From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

“The westerners eventually left Russia in despair, hoping to do better in their own countries. What followed was Stalin, and we all know how that turned out. The right wing nations were all afraid for nothing. It turned out that a conspiracy of mice will last only so long as it takes for one of them to grow into a cat, and as such, the legacy of the left is that it creates the very fascism it seeks to stamp out. Whether it’s in the form of left-wing champions - the Stalins, Robespierres, Castros, or Mugabes - or the right-wing strongmen conjured up to fight them - the Hitlers, Francos, and Musolinis - the wages of socialism remain the same.”

  A sudden thrumming swept the room as Kumar’s computer station came to life. Systems rebooted. Devices turned on. Screens started lighting up.

  “Back up and running, Mr. Hanson,” Doug said, looking relieved.

  “Thank you, Doug,” Peter said. “That will be all for now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hanson.”

  Valerie flashed her million-dollar smile. “Please continue, Mr. Hanson. This has all been very fascinating.”

  Peter looked at her with a sour expression.

  “The point that I am trying to make,” he said, “is that this day was inevitable. It was only a matter of time that your ‘everything-is-free’ administration would be replaced. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

  “Really?” Valerie asked. “Is that what we can expect, now that you have overthrown the rightful administration? Does this mean that you will be looking over your shoulder from now on?”

  “Of course!” Peter said. “But then, that’s the dirty little secret of a capitalist democracy: Freedom means putting one’s own self-interest first. In it’s purest form, it’s a gladiatorial event, where everyone is expected to battle each another on a daily basis. All the wise leader need do is pit one self-interest against another in order to remain in charge. Black versus white, men versus women, gay versus straight, religious versus secular... oh, and so many new ones are being born every day! Make them fight and then, like some obscure square dance, induce them to change partners and repeat. If any one of them grows too successful, then vilify them before the others and wait for the feeding frenzy to set things right. It is the great irony of politics that the left wing will always enable dictators to stay in power, thus giving the human race some semblance of organization.”

  “And right wingers are so much better?” Kumar asked.

  Peter shrugged dismissively. “Right wingers are just left wingers who drank the kool-aid. Same results. Less fuss.”

  “You’re full of crap, Hanson,” Torstein said, ignoring a man who gestured at him with a taser. “We weren’t arguing with each other. We were working together to save your ass and everyone else, and we were succeeding. Every problem we’ve had can be traced back to you.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Peter sighed. “No, you weren’t arguing among yourselves, but neither were any of you behaving like cats. Consider how Stalin would have reacted to my little revolution? A stern letter? A few angry words? Or would he have painted the Kremlin with my blood? And Stalin was a man who was motivated by principle. No. You all clung to your individual, departmental boundaries, ignoring the avalanche simply because you believed in the efficiency of snowshoes.”

  “Clever words,” Torstein growled, “won’t sound so clever once I’ve unscrewed your head from your – gaaghh!”

  With the wires from a taser still attached to him, Torstein toppled over.

  “Sorry, Mr. Hanson,” said one of Franklin’s men. “I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you. I should have waited.”

  “It’s all right, Brent,” Peter said airily.

  “It’s Bob, sir,” the man said.

  “Yes, of course. Sorry Bob, but you’re right. We should be moving this along. Mr. Sturgeon. Please place Mr. Mueller, Mr. Patel, and Professor Scratchard under arrest for crimes against the community.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hanson,” Franklin said, signaling his men.

  Scratchard didn’t hesitate, nor did he look surprised, holding out his wrists with a bored expression. Kumar, however, was not so complacent.

  “Arrested?” he demanded from the floor, where he’d been trying to help Torstein. “Why in the hell am I being arrested?”

  “A whole litany of offences, Mr. Patel,” Peter answered. “For one thing, there is a great deal of anger over the sabotage of our community’s security net, and it is our intention that you be recognized as the man responsible. As for Mr. Mueller, he is directly responsible for the recent shutdown of badly needed construction pro-”

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Kumar exploded. “It was your people who screwed up the net-”

  He doubled over as Bob punched him in the stomach.

