constellation tankers. Our interest was piqued when we discovered BA translates into Breathable Air.
“We have more questions, though...why are tankers filled with petrochemicals, gasoline or crude oil bound for EB when gasoline and most petrochemical products are banned there? All the way down on that.”
He checks ahead, adjusts the suspension and adds, “And another, why are silos and tankers named Breathable Air—BA? Get all you can.”
Madsen and I nod, puzzled as well.
The engines roar. The wind howls. Dust billows. Miles pass by beneath our wheels.
I sense Madsen returning to a topic best left alone. But...this is Madsen and he once again says, “It’s too dangerous Once-Other. Karrell’s predicament will cloud all you do, your decisions in particular. Stay here. I’ll go alone.”
I shrug it is too late.
He sulks, much as Peter Wernt did.
“I’m going to Earth-Born, Madsen. I’ll find Karrell no matter what.”
“Even Roses fought against it. An’ now we have round-n-about lost track of Wernt since his arrival at LAX. We made contact with Karrell. It was good an’ all but not anymore.”
“I already know that contact was made and that Wernt has since vanished—Karrell too. Don’t forget, I won my side with Roses.” I swallow a lump of fear and slump in my seat. “I hear Vicki, your wife, whiplashed you over going as well. Did you argue with her?” His jowls cascade involuntarily. I grin for revenge has a flavor to it.
After several minutes, Madsen says, “At least cover your face when we arrive on EB. If Wernt recognizes you—who knows what an’ all he’ll do.”
I stare off at the spider-web of pipes converging on Oil Depot One from east and west. I nod on seeing the value of Madsen’s suggestion and Madsen relaxes just as Ozerken drives up to the South Gate of Oil Depot One.
Like the surrounding fence, it’s constructed of armored steel plate, is hung between two concrete pillars and covered with spikes—crude yet effective. Nevertheless, it’s worthless when addressed with a Fragger.
I glance around to find no Poip about.
We pull up, showering the real people guards dressed in camo-uniforms with sand. They glare, slap at dust, and three head on over. Two of them keep a distance holding rifles aimed down but ready. The largest guard climbs the ladder, leans in through the open door and says, “Nomadi please.”
My heart races as he inspects my face as though something does not add up. He does the same to Ozerken and Madsen. Madsen smiles weakly. The guard grunts and returns our Nomadi and steps down. I silently thank Nomad Security for the professional work done reconfiguring our Nomadi ID’s.
Ozerken closes the door.
Hydraulic gate-locks clang loudly.
The gate opens and a guard waves us on.
I glance about as the gates close behind us and as far as I can see not a single person is about. I listen, but the ghostly quiet seems to absorb the throbbing of our engines.
Above us, tall chimneys and latticed steelwork climb the sky. Their entwined shadows creep as ghosts across sand watching the day tramp on by. Higher yet, the latticed steelwork closes ranks to become security screens woven so tightly as to filter the natural sunlight into a subdued hue of gold.
We turn a corner and suddenly enormous upright, cigar-shaped silos surround us. In them is either BA, oil, gasoline or petrochemicals. They stand silent, waiting to inject another payload into cigar-shaped and detachable oil or BA transportation-tanks. The filling of a single tank from a silo takes several days.
We turn a corner and the sudden howl of liquid being pumped through pipes drills holes into my eardrums. Madsen and I cover our ears. Ozerken ignores the noise. To our left, site personnel wearing ear protection rush about their duties.
We turn back northwards and stop hard.
Ahead, a BA carrier hovers over a transportation-tank. Engines grumble like an old lady with aching joints forced to suspend herself in midair. It settles, and we wait as the transportation-tank docks into the cargo bay. We smile fascinated at what appears to be a large white cigar now settled over a smaller one.
All the while white-uniformed workers rush about shouting and pointing. I glance up at the overhead security screen, and it’s closed tight.
Prior to takeoff, it opens, allowing for an unimpeded launch. As abruptly as it began work ends and Ozerken heads on northwards. Our engines seem muted in comparison to the screech of liquid rushing through pipes under high pressure and the bellows of the cargo carrier hovering almost overhead.
After an hour, and with not a single worker showing a face, I say, “Are we in a monster’s lair, recently deserted?”
Madsen and Ozerken ignore me.
I remain silent as we travel the final ten miles to North Dock. Two-thirds of the way across a Walmer shrills. Instantaneously, workers emerge from a four-story building with lunch boxes in hand and race for seats in shaded areas. And I’m reminded of my last meal with Roses—two weeks ago.
We had lunched through a lingering hand holding farewell in the Mall of Sand Lake Flats. “You should stay here, Roses.” I had opened with instead of ordering food.
She glanced my way, patted my hand in a calm-yourself Once-Other fashion and in acknowledgment of silly conversation and returned to her menu. We ate in silence.
Each time I glanced at her hoping she had changed her mind, she smiled and whispered, “I love you too.” And she continued eating, still smiling.
I eventually gave up, chuckled and we enjoyed the meal together.
Thereafter, she and her family left in SandMasters for Port-SLF.
