The light went to green and Venloran rode off, first seeing a string of empty businesses, large and small. Bakeries, coffee shops, banks, their fate had all been the same. Now they were passing a park, good old St. Juniper. He could remember how in his childhood his father had carried him on his shoulders, running through the grass, and how he’d done the same with his own son when he was a boy. He knew he had to see. All throughout the park now were huddled groups, even a small tent or two. Some poor soul in the center had started a soup line, though they now stared into the faces of possibly hundreds. It was no strange sight under the helm of President Howard, Venloran having seen it in every major city he’d visited in the long months he’d been on the road. But he did see something that perplexed him.
A man stood out from the hungry mass not by his face, which was as smudged and as thin as the rest, but by what he wore. He stood there on the sidewalk, apparently the forty-ounce bottle at his feet being the only thing his body needed. No attention of his was paid to the lines behind him, somehow giving off the impression he was disgusted by them and refused to be a part of them. He wore no jacket to keep warm, only a standard tan-brown military uniform, and in his fingerless gloves he held a homemade sign: GOD BLESS AMERICA.
It was only as all these sights were replaced by trees did the air in the car suddenly become less stale. It was a lonely road, and Janet knew Carl was angry above anything else. Most of their friends in Washington were still buying the latest Aston Martins as everything else seemed to crumble.
“I’ll try to convince Warren to head up to the summer house or maybe stay with Avery and Jessica during the campaign,” she suggested.
“He’ll refuse Janet, and why shouldn’t he? He was born and raised here just like we were.”
“Edgebrook isn’t what it used to be. Nothing is.”
“And we deserve every bit of it. We deserve to revel in it for letting that man go up in front of millions and convince us that everything would be all right through national prayer and faith.”
“So indignant. Is this the same man I watch on that podium speaking of hope and reform?”
Venloran bowed his head slightly.
“I’m sorry, it’s just… sometimes I worry I might lose. If I do, things will only decay even more.”
He felt her hand on his, and, with a feeling of strength, he held her soft hand tightly. Up ahead was the final turn to Venloran’s refuge from the rest of the world, a quiet little estate in the woodlands. It hadn’t exactly been where they’d spent the majority of their lives, but after the end of their son’s tour, they figured it was for the best. Venloran had only told one person that half the reason he wanted to move up here was a growing sense of disgust at what he saw around him. He could only be that honest with, oddly enough, his assistant, Kearney. Sincerely, he was afraid of displaying his inner rage to his beloved. She’d seen a glimpse of it now, but he was determined to resolve it through one method and one method only: victory. Ah, there it is.
It was a fairly large two-story, its maple-syrup coloration blending well with the foliage. The street ended as he parked onto the large driveway. As Janet headed for the door, Venloran took a moment to observe the sole tree of his front yard. Even with all its leaves near gone, a family of birds had nested in the high branches. Speaking of which, they’ve grown too much since we’ve been gone, hmmm…
“You coming in, honey?”
Venloran followed, still eyeing the tree, but shutting the door for his wife.
“Just thinking the tree needs a trimming.”
Janet playfully shook her head. He never does stop worrying. Inside, the home was quite luxurious, the living room alone full of knick-knacks she had acquired. The two couches were a deep red on top of an apricot carpet with an oriental-inspired rug lifting the room. Its floral design was accompanied by a Chinese dragon, Venloran having taken a particular interest in bringing that one home. He hung his coat on a rack before following Janet into the kitchen. She slipped out of her heels and stepped toward the sink full of dishes, only to feel Venloran take her by the shoulders.
“I insist,” he said warmly.
“You’ve hardly slept at all during your campaign, you need rest.”
He held her close, feeling her practically melt in his strong arms.
“I’ve traveled the country, I think I can handle some dishes. Just do me a favor and wake Warren. It’s half past noon, and he should be checking up on those scholarships.”
He felt her tense up, freeing herself gently from his smitten grip.
“And if he’s not ready this session, Carl?”
“Then the students of Princeton will get one more lax semester before having to compete with my boy,” he said in a confident tone.
This brought a smile to his wife’s face, realizing despite all that was going on he hadn’t forgotten what mattered most. Reassured, she turned to go up the stairs. Meanwhile, Venloran rolled up his sleeves and turned on the faucet. He gave it a minute, pondering to himself about the tree again. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Warren would volunteer to help him with his little project. He always had. He longed for the days when his son would ask for help with his bike chain as soon as he stepped in through the door after a hard day of work. Though he’d more often than not be tired as all hell, somehow he always managed to do it.
Poor boy was always falling off his bike and scraping his knee doing those stupid little stunts. But he loved trying them to no end. The water gave off steam as it heated up, and Venloran knew it was at the right temperature to start filling the sink. Before getting started, he checked the dishwasher for stragglers. Honestly, he found the contraption an excuse to be lazy and it could never compare to the intricate detailing of a human hand. The foam began to build, bringing with it the smell of manufactured spring.
