A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga

by C. Chase Harwood

  This whimsical town square was just one of dozens like it in the virtual world, away from the excitement of alien planets, mega extreme sensation clubs, amusement parks, hunting preserves and battlegrounds. It was a simple place with an old world appeal, and it attracted mostly quiet couples, book clubs, coffee clutches, sunbathers and old men playing bocce ball. It was also a good place for a quiet conversation between two people living hundreds of miles apart who hadn’t seen each other in years. In the physical material world outside of this sim, Nikki was wearing a military grade Virtusuit, suspended in a Virtuhanger in her private room in the NCO barracks on the Joint Armed Forces training island off Nova Scotia. Six months of the year she trained men and women how to fight an enemy that no one within the contiguous Seven States or Canada had put eyes on in a decade; at least no one who could officially claim as much.

  Jon, wearing a similar get-up, was standing in the bedroom of his Charlestown apartment that overlooked the Boston Harbor, or Boston Icepack as everyone called it. His apartment had what was once a fabulous view of the city skyline, but years of near perpetual winter and unending overcast had made the scenery a depressing vision. The glass paneled skyscrapers had all been converted to horizontal green houses to grow food for a hungry people. It provided a somewhat interesting view, but like most Americans, he rarely found himself looking out the window, opting instead for unlimited virtual vistas.

  He and Nikki were among maybe ninety percent of the population or more, who could spend time in Virtu-sims. The richest — with the assistance of an experimental nutrition and elimination hook-up — never left Virtu at all.

  “So, how was your day?” asked Nikki as they walked.

  “Really? Nine years and you called to ask about my day?” Jon heard his tone. “Sorry.”

  Nikki allowed some separation between them and angled toward the bench. As they stepped off the sidewalk they could feel the grass under their feet crunching slightly, giving up the scent of a recent mowing. Several kids joined the man and his dog and their Frisbee game, playing keep away from the slobbering bounding Golden Retriever. Pets were forbidden in the real world. Working dogs — like those used by the armed forces or for the blind, and certain livestock, like goats for milk, were the exception. Food was far too expensive to grow for such things. Working dogs became the title for many a forbidden pet. Ten years of nuclear winter had pushed all agriculture indoors. Only the nutrient rich Gulf current, which wound its way up the coast then suddenly broke southeast toward Northern Africa, offered a diet that included animal protein. The realignment of the Gulf’s direction of current had left Northern Europe and what was left of Northern Russia and Mongolia locked in a new ice age; it’s war with Cain’s Disease frozen to a stand still.

  As they sat and watched couples laze in small rowboats on a pond, Nikki finally turned to Jon and let her eyes settle on his. A few crow’s feet and some deeper lines on either side of her mouth were the only definitive signs of time gone by. Jon felt his heart skip again and he found himself averting his gaze slightly, looking instead at her mouth, her cheeks, the fine blond hair that was backlit on the side of her neck — anywhere but those soulful eyes. Her smile dipped briefly into a frown and then she said, “I got a visit from Neil Kraus today. He’ll be calling you as well.”

  “Yeah? What did the general want?”

  “There’s been a development on Nantucket.”

  “They all decide to skip their meds?”

  “That’s not funny. No, some people landed there. Apparently they are what’s left of a mission that was sent across the country.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah, whoa. They’ve been gone a year. The president wants us to go to Nantucket and debrief them.”

  “My curiosity aside, why us? You haven’t worked there in what, seven years? There’s dozens of immune people who could do it.”

  “None of them are military and none of them are journalists. The president asked for you, personally. I guess the government still finds your record keeping worth something.” She paused and tried to enjoy watching the couples paddle boating on the pond. “So, how’s the apartment?”

  “The same I guess. I don’t spend much time there — here. I’m there right now…. Obviously.”

  “They’re bringing me down to Boston on the packet boat. They’ll put me up at a hotel for a night but I thought—“

  “That sounds nice. A hotel I mean. You should take advantage of it.” Fuck, he was losing it. His heart was pounding. Would he ever get over this woman?