I stood atop a dune watching their sand-cloud grow smaller. Madsen, Maggie, Pe’truss, Jenk, Droght, and Ozerken joined me and we stood there until the roar of engines died and the dust dissipated.
Two hours later, I was still gazing at distant dunes. My inner view drifted outwards following them along the fifty miles of desert to Port-SLF. I grinned...the citizens of Earth-Born had no clue what they’d released upon themselves.
Madsen eventually strode stiffly up and said, “I’ve round-n-about had this an’ all.”
I nodded and allowed him to drag me away and I helped break camp.
With all ready and loaded we did a lot of hand-shaking as Nomad HQ moved out en masse. Their vehicles snarled up a storm and their roars hurt. Distance soon silenced the roars and the hulking shapes slowly vanished, hidden by dust.
Madsen and I stood humbly upon the empty, silent desert. I felt gutted of life having lost Karrell and now my new friends and family were gone as well. I sighed and climbed into a waiting SandMaster.
We drove north to await passage to EB.
I return from thinking about yesterday and find Seattle BA-75 towering overhead, an enormous python having swallowed a whale. I’ve been hired on board BA-75 as Coney Jones and Madsen as Jon Green, Facilitation Engineers. What we are to facilitate neither of us knows.
Ozerken again slams the brakes on hard and we slide to a halt. Madsen and
I get out.
Ozerken nods to us and I note a troubling smile in his eyes.
We wait, but he doesn’t care to explain. I lean in and ask him something I’ve wanted an answer on for some while, “Why did you cut off your arm like that?”
“Conviction and convincing,” he says and smiles.
“Oh!” is all I can manage to say.
Madsen’s face remains expressionless.
A single backpack in each of our hands, we bow our heads as the SandMaster roars away blowing sand and dust everywhere. Madsen presses a button mounted on the steel structure alongside the cage door. It ding-dongs.
Minutes later the door slides open, we enter and are whisked up twenty floors to Crew Registration.
“Our heroes have arrived!” the cute Arrivals Executive in a spotless white uniform says and rushes out from behind her counter and gives us each a huge hug, which neither of us understands.
She returns to her desk and pulls up our data on-screen.
Here mouth moves as she reads. Her dark hair is stiff enough to remain unmoving. Done she looks long-n-hard at us with an odd respectfulness and says, “So grand a gesture of you two to stand in like this. So unusual. What heroes you are.”
We smile to hide our hidden agenda and confusion at her words.
“Anything for BA,” I reply.
She nods her eyes glowing with a strange light. Done with registration she heads off, data screen in hand, two large manila envelopes under her arm. We follow her squeaking boots.
Our collective footsteps the only sound, she leads us along stark white and deserted passageways. We clamber through hatches, up several ladders to higher decks and finally down a long dimly lit passageway where she assigns us to Berth 101.
“Here you go,” she says and points.
Our accommodations welcome us to double bunks and trunks bolted to the deck. I run an eye around the bulkheads to find they are either filthy or painted dark brown or both. I decide not to touch.
I check berth numbers and discover my bunk stands directly beneath a dripping from the overhead. The drops are also a dirty brown and the bunk cover is damp and stained.
Upon my already abused ears, musical entertainment comes via snores in various tones and echo modes. I sigh and note we have no exterior views.
“You’ll need these,” the Arrivals Executive says and hands over the two envelopes. I open mine to find a thin handbook titled: Engineers, Duties of, Facilitation.
“Thanks,” Madsen and I say as one and in appreciation.
She checks us over and smiles secretively. Gives us each a peck on the cheek and runs a hand down each of our chests. Walks off backward, steps out into the passage, stands a moment smiling sadly, waves and says, “Good luck,” and squeaky footsteps echo a rapid retreat.
A siren screams and eight snoring souls awaken and swing sixteen feet to the deck.
“What you guys do?” asks a lanky one striper pulling on a shirt.
“Facilitation Engineers,” we say in unison.
With not a word spoken, they all pack and troop out the door, double time.
“At least we have a place to ourselves,” Madsen says.
“Interpreting Ozerken last smile...duly intended,” I reply.
And I glance at the contents of the manual.
The first item that gets my attention in a one-two-three altogether fashion is Blockage: Pipes and Joints.
Then another. Solidification: Urine and other Waste Products, Hands on Facilitation Methods 1-22. And another one: Protective Suits, Odor Penetration of, Dry Bathing without Soap—Failures of, Socializing & Movement Restrictions.
CHAPTER 72
Of Crimes And Lies
My supervisor hands me a new Transcript Authorization without any explanation. “What’s this?” I ask. He shrugs an I don’t know. I connect and initiate playback eager to see what it is all about.
To my shock, it opens to a late night scene inside the McPeters home. We are in the lounge. At first I cannot wrest attention from the abundance of wealth.
Everything is top-of-the-line—the white imitation leather sofa, sprawling armchairs, soft artificial shaggy carpets, and four standing lamps. And beyond all imagination a wall-wide, ceiling high TV.
Am I envious or what?
Mr. and Mrs. McPeters are dressed in twin sets of pale gray nightgowns. But dear D-109 is still wearing the same clothes he was when he arrived. All three are watching one of the most favorited TV shows of all time—The Birth of Truly Equal Happiness.
