The vampires of folklore and yore relied on blood-drinking – a physical death of the victims, a death welcomed and appreciated, and a death that prevented the suffering that came in the wake of the alternative. The police officers trained in psi, however, homed in on the metaphysical energy of the victim – by compromising their spiritual life force, the psi warriors reduced their victims to zombies; alive, yet dead inside, the victims became obedient to the point of docility, suffering for the rest of their pathetic days.
And it was this docility that I demanded of all his subjects, no matter which state of the union they lived in: “His Word, before all and above all, with Liberty and Justice for All,” became the new Pledge of Allegiance under my Order.
These police officers – the collective of enforcers in this twisted version of democracy – these psi warriors – became, collectively, known as The Cabal, and the mere mention of their name struck fear in the hearts of the populace.
Not everyone could join The Cabal, of course. To join The Cabal, you had to undergo a series of physical, mental, emotional, and – most of all – psychic tests, and there was no room (or option) of failing any part of the tests. Potential members of The Cabal had to show physical strength & agility, mental stability, emotional detachment, and psychic intuition. Collectively, the tests were called The Trials – and if you were called to The Trials, it meant that you were in the running to join the elite squadron of The Cabal. If, after passing The Trials, I deemed you worthy of joining The Cabal – after, of course, you pledged unyielding fealty to my servitude – you were revered as a proud soldier of the New Republic. You were the symbol of patriotism and loyalty.
You were the representative of God on Earth.
No one defied me – and those that did were met with a hard, swift punishment from The Cabal. If you were a murderer, a rapist, a common criminal, you quickly and immediately faced death via the battalion of military machines available to The Cabal – and only to The Cabal.
I have no time – or use – for those who compromised law and order so severely.
But if you were a minor criminal – whether your crime entailed jumping a turnstile, jaywalking, or spitting gum onto the street – you faced The Cabal, who would then subject you to pain and torture in the form of psi. There were no courts, there were no trials, there were no lawyers to represent you before a jury of your peers – if you defied my edicts, if you compromised the lay of the land, if you did anything to disrupt the civil order and be anything but a docile servant following my orders, you were psied…stripped of all your spiritual life force, your psychic energy, the very aura that made an individual unique…and returned to society as a virtual zombie, alive yet dead inside.
These days, all it took for people to be subjected to The Cabal was being artistic – if you played an instrument, you were defying my order for peace and quiet…psi. If you painted a piece of artwork, you were defying my order for a uniform system of white…psi.
In short, all you had to do was go a little bit against the grain – do something just a little out of step with the rest of my edicts– and you were forced to receive psi.
The Cabal, literally, was working 24 hours a day, seven days a week, in six-hour shifts at a time…and they came out in full formation at night. And the main target of The Cabal’s efforts – what they spent most of their time and energy on – was finding, not only those constituents who defied the order, but those three disgraced Cabal members who were meant to be punished, under my orders, the most harshly for their treasonous ways…if they could get a hold of them, that is.
But I have no time to worry about the insurgents.
It was time to face my constituents.
I switched on the microphone, knowing it would be transmitted throughout the city, to reach the ears of every man, woman, and child that was under my rule.
And so, I began my State of the Union Address – the same address I gave from the first day I took office, until today, for it was consistency that was the natural breeding ground of law and order.
“My loyal, unwavering subjects,” he began. “By now, you have accepted me as your Emperor, having been voted – unanimously – into office after defeating those truculent puppets of the old order. It is they that were bought and sold by various corporations, serving only the interests of the highest bidder. But you, my loyal, unwavering subjects, recognized the corruption in this system. And you sent the message with your unanimous vote of me, your Emperor, into office.”
I looked out the window and caught my bearings.
My glassy eyes were deep, colorless orbs.
“Never in the history of what was once known as the United States of America has a leader been elected in such a landslide victory. And for this, I thank you, humbly, for your servitude. But as you know, there are still remnants of the old order that are still in power – the Fust of which I must clear out with extreme prejudice. For this reason, in this, my State of the Union address, I’m declaring today what I declared since the beginning: what was once known as the United States is now in a state of emergency.”
Do I believe it? Do I truly believe it?
I must have, for I cleared my throat, slightly, and I continued.
“I know you all have no understanding of the political world around you, at this time, especially in such turbulent times. However, those who have no understanding of the political world around them have no right to criticize or complain. So, for this reason, I need you to place your unwavering trust in me, your benevolent Emperor, for sooner will a camel pass through the eye of a needle than a great man be found by an election.”
Beneath my feet, in the once-peaceful, culturally-diverse park, The Cabal assembled.
“Behold, your Cabal. These police officers are not keepers of the peace. They are equipped with the finest military equipment, and they are trained in a deadly art known as psi. The police officers trained in psi will hone in on the metaphysical energy of the victim – by compromising their spiritual life force, the psi warriors reduced their victims to zombies; alive, yet dead inside, the victims became obedient to the point of docility, suffering for the rest of their pathetic days. And it is this docility that I demand of all my subjects. Unquestionably. Unfailingly.”