  “Shut up, asshole. Thanks to you, I couldn’t talk to my wife.”

  “Relax, Kumar,” Scratchard advised coolly as twist-ties encircled his wrists. “This is actually a compliment. It’s Peter’s way of showing how valuable he thinks we are. Keeping us in custody takes away our bargaining position, while augmenting his. There are all kinds of accidents that can happen to someone in custody, isn’t that right Captain Vandermeer.”

  “Absolutely not,” Eric said grimly. “Mr. Hanson, I-”

  “You will refrain from taking any action whatsoever, Captain,” Peter said coldly. “The window where you might have presented an effective challenge to my primacy has come and gone, sir. You are here now, with two tasers trained on you and separated from your barracks at First Canadian. Your soldiers are still restrained, locked up in their individual quarters, and outnumbered by a population that would much rather see them dead.”

  He switched his gaze to Krissy’s hard stare, then back to Vandermeer.

  “I have reconsidered,” Peter said. “Franklin, please see that the good Captain and our former Chief of Police are also placed under arrest. Either one represents a potential danger to our endeavors, at least for the time being.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hanson,” Franklin said, signaling his men.

  “Oh yes,” Eric said, holding up his wrists. “Tie my hands. Let’s see how that works.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure he’s secure.”

  “As long as you’re feeling all smug and clever,” Valerie said, her eyes hard as she watched the restraints go onto her friends, “how about you allow me a moment to clarify how I see our situation.”

  In response, Peter leaned back his head and laughed. It was so spontaneous and unexpected that a few of Franklin’s men jumped at the jarring sound of it.

  “What’s so funny, Mr. Hanson?” Bob asked.

  “Sorry, Brent...”

  “It’s Bob, sir.”

  “... It’s just that,” Peter continued, “this is the part of the movie where the plucky left winger says something like, ‘you’ll never get away with it’, or ‘you can’t do this’, and Ms. Hunter has so kindly offered to oblige. Forget that I’m already the victor. Or that I am arguably the hero in this scenario, and will be once the history books are written. We all have our clichés to bear, and this includes me.”

  He turned his attention to Valerie.

  “Apologies, Ms. Hunter. Please. Clarify things for me.”

  “Well,” she said, “now that you’ve gone and taken all the fun out of it…”

  “Come now, Ms. Hunter. Let’s not be coy. Say what you have to say, or see your opportunity stricken from the record of history.”

  “All right,” Valerie said, giving him a hard smile. “Since you insist. All I was going to say was this: my name is Valerie Hunter.”

  A silence followed and, after a few seconds, Peter frowned.

  “I fail to see-”

  “I’m the daughter of Paul Hunter, a contractor, and Caroline Hunter, born Caroline Wylie, a school teacher and British immigrant. My interests include fashion design, acting, fine art, musical theater, and apparently…” She sighed. “… electrical engineers with a hero complex. I have a sad compulsion to d
efine myself by the work that I do, which has lead me to be a bit obsessive in making sure all my work is perfect.”

  “Is… is this a job interview?” Peter asked, looking confused.

  Valerie then pointed at Kumar.

  “That is Kumar Patel,” she continued. “He grew up in a Hindu home, struggling to balance his parents’ old world thinking with his love of western values and technology. He smokes marijuana as a means of escaping the belief that his family saw him as a failure. On the couch, fuming, you can see Elizabeth. A superb mind and legal prodigy, she became a partner in her firm at the tender age of twenty-eight. She married well, but found out at the age of thirty-eight that she could not have children. Her husband is Steve. His secret is that he still loves Elizabeth. He would give anything to make her happy, but in the end, the only thing he had left to give was her freedom. Because he was strong, he did so, but it wasn’t easy.”

  On the couch, her eyes watery, Elizabeth sat in silence. When Steve, who was seated beside her, gently took her hand, she did not let go. Instead, she squeezed back tight.