  Nikki could see him struggling. It had ended abruptly. The marriage gamble had been a bust — the situation on Nantucket so secret that only designated personnel were allowed on the Hyannis Port base that serviced it. Jon had been able to find a job and an apartment as close as Boston, but the long distance thing made it impossible to have a real relationship. She could see him for a weekend once a month. Even that was occasionally spoiled by the unexpected. It had taken more than a year for the Seven States of America and Eastern Canada to secure the borders well enough so that people weren’t being attacked and infected. Casualties still happened; her escort duties took precedence.

  She had made the final call to end things. Trial by fire had brought them together, trial by separation had ruined it.

  She took his hand, and he let her hold it. It wasn’t like the real thing, but it was close. She knew every contour of Jon’s hand. The Virtusuit couldn’t duplicate that. “It will be good to see you.”

  He took his hand back.

  She sighed and let her lip pout slightly. “Like I said. Kraus will call.”

  He stood while subconsciously wiping his hands together. “Then I guess I’ll wait for his call.”

  She stood and took a step back to take him in. “I’m curious how you’re looking under this avatar.”

  He didn’t respond so she blew him a kiss and turned to walk away.

  As her avatar began to fade, he blurted, “A few grays, but otherwise the same I think.”

  She looked back at him and smiled. “I’m sure it’s very distinguished. See you soon.” In a blink she was gone. Jon sat on the bench for a moment longer. He watched a couple holding hands lean in for a kiss. Before their lips touched, he signed off.

  His apartment was purely utilitarian. Assigned to him by the Federal Repopulation Authority, the place was previously occupied by a writer of little means. Jon had inherited the sparse furnishings. His only addition to the place was a king size bed for Nikki’s once-a-month visits. Jon regularly lamented the vastness of the mattress as, even years later, he invariably woke each day alone.

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose where the Virtuglasses had sat, Jon removed the second-hand Virtusuit and flicked off the processor. He looked outside, noting it was still daytime. He smiled at that. He’d started many a daytrip only to “wake” from the suit to find that it was three in the morning. Boston Harbor was sandwiched between a perpetually heavy cloud layer and a gray iceberg pocked ocean, the view fading into an almost black horizon line. He was past being depressed about it. Virtutrips to sunny locations kept his serotonin levels to happy enough heights. The meeting with Nikki on the other hand… that had sucked the air out of both the virtual world and this one. He lifted his tablet and scanned a few docs that he’d been compiling for his latest article. It was a freelance piece about a trade ship from Morocco turned refugee transport. The semi-equatorial nation was one of the few citrus growers left on Earth and the only nation to have avoided Cain’s. The men and women on the ship had planned to set sail bearing oranges for trade, only to escape with their lives, as Fiends, and something far worse — the Moroccans could only describe them as demons — had overrun their nation. To add more flavor to the harrowing tale, the ship’s captain had relayed to Jon how his fast schooner had barely escaped an unidentifiable raider off the North Carolina coast. This confirmed building evidence of other healthy populations outside of the Federally controlled Seven States and Easter
n Canada.

  When it was dark, he ate a flavorless dinner of cabbage bean soup and washed it down with his last bottle of hard-to-come-by ale. Then he pulled out his overnighter and packed it while waiting for Kraus’s call. The bag had seen a lot of use over the years as he roamed from place to place gathering the stories of Post-Omega America. His one sanctioned trip to Nantucket was to report on the transfer there of the infected but drug stabilized population. He remembered a former Navy SEAL-turned-whaling-captain and wondered how the guy was getting on. Jon had liked the man and was struck deeply by his, and the other resident’s plight. The winters were at their harshest then. Many died of exposure. Other’s lost track of time and blew their med schedule — more than proving the necessity of exile. The place had become extremely isolated since, no real news out of there at all.

