“Yeah you do. I’ve known you since primary school, guy. I know about...” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a mocking stage-whisper: “‘The Rivalry’.”
“Come on, Jen. It has nothing to do with that.”
“Two houses,” She intoned, chin lowered and eyes raised for dramatic effect: “alike...in dignity.”
“Not really,” he chuckled. “The Lilums are, actually, dicks.”
“Here we stand. In fair Londinium, where we lay...our scene – ”
“ – Pretty sure it was already called ‘London’ back then – ”
“ – Shh! Poetic license.” He rolled his eyes, realising that she meant to continue. “From ancient grudge...break! To new...mutiny, where civil blood...” She growled intensely: “makes civil hands...unclean.”
“Did you memorise this to fuck with me?” She nodded, a crooked grin twisting her lips.
“Yeah. I kinda did.”
“Well, wake me when you get to the bit where that ‘Michael’ guy from Lost drops some super-acid, or whatever unrealistic interpretation of a drug he was meant to be taking. I’m gonna try and catch up on some sleep.” Looking at Ben seriously, Jen placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Listen, dude...Mary’s a fucking bitch. And a moron. You’re a catch. Personality-wise, at least. I mean...if you weren’t so hideously unattractive, I’d date you myself.” Ben cracked an awkward smile. He and Jen had played their game of ‘will-they-won’t-they’ for years. Every time things seemed to be nearing a significant turning point, one or both of them came to the conclusion that they were better off as friends. Mary had been Ben’s latest attempt to decisively move on from all of that. The attempt had failed. Badly. “But you’ve just been through some fucked up shit with a girl who didn’t want you. And here you are, at Princess Jill’s coronation.”
“Birthday party.”
“Same difference. I’m just saying. If I were a cynical person...” She trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
“You are a cynical person.”
“Yeah,” She acknowledged. “Yeah, I am. And I’m your best friend.”
“I’m here because I want to be.” Ben stated with a definitive nod.
“Okay. Whatever. But if you have a death wish? You’ve gotta tell me. It’s in the bro-code, bro.” Ben laughed.
“Jen. Bro. Shut the fuck up.” Jen smiled, pulling him into a close hug.
“It means the world that you’re here. Truly.” She said. And she meant it. “But you’re not...fooling...me.” He shrugged it off, looking around nervously. The crowd around the front of the function centre had him feeling cautiously optimistic about his chances of getting inside without a scene.
“We should really get in there, right?”
“That’s what she said.” Jen grinned. Her grin faded as Ben’s eyes narrowed. “In like...the context of a threesome? Where there are at least two girls and one of them is saying it regarding another girl?”
“That was terrible. Really, truly, terrible. Seek help.”
“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes.
“You shut up.” He dug his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, fingering the ticket he’d been given; embossed, as it was, with a name that wasn’t his. As the eldest son of Senator Michael Manus – archrival and bitter enemy of the Lilum family – he could only imagine the chaos that an attempt to get in using his own name might result in.
While Senator Manus had never seen fit to tell either of his sons exactly why there was such a problem between them and the Lilum family, Ben’s suspicion was that it had grown out of what had, once, been friendship.
No one ever hated anyone as much as they hate each other without it all being built on a foundation of love lost or trust broken.
So...yeah. It was, potentially, a tiny bit Shakespearean.
Anyway, even without knowing the origins of the conflict, Ben had spent much of his life watching his father exacerbate it. Using his sway in the Senate – and, beyond that, any other connections he could draw on – Michael Manus had gone to extreme lengths to block any-and-all attempts by Lilum Multinational to expand their interests on Australian soil, while simultaneously positioning Manus Incorporated in the most adversarial position that its shareholders were willing to tolerate. While his brother – Adam – had, apparently, succumbed to the weight of their father’s propaganda, Ben had not. It had never been his vendetta – or, he suspected, Jill Lilum’s – but the fact of the matter was that they were both their parent’s children. With parents who cast shadows as long as theirs did, it was hard to entirely escape their prerogatives.
“Ben?” Jen waved a hand in front of Ben’s face. “What the fuck are you doing? I said ‘yeah, let’s go inside’.”