Oh no! Appears D-109 has caught terminal ADD-D. Spasms rack him as he sprawls lopsided in the armchair, his attention fixed on the TV. Drool runs out the corner of his mouth and every few seconds he shakes and his heels thump the floor.
A chill tiptoes across my shoulders. I glance around and behind me stands my supervisor staring at my monitor and rubbing his forehead as though it aches. He nods as I do when understanding a terrible tragedy but says nothing, turns and walks out.
Skellumer chuckles as though he knows what’s what.
“You’re sure to get your comeuppance, Missy,” he says.
“Listen Skellumer...urgh...never mind.”
I get back to the Transcript.
McPeters points his Nomadi at D-109 and hits a button.
D-109 lurches out the armchair lands on the carpet with a dull thud and jerks something awful. McPeters stands up, stretches, waves at his wife Mary, glances at D-109 and says, “You wanted another kid. Now you’ve got it.”
Mary refuses to look at him. Her jaw muscles flex and her eyes reflect hate. “It’s not mine,” she says. “Didn’t ask for it. Get rid of it. Send it back.”
McPeters throws his arms wide. “What’s it take? Eh? What? You can program it, make it whatever you want it to be. There’s a button for pleasure and a button for pain.”
Mary hunches forward concentrated on the TV.
McPeters flaps his arms, his eyebrows twitch as he looks around as one lost. He shudders, washes his face with his hands, looks out between his fingers, kicks D-109 and stomps out.
“Deactivate!” Mary screams.
A moment and D-109 goes slack. Mary stares at the TV, tears stream down her cheeks. D-109 awakens, struggles up and stumbles over to her.
She cringes from him wiping at her cheeks. Moving slowly, he hands her something. After a momentary hesitation, she reaches out a hand. I zoom in—it is a video chip! Where did he get that?
I do a rapid search for a file, find and load the file of D-109’s arrival and scan through it. Stop! The LAX Security Guard crouches over D-109, extracts the High-Tazer probes and cuffs him—but nothing more.
Wait. Slow playback down. “Ah ha.”
The Guard slipped the chip into D-109’s pocket so fast his action was invisible in standard mode. I pull up his details. Quickly attach the record of what he did and forward his picture, transcript, ID and record to the Reports Section here at the Department for the Assurance of Happiness, Attention Mister Warrent McPeters.
Wow. That is incredible.
Hallelujah.
Am I well trained or what?
I am back with the Transcript.
Mary peers into D-109’s eyes assessing him and glances with a strange and knowing fear at the chip. She pops a pill then another, inserts the chip into the TV, hits play, and oh my Equalness.
On the screen is their bedroom. Mary McPeters sleeps alone in low ambient lighting cast by a purple bedside lamp. I note the scar on her arm, which indicates she had already purchased her pre-owned arm, the C-POP one.
The shadow of a human form moves along the wall.
I wait tense and afraid.
Phew! McPeters steps into view their sleeping son in his arms.
He places the boy on the bed close to Mary and the little one snuggles up with her and sighs. McPeters takes a spray can of Peace and Sleep out a pocket and sprays a cloud around Mary’s face. She breathes in, stirs and settles into Peace and Sleep. He sprays some aro
und his son’s face and the child slips into Peace and Sleep, breathing heavily.
A strange thing to do…wait!
He moves Mary’s new C-POP hand onto their child’s throat pressing her fingers around the delicate white skin. He looks down at them for a minute, nods in satisfaction and exits.
Oh, my Equalness...I hope this is not what I think it is.
In the lounge, he sits down on the couch, crosses his legs, turns the TV on, the sound up high and waits. Fifteen minutes later his Nomadi blinks as the doorbell chimes.
He presses a button and the front door unlocks and swings open. He sprays Peace and Sleep around his own head, tucks the can into a pocket, breathes deeply of the spray and falls asleep.
A shadow enters—a male human form in a black, skintight suit. Gloves hide his hands. A hood with narrow slits for the eyes covers the head—sunglasses hide the eyes. The figure examines McPeters, pats his cheek, waits, pats the other one and heads out the lounge, pauses and glances back and gone.
He enters the bedroom, stands next to the bed, leans over and pats both their cheeks—gets no response and pats again. Still gets no response. He stands motionless for some seconds arms at sides. Moves in and both hands go around Mary’s one that is at her son’s throat and squeezes—and holds.
I am trying to be professional here.
Oh dear me.
Oh, how their son’s little legs twitch and his little feet kick so valiantly but he fights in vain and his struggle is short lived. The dark figure maintains pressure until well after the kicking ceases. He sighs loudly and stands erect staring down at the bed. A blast of trumpets from the TV jolts him alert and he reaches across to the still child.
His gloved hand holds the little boy’s nose closed for several minutes. The little boy’s mouth does not pop open to breathe. Figure nods approval, lets go, slips out, down the hall and out the front door.
Mary stands up like a cork flying out a champagne bottle. She glares at D-109, sways, and faints. In the same instant, their TV cuts to a blank screen and hisses as though demanding revenge. D-109 catches her and lays her on the couch.
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