  His phone ringing snapped him out of it, General Kraus on the other end — “(Blah blah blah), you’re one of only a handful of people who can safely go to that island, (blah blah), President asked for you personally, blah blah, debrief, but also get the story on what’s happening over there these days, (blah). Your train to Hyannis leaves at 06:50. First Sergeant Nikki Rosen is arriving in Boston in a few hours. She’ll be on the same morning train. (Blah Blah), sorry if it’s awkward. She says you two are fine, (blah).”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Faust Pays A Call

  Upon their arrival on Nantucket, Stewart Dean and first mate George Sanders were greeted like men returned from a time machine. Great care had been taken to insure that Billy and Gallagher were safely escorted to Dean’s still unoccupied house so as to make certain that they would not come in contact with any infected person. Hansel and Gretel on the other hand… It was decided that it would be too much to surprise the exiles on the island with what would be their progeny were they not sterilized. The pucks were kept below deck and brought to Dean’s home under cover of darkness. When the time felt right, they would be introduced. Until then, they stayed out of sight.

  An island wide celebratory feast was held and the residents gathered in rapt attention as the explorers described the world beyond the Seven States. As Dean spoke, he had to frequently reach for water as his throat constricted with the nostalgia he felt for this place and these people. It was hard to keep the anger out of his voice; he was living proof that a cure of sorts had been found, yet in the year that he had been gone, nothing had been done for these people. They were still taking their daily pill regimen, and he’d been told that now and again, a person in despair would just quit; then they had their hands full.

  He had chosen not to share the news of Eliza’s cure yet, lest some type of rioting ensue. Instead, he held it as another bargaining chip with the US government. The information he had on what was out there; what was coming, would be used to guarantee these people’s futures.

  Three days after the celebration, one Jerry Mulcahy, line maintenance man and head of communications on Nantucket, made his Faustian bargain.

  The island was far from capable of sustaining itself in medicine, food, fuel, and basic creature comforts. The pills that kept the population from going mad had to be delivered on a regular basis. In order to achieve this, significant precautions were maintained. A large barge lay anchored as a permanent fixture at the mouth of the harbor. A weekly delivery was made at the barge, and only once the vessel had left did a team of islanders motor out to collect the goods. In addition to his job maintaining the communication and power lines, Jerry was also a volunteer supply collector.

  During one particular delivery, the man who regularly delivered the goods from the mainland broke protocol. He waved for Jerry to come along side before he motored away. Jerry, an affable fellow, shrugged at the man from the shoreline, where he sat in a large skiff — the only boat with a working motor on the island. He held his hand up for the fellow to give him a moment, then started the engine. The live engine sent a signal to the US Navy, notifying the military that the Halflie boat was in operation so that it could be monitored from afar. The delivery vessel was a large tug, which the tall skinny driver left running as he waited.

  When Jerry pulled within earshot for an easy conversation, the driver held up his hand indicating for Jerry to stop. Jerry let his engine idle and pointed his bow into the incoming tide, saying, “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s what I can do for you, friend.”

  Jerry never trusted a stranger who referred to him as friend, but he continued to provide a polite ear.

  “Jerry isn’t it? Mulcahy?”

  As an appointed receiver of deliveries, Jerry’s name was well known. Still, no one, and particularly this new delivery guy, had ever referred to him by name. “That’s right. May I ask what’s—“

  “Fellow back on the mainland says you got a rudimentary communications network here. Says, this fellow does, that he can get the US government to provide at least rudimentary virtu suits to you folks. Fiber optics is what you need. A line dropped across the seabed like the folks over Martha’s Vineyard way.”

  Jerry observed the man for a moment; a long pitted nose was the prominent feature, and he had a curious pattern to his speech. Jerry couldn’t place the region. Jerry was a big man, well muscled and fit at 230 lbs. He automatically sized people up as he met them, calculating how long it would take for him to beat them in a fist fight. He guessed two blows for this skinny dude. Smiling with confidence, he replied, “Why would this fellow want that for us?”

  “Money, my friend. Government contract to provide Virtu to Nantucket. Old Fashioned Money. A full top-of-the-line Virtu-suit to you my friend for your help.”