“Fine. Sure. Let’s do it.”
“Cool. Follow.” She instructed. He could have sworn he saw a glint in her eye as she turned sharply on her heel. He rubbed his chin for a second; staring at the gentle sway of her hips beneath the tight, black skirt.
“Y’know...if I’m Romeo, that makes you Benvolio.” Ben mused.
“Point being...?” Jen queried over her shoulder.
“I’m just not sure how Shakespeare would have felt about Romeo noticing how nice an ass Benvolio had.” The comment received a breathy laugh.
“Clearly you never studied Shakespeare at Uni,” Jen teased. “Or you’d know that The Bard would have been totally down with that.” Shrugging, Ben walked slowly after her.
He had to admit, on approach, that the venue was incredible. Sheets of glass, many stories high, reflected the swirling, curling dabs of light cast across the river Thames by the thousand-and-one towering watch-towers of the city of London at night. Many minor archways curved over oases of shrubbery and manicured scrub. Small, minimalist gardens of grass and ornamental, night-flowering orchids sat – restive and haloed with ghostly caps of pale light – around the curved frontage of the sandstone-accented building. A huge keystone arch towered, centrally located, over the immense hardwood and black-iron doors of the main entranceway. The imposing, Romanesque monolith was illustrated with a series of interlinking symbols that were either Celtic, or just plain decorative in origin; carved all around the exterior of the semicircular stone object. Ben heard Jen sigh in muted amazement. “Wow. I really hit the jackpot with this gig.”
“Yeah, you sure did...” He could feel his palms moistening in apprehension. “Unless they figure out who your friend is...” he muttered, mostly for his own benefit, as Jen strode ahead. He exhaled deeply, pulling the hood of his jacket back: blindly pushing his hair into what he hoped was an approximately respectable arrangement. Jen turned, seeing what he was doing and rolling her eyes.
“Come here, you idiot.” He bowed his head slightly, letting her tweak and adjust the mussed, matted mess of brown and blond. “There. Less homeless, now.” She concluded with a self-satisfied grin. They paused for a moment: mutually mesmerised by the cascading steam that rushed forth from their mouths with every outward breath. In the crisp night air, it hung and clung like mist; pooling in the space between them.
For what seemed like the hundred-billionth time, Ben caught himself admiring the gentle precision of his friends’ features. There was the wavy, chestnut hair; soaked with the amber and pearl of the ambient, understated light of the city that surrounded them. There was also the sharp, aquiline stroke of her nose, and the aristocratic cheekbones ridged with a healthy, natural blush provoked by the meeting of hot blood and cold skin. Most of all were the swirling vortices of her smoky, seductive eyes; their somniferous allure accentuated by the fog of condensation that hung between them.
“You’re gonna be great.” He murmured.
“I know, right?” She laughed. He rolled his eyes. “Come on, ‘Romeo’. After you.”
Fragment II – Megan Arden
~ Meg ~
28/12/2023
Meg squeezed her eyes shut, raising an arm to shield them from the bright glare of th
e fluorescent lighting. “Intake thirteen ‘B’.” A pre-recorded voice echoed out from beyond the closed door and down the corridors that led to it. “Intake thirteen ‘B’.”
Through the fog of semi-consciousness, Meg heard the unmistakable click and whine of a door opening...folding forward on its hinges.
“Megan Rodriguez-Arden?” A voice asked. It was a shaky, stressed, over-caffeinated voice. It was also an uncertain, unsure voice. “Uh...New York branch? Public Relations officer?” Meg felt herself nodding slowly, in small, lethargic jolts. “Thank fuck,” The voice wheezed. “The last intake had stolen a fucking Ident-chip. Can you believe that? Fucking animals down there.”
“Down where?” Meg coughed, trying to sit up. Her throat was dry; full of dust and the viscous, dehydrated sludge that had, once, been saliva. She tasted charcoal. Charcoal and...something else. Something slightly sweet but entirely unfamiliar.
“Sorry, you must be disoriented. You’re safe, Megan. That’s the important part. You’re home.”