They grabbed their first victim. I continued, still.
“Remember: life never forgives weakness. And neither will I. In the name of my Republic, it is My Word, Before All and Above All, with Liberty and Justice for All. May this be your new Pledge of Allegiance under my New Order. Under penalty of psi, you remain my subjects, and I remain your benevolent Emperor.”
I turned off the microphone.
I closed my eyes, slightly, smiling.
The day had begun.
Chapter Three
Evanora
I could hear him bloviating, again, from the balcony.
It is entirely too early for this, you cocksucker, I thought, but I did not say as I jammed the pillow over my head and tried, desperately, to sleep.
Of course, it was no use. It never was when this asshole started screaming at the top of his lungs at an ungodly hour of the morning. Every morning. For the past twenty some-odd years. Saying the same thing, at the same time, every day, without changing a single goddamn word.
I know it by heart, by now. I can say it in my sleep. And sometimes, I do.
So, I did what I normally do in these situations: I pulled out my iPod, flicked the wheel, and stuffed the earbuds into my ears as I listened to Faust’s greatest hits.
Now this is the kind of caterwauling that I can get behind – the sacred, now-forbidden ritual of rock’n’roll.
I always thought Ivan Sapphire – real name, Jamie Ryan – was just so damn cute, though God only knows what he looked like now. If history teaches us anything, it’s that time isn’t kind to rock stars, especially if they regularly blast their body with drinking, drugs, and strange bodily fluids.
It’d be a damn shame if that’s what happened to Ja
mie Ryan.
But there was one Faust member I wanted to know more about, but never could – and never would.
Him.
My father.
Jordan Barker.
For this, I envied my mother, for she knew him well.
Too well, as it turns out, and I was the product of this unlawful carnal knowledge.
Rose Cunningham never talked about my father.
All I knew of him was what I saw in the rare pictures I could find.
He was tall. He was thin. He had strawberry blonde hair. He could play bass like no one before or since. He had a pixie nose and almond shaped eyes – both of which I inherited. He loved my mother and me with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. He bore a pain inside him that could only be numbed with a regular shot of pure heroin to his veins. He died when I was still a baby.
And that was the sum totality of all I knew.
I was born Evanora Joy Diaz-Barker and nicknamed the “First Faust Baby.” My birth heralded much comment amongst the rock glitterati in the old New York – I was the latest, greatest attraction to join the Faust three-ring circus (come one, come all, in more ways than one!), born to 21-year-old Jordan Barker, psycho bassist from Mars, and his consort of sorts, the 19-year-old Puerto-Rican-from-the-Bronx Ramira “Rosie” Diaz, a hip-hop B-girl and sometime dancer/choreographer who only happened upon a Faust show because her best friend, Angelique Denham, was the dearly beloved of one Jamie Ryan, professionally known as Ivan Sapphire.
Ramira loved to dance, and she did it well.
I never saw Rose dance. Not even once.
My name, of course, is just as unique as Faust’s music, but it has a sense of history, as well.
I was named for the two most important women in my parents’ lives: Eva, for Rosie’s mother, and Nora, for Jordan’s.
And my middle name – Joy – was, according to my mother, in honor of all the joy I brought into their lives, and all the smiles I put on their faces.
I don’t remember Rose smiling. Not even once.
I never doubted for a minute that my mother loved me.
Her love for me is what not only keeps me alive today, but keeps me dressed in the finest clothes, attending the finest schools, and eating the finest food.
In this New York – the new New York – the New York that exists under the tutelage of my demagogue step-father, the man known to the city and to the world as, simply, Emperor, but whom, legally, has the decidedly less-intimidating name of Roger Cunningham, though no one dared to call him that if they wanted to live to see another day – this is the most anyone could ask for.
It’s a form of protection, really.
But for this protection, my mother paid a heavy price.
She was forced to become something she never was – and never would be.
Because Emperor, God forbid, could never – would never – be caught dead with a Puerto-Rican-from-the-Bronx.
Emperor, God forbid, could never – would never – be caught dead with a single mom of a daughter whose father died of a heroin overdose – an overdose he had while he was supposed to be watching me.
He waited until I fell asleep after my feeding – and as I slept peacefully, he filled his needle with four times the lethal dose of the finest China white, plunged it as deep into his veins as it would go, and slept peacefully beside me.
Forever.
My mother found us both an hour later.
My mother and I were those kind of people – those kind of people being the nod, the wink, and the dog whistle code word for the “trash” that gave the old New York its unique flavor and charm, but who were second class citizens in the new New York, subjected to psi if they dared to do anything less than toe the line drawn in the sand by Emperor…a line that seemed to keep moving further and further back with each perceived infraction.