  Jerry thought about the places he could go in a full Virtu-suit. For all intents and purposes, he could leave the island anytime he wished. There were thousands of worlds to visit, people to meet, women to… women to do things with. He would go to Virtu-Thailand first, but not a beach, a hilltop somewhere. “Okay. I’ll bite. How do we make it happen, Mr…?”

  “Pettybone, Jarvis Pettybone. I am to understand that you have access to the radio array, the communications for the island?”

  “I do.”

  “Then it’s rather simple. Sabotage the equipment you will, so as to make it inoperable.” The man checked himself and re-phrased the sentence. “It will require you to make the existing equipment permanently inoperable, but it can’t appear to be sabotage. My friend is ready to jump in the moment the government realizes there’s a problem. My friend will offer a solution that not only includes a new communications package, but an upgrade to fiber.”

  Jerry glanced back toward the distant town, as though someone might be eavesdropping. “Why would the government do that for us? They don’t give a fuck about us? And who’s to say they would use your guy if they did?”

  “The sole contractor for fiber in the Seven States he is, and the primary government contractor on public communications. They pretty much have to go through him. My guess, business is slowing.” Jarvis paused and the part of him that had never been able to edit said, “Some would say the government cares too much about you people.” He let that sit. “Just the messenger, I am.” He pointed at the two large well packed boxes bearing pharmaceutical labels that he’d just deposited on the barge. “My guess, there’re a lot of folks on the mainland that are wishing Virtu for you too. The whole bunch of them have their heads in other worlds.”

  “So you obviously get paid?”

  “No offense, friend, but I wouldn’t be gettin’ within two hundred feet of you if I weren’t. As it is, we’ve been talking too long. A full Virtu-suit for you. All the bells and whistles. Just break the communications.”

  Jerry bobbed in his boat and stared out over the horizon. A few of the island folk had wireless pads for getting the news and whatnot, but they could only download the information, it was one way and it was slow. Back when the island was first converted to the colony, mainlanders cared a lot more about the Halflie plight. Some would say, radically so; several escapes were arranged for an
d thwarted. After that, the Infected Relocation Authority strictly regulated the pipeline. With the exception of the lone government controlled radio, outgoing communication from the island was cut off. With the current arrangement, none of the refugees could access the nearly infinite virtual worlds that their mainland cousins filled most of their waking time with. From what Jerry had heard, the fools on the mainland spent as much time as they could ignoring the horror of the real world, including the people they’d banished to Nantucket — nearly all of whom had been orphaned from friends and family during Omega. The Halflies were no different from their fellow Americans, just doomed by a strange sort of luck. They were the ones who had slipped out a window as a mob of infected came in the front door, only to be attacked alone on the road; the soldiers who were bitten trying to retake the Northeast, not knowing for sure if their families were wiped out in the madness that was the Exodus; innumerable instances of a lone survivor making it to a med station and rather than the certain death by cattle stunner, instead receiving the new miracle of infection arresting drugs.

  If this strange talking fellow was for real, Jerry’d be a hero to his neighbors. “Does your friend have a timeline?”

  “In fact he does, friend. Eight days from now. And as a gesture of good faith, I’ll bring you your suit in advance with the next delivery.”

  “Exactly eight days?”

  “Exactly. And before you ask, he didn’t say why.”

  A week later, Jerry Mulcahy stared at a Virtu-suit laying unopened on his kitchen table. He lived in a modest town-home that was adjacent to the town hall where the communications gear was kept. Typically, the town hall folks packed it in early and today was no exception. A flu was going around. Lots of people seemed to be sick and if he admitted it to himself, he was feeling down as well. Down and thirsty.

  The Hall was never locked and he had his own key to the communications room. As Jerry let himself in, he became certain he had a fever coming on. Yes, he was a bit anxious about what he was about to do, but this was more than jangled nerves. He was starting to burn up. He needed to do this quickly and get back home under some covers.