“Home?” She wheezed, recollections of what had happened beginning to push their way to the surface. Tears came next: forcing their way painfully into her eyes and out between the squeezed-shut slits of her eyelids.
“Lilum Multinational Headquarters: London. England. You’ve been extracted. You’re safe.”
“Safe? What about my...my sister? My family?” she managed to prop herself up on her elbows, but quickly realised she was draped in a large sheet of fabric that felt...slippery, like plastic. Under that, she was completely naked. Blushing, she pulled the sheet up to her chin. She absorbed the uncertain, guilty look on the face of the lab-coat clad, clipboard carrying figure standing in the doorway. The implication behind his expression was obvious. “Oh.” She murmured.
“There is some good news, though.” he offered hesitantly. “You’re being expedited through quarantine. We’ve run every test there is, and you’re clean. No trace of infection whatsoever.”
“Infection?”
“The 96 virus. Someone will be by shortly with a few forms – nothing you need to worry too much about – and then we can take you downstairs and find you a bed.”
“Paperwork?” She squinted. “What for?”
“Really: it’s nothing to concern yourself with. It’s just a biometric release, and some standard non-disclosure forms. Your clearance level is being upgraded, also. Well: technically, since you didn’t have a Government clearance before, I suppose your clearance is just being...graded.” She held up a hand.
“Shut up for a second.” He shuffled uncomfortably, waiting. Meg slowly pieced together enough words to form coherent questions. “Release? Non-disclosure? Why and for what?” The lab-coated figure approached her bed, sitting down on the edge, clipboard in lap. She saw scrawls of illegible annotation in attention-grabbing red in a few places on the front-most sheet of paper.
“Mega – ”
“ – Meg.”
“Meg.” He reached for her hand; his running over the top of the fabric, searching for hers beneath it. “We’re going to need to know everything that you know about Ambrose Portokolos – or ‘Mister Wright’, as he may have made himself known to you – and the Hand of Adam.”
“The what?” Meg shook her head, not understanding.
“The Hand of Adam.” His hand tightened around hers. Her eyes narrowed. Something about him wasn’t...right. There was something there...behind his eyes. A kind of coldness that, when contrasted with his jittery, affable outward persona, seemed...sinister.
“I’m not answering a single question or signing a single thing until I see Craig Lilum. In...person.” His expression darkened. He reached up, adjusting his glasses. Light glinted off the slim glass panes, obscuring his eyes.
“We know you’re one of them, Meg...or, should I say...‘operative Smoke’. We located your thumb drive.”
“My thumb drive?”
“The encrypted USB stick that you left for us in Trenton.”
“I want to see Craig Lilum. Now.”
“Well, see...that is just not going to happen.”
Fragment III – Ambrose Portokolos
~ Ambrose ~
31/12/2023
The small, sleek plane touched down with the grace of a dragonfly. Ambrose was pleased he’d been able to salvage it. The clunky mess of wiring and metal meant more to him than any living Human being.
He carefully went through the motions of lulling the craft into dormancy...flipping this switch and that, before running his finger along the seal that joined the cockpit to the airtight carapace that was cocooned around it. His own design. With a rush of wind as the fresh outer air merged with that of the slightly stagnant interior, he flipped the carapace up and open, jumping out: his feet finding asphalt with practiced dexterity. With a swagger and a stylish, neck-borne swathe of scarf, he sauntered his way across the empty tarmac towards the pair of figures – man and woman – awaiting his arrival. He pulled at his flight goggles – an affectation, he knew, but a much beloved one – giving them a cursory glance before tossing them over his shoulder. His aide, sprinting to his side, deftly snatched them out of the air: stuffing them in Ambrose’ leather-and-suede satchel.
Aide? He considered: Is that the right word? No, probably not. ‘Lackey’. That’s a more accurate characterisation.
“Mister Wright!” The former Lilum Multinational executive greeted him, holding out his hand. Ambrose reluctantly proffered his own...allowing it to be vigorously molested by the proletarian gorilla standing in front of him. Ambrose felt the bile beginning to rise. “Welcome...to Maud Namas.” he announced with an exaggerated flourish. Ambrose raised an irritated eyebrow.