So, if Ramira wanted to save the life of her daughter, she would have to give up her own.
Oh, she would still be alive – she would be breathing, eating, sleeping. She would be performing all voluntary and involuntary biological functions. Her daughter needed a mother – Emperor needed a wife to at least have the appearance of propriety (“humanizing the dictator,” wrote one journalist who was “mysteriously” found dead not long after he wrote those words) – and Ramira was no good to anyone if she was dead.
Ramira would be alive. She just wouldn’t be living.
So, anything that suggested that she was a Puerto-Rican-from-the-Bronx – one of those kind of people – the fullness of her hips and lips, the curl of her chocolate brown hair, her natural effervescence, a smile that would light up a room, the confident and sexy way she would sway her hips with each step, almost as though she danced her way through life – everything my father loved about her – everything he lusted for in a woman – were obliterated.
Her hair was chemically straightened and dyed a garish white-blonde. I don’t know who told Emperor that this color was a good idea. Because it wasn’t. It still isn’t. She looks fucking ridiculous.
The hair on her face was burned off, unceremoniously, with pulses of light that caused her to flinch and cry with each application. Her olive skin still bears traces of these scars to this day. Of course, she covers it up with the finest makeup – nothing less for Emperor’s wife – but when she takes it off, the marks are still there, as permanent reminders of all she was, and all she was forced to give up, so I could stay alive.
Her lips and hips were suctioned, tightened and pulled, and her diet was restricted to the barest of nutrients needed to survive.
Her smile slowly, but surely, disappeared, and would only flash when it was required she be the “good wife” of the “good dictator,” greeting heads of state and other luminaries the way a well-crafted robot would be designed to do. Diva ex machina.
She was sent to what was colloquially called a “finishing school” to complete the transformation. God only knows what they did to her in there, because when she came out, her gait was stilted, her speech was deliberate, and her eyes – once simmering with life – were catatonic, zombified orbs.
And so, it came to pass that when my father died, all traces of him were obliterated, including any memories he may have imprinted on the two women he loved the most in this world.
Ramira Diaz and her daughter, Evanora Joy Diaz-Barker, became Rose and Evanora Joy Cunningham.
My mother insisted that I keep my name. That’s part of the deal, she said, or you may as well kill us both, and fuck what you stand for and what you want to be.
My mother was forged from the fire. Now, she was forced to burn in Hell.
The only way I could ever – would ever – hear my father was through the earbuds from the iPod. And even then, I had to keep it a secret – my mother could never know, for her reasons, and my step-father could certainly never know for reasons of his own.
My mother once said that she prefers it that way – that she does, in fact, love Roger, and she’s forever grateful to him for providing such a good life for her and her daughter, and the life that Roger provides for us would be nothing like the life my father, even in his rock’n’roll prime, could ever provide – and that she’s happy.
My mother thinks she’s got everyone fooled.
But I know better.
And if it means that she must delude herself into believing that she loves Roger to get some form of sleep at night, so be it.
And in times like these, the only thing I can do is push the earbuds back in my ears and close my eyes, losing myself in a time machine that takes me back to a piss-stained stage that I’ve never seen, but can somehow see -- and smell (and how could I not smell it) – in the forefront of my mind.
On this stage, I see them. Four men.
Leather clad men. Skinny men.
They’re sweating, singing, playing.
The women at their feet – so many women – are writhing in orgasmic ecstasy.
It’s a ritual – a ritual of birth, of life, of dea
th – a Bacchanalia, a praise dance, a voodoo circle.
One woman stands out – a petite blonde girl, a little younger than me, with a slightly prognathous nose and a tiny face in the shape of a heart, with her chin pointed perfectly and delicately. She is standing at the foot of the stage, directly beneath Ivan Sapphire as the world knows him – and Jamie Ryan as she does – close enough to reach up and touch him, directly, but this is something she never seems to do.
She doesn’t have to. She’s already touched his heart.
There’s a space between her and the rest of the crowd – nothing remarkable, but enough to know it’s there – a berth the audience has given to Her, the Chosen One, Ivan/Jamie’s consort of record and the inspiration behind some of his most heartfelt lyrics.
I’ve never been to Heaven/No, I’ve never touched the sky/But if angels look a thing like you/I’m not afraid to die/You get one love in a lifetime, and that’s all I can hope to find/You bring my desert to the water, and turn my water into wine…
Ivan/Jamie looks down upon her, and smiles.
He touches her face, lightly, with the tips of his fingers.
Are you there, Angelique? I’m here, Angelique.
I can hear him saying it in his mind, though the words never leave his lips. But he feels them. And I hear them.
You’re my inebriation, my salvation, my very soul rejuvenated…
I look over to the right of the stage.
My father is there.
He is playing with fervent intensity.
He’s hunched over, and his long strawberry blonde hair obscures his face.
The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series Page 2