  “Behold Professor Nicholas Scratchard,” Valerie continued, gesturing with one hand. “At one time, he was regarded as one of the most intellectually gifted men in the world. His mother, who was his greatest supporter, inspiration, and influence, committed suicide when he was in his late twenties. Since then, it could be said that he’s lost patience with life, friendships, and an intellect that never really gave him any sense of fulfillment. Now, adrift in a world of lesser minds, he has only his cynicism to keep him company. Beside him is Torstein Mueller, whose father came from a long line of men who worked with their hands. He learned most of his skills working alongside his father from an early age, so that now he can do almost any job a project calls for. And if, once upon a time, he dreamt of some other life - like maybe a becoming an actor - it was firmly stamped out. In his family, a man was measured only by how long and how hard he was willing to work.”

  “Please, get to your point, Ms. Hunter,” Peter sighed. “Telling me the sob stories of all your friends may seem productive-”

  “Not quite done yet, Peter,” Valerie said. She pointed at one of the men holding a taser. “That person there, whose name you keep getting wrong, is Robert Watson, or Bob to his friends. Bob and his wife Jean came to us from the slaughterhouse. They lost their six-year old boy, Blake, and Bob has been worried sick about losing Jean as well. She caught a very nasty E. coli infection in the animal pens and seemed to have lost the will to live. Thanks to your sabotage of the computer systems, he doesn’t even know if she is alive.”

  She turned towards a startled Bob Watson.

  “She’s fine, by the way. We received word last night. The intravenous equipment we obtained from the hospital saved her life by getting nourishment directly into her bloodstream. Dr. Burke says she should recover.”

  “Thank you,” Bob said, his face pale.

  Peter let out another sigh of impatience.

  “Now, I don’t know everyone,” Valerie continued, “but I recognize Donald Weston, who worked as a manager at the Rabba near the University. He may not have felt meaningful compared to all the university students and professors he arrived with, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s one of the most valuable citizens we have, in that he’s always trying to help. Then there’s George Wong over there, a simple cashier with a bad leg. But he found something heroic in himself. He took a terrible beating, losing three teeth, trying to protect a young woman from Chugger. And of course, there’s Franklin Sturgeon, who made it to the University of Toronto as an act of compromise and rebellion. His father molded him to be a professional athlete, but he was cursed with an exceptional mind and a love of science. He accepted a sports scholarship in order to be close to both, but despite proving that he belonged in the hard sciences by excelling in every subject, people never saw anything more than muscle. And here he is now, designated by you to be his number one thug.”

  “Is there a point to any of this?” Peter demanded.

  “The point, Mr. Hanson,” Valerie said, her voice rising with anger, “is that we are people. Not soulless demographics. We are not defined by something so simplistic as left or right. We are each of us individuals, with our own stories, our own tragedies and, begging your pardon, you can go to hell with your talk of pitting us against each other.”

  Fury glittered in her eyes as her voice rose.

  “While you were spending your time trying sabotaging computer links, manipulating our laws, and sacrificing the lives of our citizens for shoes and a comfortable bed for yourself, we’ve been doing our jobs. While you’ve been spreading rumors that I am somehow responsible for Marshal’s disappearance, we’ve been busy carrying out his mission statement: that human life is the only thing that matters. While you’ve been using people and telling lies to make yourself king, we’ve been tracking the needs of everyone in New Toronto. You mock me for not acting like a cat? Do you know why? It’s because I’ve been too busy to play political games.”

  Peter snorted. “Typical, left-wing twaddle.”

  “You know,” Valerie interrupted, getting angrier. “I am getting really sick and tired of the words ‘Left and Right’. They’re meaningless! I am not Left or Right. I am not White or Black, Gay or Straight, Male or Female, or whatever ‘label-of-the-day’ you pull out of your ass! I am Valerie Hunter! I am not a plaything on a political dartboard! I am not a faceless statistic! We are each of us human beings with our own lives, loves, pain, loss, and tears, and I, for one, am not going to let you treat us like mindless sheep!”