Then he heard the scream, the scream that echoed throughout his entire being. Every hair on his body was raised as if a current of cool air had passed over him. By his own instinct, he found himself at the closet by the stairs, kneeling. Though he no longer kept his weapon holstered, the man had kept it within the house at all times. A man who intrudes upon another man’s home was one begging for death, especially his home. He found the old cigar box, but as soon as he felt the weight of it, Venloran saw all too clearly. He tossed the box onto the floor, running up the stairs. The lid flew open, exposing the gorgeous crimson velvet lining within, though nothing was inside of it.
Venloran’s sprint up the stairs slowed as he got to the loft. He saw Janet sitting against the wall, next to the doorway outside the room at the end of the hall. His wife had her face in her hands, sobbing, and did not turn her eyes toward him. Venloran found the dark blue walls of the hallway closing in on him as he approached. His heart was racing, beating as if it would give out any minute. His fingers that had only a few moments ago been clenched tightly into fists and ready to smash a man’s face in were now cold. He entered the doorway of the bedroom and found himself unable to go any farther.
Never again in his life would his heart beat the way it had. Never again would he feel the fear that had just riveted through his body, never. It would be the last time he ever felt weak at the knees. Water gathered in his eyes, and he wished he had the courage to step into that room, to step onto that forever-stained apricot carpet. He faced the crippling blow that it was beyond him. The figure at the other end of the room sat in a chair looking out the window. The shape had become a murky one due to the dipping sun, but there was a poke of light penetrating through the silhouette’s head.
Venloran’s prideful and consistent shining of the Beretta M9 created a beautiful sheen of the yellow light reflected off the instrument as it lay on the floor. The chirping of birds still was a note in the air, the mother having returned to its chicks.
***
The Chancellor stared out the window of the UNR Cruiser, staring at the orange hue of the clouds. He recalled how the R &D Department’s first treat to him had b
een this prototype aircraft: a one-of-a-kind jet, its gleaming metal surface and odd shape giving it the look of something almost out of a space opera. It had been a testament to their advancements, the promise their bright future held. No matter how much time passed, he found himself unable to keep glancing back at the past.
Kearney sat in silence, not too far away in his seat. The cup of red wine in his hand was soothing and the long ride could easily lull him to sleep. Watching Venloran, he found himself unable to sleep.
“What happened to Johnson wasn’t your fault. Try not to pick at it, Carl.”
“Do you comprehend what it’s like to have blood on your hands?” he said in return.
“There are some things you just can’t stop. It was evident Johnson knew what was coming. He chose to take the path he did, no one else.”
Venloran looked away from the window now, switching to the drink in his hand.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a weak smile. “It’s Jessica my mind lingers on, how much she’s suffering. But it’s the nature of every war. Even those not in the theater of combat themselves manage to suffer.”
“A morbid truth, you once told me,” Kearney agreed. “We will never forget our ally, our partner, our friend.”
The assistant raised his glass and Venloran did the same. Both finished their drinks, and Kearney instantly fashioned to refill the glasses. The Chancellor ran a hand over his hair, mind never a blank.
“When we get back, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do. Something I want you to tell no one about. Not even Janet.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 11 - Retrieval
October 11, 2065 – Freetown, Sierra Leone
The large duffle bag was disturbed yet again. Eager yet gentle, a pair of smooth hands lifted a jewel box from its innards and rested it on her lap. At maybe seven inches in length, maybe little more than half that in width, this little sacred object still had a hefty weight to it. Its juvenile floral-pattern paint had faded and flaked over the years but using anything else was unspeakable. The latches were still intact, whereas the spot usually reserved for a lock had long been abandoned. It was opened, and as expected a sparkle of radiance was revealed. Inside, there was no jewelry to be had.
A horde of pendants, necklaces, and wristlets laid amongst the smooth interior. The Star of David sat in one corner while another piece of silver had the Ayatul Kursi inscribed on it. Symbols of the Baha’I Faith as well as the ever-present Catholic Church were jumbled amongst much, much, more.
The prize captured from the broken terrorist lay amongst them and right alongside the gift of Chuck Carson. Despite the sheer contrast between the owners of the artifacts, she couldn’t withstand the calling inside of herself to group them together. Staring down at the assortment of would-be Valkyries, she pondered what she had always pondered: why hasn’t their glow dimmed in all these years?
“Unit 37.”
Mari looked up from her jewel box, immediately shutting it. Before her stood a UNR soldier, his face moist with perspiration from the continuing labor.
“Yes?”
“The captain has requested you report to him, ASAP.”
“I will be there immediately, thank you.”
The soldier nodded before leaving, as Mari stood. She put the box back into the duffle bag and zipped it up before sliding it under her cot.
Mari exited her tent into the early night, the air warm, yet accompanied by a gentle breeze. From the makeshift forest of tents, she could see a shimmering ocean and heard the rolling of the waves. She began to walk through a plaza, the place swarming with soldiers running this way and that. There were no civilians in sight on the streets, even though all could see the far-off light given by the thousands of windows. Behind each one’s glass were peeking eyes but not a single utterance.
Of course, with the gruesome battle only hours earlier and with the roar of UNR aircraft in the sky, the stench of silent dread loomed. Businesses and the like were all closed as UNR troops patrolled every street. They moved like packs of wolves in the darkness, avoiding light posts and lurking through alleys.
Mari walked past it all, a sleek observer. Normally her missions were solitary ones and it had been a long, long time since she’d seen such an enormous welcoming party. There she blows.
The S.S. Manlius was anchored in Deep Water Quay as a sight of radiant terror. It was a Nimitz-class piece of art, commissioned June 10 of 2032 on the same day as its sister. She reached a length of nearly four hundred meters, the titan of a new era. Her main power source was still the Westinghouse A4W nuclear reactor, though it was now a trio. Jets came and went like an avian nesting ground. It was there Mari knew she was expected.
***
The super soldier neared the captain’s office, noting how cool the air was as compared to outside. That and the stillness of it; the strange lack of any particular odor. She bowed respectfully but remained just inside the doorway. The captain was seated at his desk in this strange room, and for Mari it all seemed so unfamiliar. After being so exclusively confined for oversea missions, the grime and constant heat, she honestly wasn’t sure how to react in this setting.
“Be seated, Unit 37,” he said warmly, “I hear today was quite a productive one. This will look just marvelous on your records.”
“I live to serve, Captain.”
Despite the aged man’s pleasant tone and lax posture, Mari remained a stiff statue in her chair. The fine linen cushioning that any other person would have sunk into was barely of any notice to her.
“I know it’s been a long time since you’ve had to sit with an officer such as myself. Due to the nature of your assignments, it makes more than enough sense that communication would be dead tight, but I can’t think of many that would meld so well with the lifestyle.”
“That never came to mind, I guess.”
“Then again, the variation of landscapes must be riveting. During my many years of service, I haven’t seen much time outside of Atlanta. Not since The Expansion.”
“That’s one thing that’s been on my mind, sir.”
“And what’s that?”
“It’s the amount of our presence here. It feels like something bigger is going on than what I’m being told.”
She would die before admitting it, but it was a deep-seated need to conquer her enemies alone. That was the way it had been done for so many years now, the pleasure of her work confined to her alone. It wasn’t about the glory, seeing as there was none to be had, due to the inconspicuous nature of it all, but the simple gratification of knowing it was her hands keeping the necessary balance in the world.
“Rest assured the Chancellor has no such plans. He and the local government agreed that this particular situation needed a large-scale show of force. Subtlty has had its moments, but escalation has been and will always will be a relevant factor.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“It is indeed regrettable, though, that we lost Lieutenant Carson. First assignment back out in the field in years, and he catches a bullet.”
“After our last mission together, Chuck said he’d never do another field op again. For a long time after our success, his request was granted. What changed that?”
“Carson had years of experience dealing with scum like these. The Cabinet must’ve figured—”
“To send him back out into the shit when plenty of pitiful filth need to do their time…” Mari said in spite.
“Do you disapprove of their decision?”
The cyborg remained quiet at this, only keeping a still eye contact. The captain tapped his fingers for a second, as if suddenly just shooting the breeze. He now sat forward in his chair, his expression changing somewhat.
“I hate to impede like this, but there are regulations… guidelines I must follow. I’ve received a few reports that have forced my hand.”
“Reports, sir?” Though she remained outwardly calm, below the officer’s vantage point her once at rest hands w
ere gripping her knees in annoyance.
“Minor things from recruits in your platoon. I wouldn’t be surprised if you spooked a few of them, but there were a few things that warrant a psych exam, so to speak. Since the incident at HQ, it’s been warranted that each and every last cyborg be checked for defects.”
Her mind automatically went to that little bastard Davies, that little conniving bastard. How she wanted to put her hand around his throat and hold it there. It would take but a few seconds for his body to go limp without a single utterance. For a few seconds, there she was lost in the tempting task and her silence left the captain in a bewildered gaze. She returned herself to reality abruptly, feeling embarrassment.
“I feel it highly unnecessary, if I may say so, sir, but I’m more than willing.”
“That’s good,” he said with a smile. “The next plane back will be dusting off early, probably daybreak, but you’re no stranger to that.”
“Yes, sir!” she responded. “Is that all, sir?”
“Indeed, you are dismissed.”
With a final salute, Unit 37 left the captain’s office. As the door shut, he reached into his desk drawer. You’ve waited long enough. He found what he sought, a box of Reds. Before he could even enjoy them, he heard footsteps at his doorway. Was it coming back? He looked up to see the intruder was Mr. McGinley, the only suit-wearing bastard on the whole damn ship. He entered without greeting or invitation, but the captain knew of the man’s connections, so he remained polite.
“McGinley, something amiss with your cabin?”
The slim-built man stood in front of the desk with not an emotion on his face. The joke didn’t seem to register at all. His brown hair was kept at moderate length, though he enjoyed having a few elegant locks to add to his appeal. It had always been the place of Kane to symbolize the head of the head of the SSF, but it was in reality a series of subsets designated to each cyborg. These representatives had but one purpose: monitoring of the cyborg’s behavior. Field operations were left up to Kane and Major Johnson. Ones like McGinley had, however, risen the ladder quickly with the absence of the one all had simply called ‘Commander.’
The Chess Pieces Page 11