  “But that is what you are!” Peter shouted, spreading his hands. “You foolish woman, look around you! The vast majority of humans throughout history have lived, worked, and died without any hope of ever seeing the world beyond their particular horizon. It may not be fair, but it is the central fact of your existence. I am simply channeling that truth for the better good of us all. You whine about the fact that I had the computer net sabotaged, or that I have exposed us to danger from the undead... It was necessary! If you wish to herd sheep, you must be prepared to incite panic. And if you can’t encompass that, then you are more naïve than I gave you credit for.”

  Valerie smiled, shaking her head.

  “And there it is,” she said. “I’ve been working for men like you my entire life, Peter, and you sure don’t disappoint. Forget the apocalypse. Your ego and overdeveloped sense of entitlement could crush a zombie every day of the week.”

  She paused, and all at once, she sagged.

  “Is this really what you want?” she asked, pleading. “Marshal, Luca, Angie… they haven’t been heard from in days. It’s probably time that we accept…”

  The words stuck in her throat, and for a second she couldn’t speak. Her eyes flickered northwards, as if she could see through walls to some kill zone in the distance.

  “... it’s probably time we accept that they’re gone,” she said, wiping a tear from one eye. “From the beginning, they never rested, never questioned, they just did what they could. Our lives were the only things that mattered to them, and in the end, it cost them everything they had to give. There was no margin in it for them, no chance of profit. They saved us all because… because they didn’t want to be...”

  Alone.

  The word ached in her chest for some reason, and she wiped another tear. Marshal was gone, and she... it was crazy but... after all, it had only been a couple of weeks, yet…

  She looked over at Kumar’s desk.

  “Is this really what you want? Is this how you want it to be? With us clinging to the brink of our own destruction, is this how you want us to live? Pitted against each other by an oligarch who sabotages our safety and comfort in order to assume power? Is that the legacy you want to give to our children?”

  “Ms. Hunter,” Peter said, with a look of pity, “I think that it might be best-”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Valerie said.

  “Excuse me?” P
eter frowned with confusion.

  She pointed to the camera she so carefully positioned earlier.

  “I was talking to the people you just confessed to.”

  Peter’s jaw dropped as his gaze took in green light next to the live camera lens.

  “You… You’re joking…”

  “It’s been live since Doug rebooted the system,” Valerie explained in a voice as soft as cotton. “I switched it on earlier when I moved it out of the way. I just had to keep you talking long enough for it to come on line.”

  Peter stared at the camera without speaking as he attempted to digest the implications.

  “It’s the same camera, by the way, that Kumar hooked into the system to film Professor Scratchard’s presentation to every, single television screen in our community and which circumvents your sabotage. Remember how important it was to you that your speech reach everyone? That was one of the first networks we set up, and your people have been using it ever since. And, clever bunny that he is, Kumar attached a simple switch on the back of this camera to activate it. Of course, it was inactive until Doug came along and rebooted the system.”

  She turned towards the terrified IT specialist.

  “Thanks bunches, by the way, Doug,” she said.

  “You…” Peter spluttered. “Good God, woman, you-”

  “Isn’t ego wonderful?” Valerie said. “It just opens your big, fat mouth to tell the whole world what mindless sheep we are, and how much better we’d be if only... oh, if only... Joseph Stalin was in charge. Thanks for the history lesson by the way. Don’t know how it justifies you opening us up to zombie attacks, malfunctions, and civil strife. Oh that’s right...”

  She snapped her fingers and pointed at him.

  “... you just wanted to sew a little panic, so that we could be driven like sheep.”

  “Arrest her!” Peter snapped, half rising from his chair as he pointed.

  No one moved.

  Valerie’s eyes widened.

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Did you forget to tell your soldiers about all the bad things you’ve been up to? Oh, Peter... That was very shortsighted, don’t you think?”