“So that’s the final word, is it? We’re actually calling it that?”
“Of course.” The mongoloid gargoyle in front of him shrugged, as if it were obvious. And, in fairness, it probably should have been. Ambrose knew that he had a not insignificant amount of difficulty when it came to distinguishing between the tasteful and the realistic. He often found himself needing to be reminded that what should have been wasn’t necessarily what was. In fact, more often than not, banality won out with depressing ease and completeness.
“Fine.” he sighed. “So where am I needed?” The tall, fine-boned woman in – Ambrose estimated – her mid-forties stepped forward, leafing distractedly through a leather-bound dossier of alligator-clipped documents. “Sudo, I presume.” She nodded briskly without looking up. Ambrose approved of the efficiency. “Looking...different.” She frowned, not responding; not looking up.
“Istanbul first, and then London.” Sudo murmured. “Handle the response; handle the resistance.”
“Why?” He queried, a bored scowl slowly emerging...spreading its way across the lower portion of his face.
“Because it’s what you were fucking told to do.” The Lilum executive snarled, taken aback by what he, apparently, perceived to be insolence.
“Listen, you adenoidal excretion,” Ambrose returned, forcing a finger into the centre of the vast organisms’ sweat-caked countenance. “If I – ”
“ – Wright...” Sudo warned, her eyes still on the documents. “Let’s keep things civil, shall we?”
“Civil? How’s this for civil? I want him killed.”
“What?” The Lilum executive scoffed. Sudo rolled her eyes. Freeing one hand from the folio, she snapped her thin fingers with a crisp, authoritative ambivalence. Several black-clad figures emerged from thin air – or so it seemed – forcing the Lilum executive to his knees. Twisting the large man around – and strategically placing themselves to ensure that no blood spatter reached Sudo or Ambrose – a single bullet was fired into the back of his head. A sharp crack echoed out. Off in the distance, several startled birds squawked and screeched their way into the air. Sudo sighed melodramatically, shaking her head.
“I mean really, Ambrose. We’re operating on a shoestring budget. If you want to liquidate assets, sooner is better than later. Do you have any idea what
the cost of ferrying these people around actually is? Particularly when operating under the radar, as we, I suppose, must, for the time being...”
“Fine, Cecily. I’ll make a list of everyone I may want murdered so that you can evaluate the cost-benefit of taking the chance that I won’t.” He retorted snidely, using Cecily Dayton’s actual name for the first time in months. Cecily looked up. The eyes of the two senior Hand of Adam personnel met with the intensity of the long delayed and much awaited. Her violet retinas bored into him.
“That would certainly be appreciated. But, if you could, do it on the way to Istanbul, please? There’s a curious young lady there who – unlike your little crush...” Ambrose’ left eyelid twitched: “...really must be taken care of sooner rather than later.” Cecily daintily withdrew a crisp, firmly clipped collection of pages – printed on both side – and handed it to Ambrose. He raised his eyebrows as he flipped through it.
“I’ll see to it.” He paused. “And London?” Cecily tapped at the Lilum executives’ corpse disdainfully with the toe of a black, leather stiletto.
“Collect the package and close out the account.” She intoned cryptically. Ambrose just nodded solemnly. Their eyes met again. Ambrose hissed semi-voluntarily.
“Have you ever, by any chance, considered contact lenses, Cecily?”
“I can’t see with contacts.” She muttered, her lip curling up on the right side with irritation. His eyes narrowed.
“What an utterly ridiculous thing to...” he trailed off, realising that she hadn’t been referring to ‘vision’ in the conventional sense. “Of course. And where is everyone, currently?” Cecily consulted her notes. “Zero is back in Tokyo...Rosetta and Plethora are monitoring population movement around the Mexican border...Trident is making his way back to Palatine Hill, where, presumably, he’ll be helping Galt and the rest of Sede Imperiali with coordination – ”
“ – Shouldn’t you be in Palatine, too? I’d have imagined Galt couldn’t use the lavatory without the help of the Great and Powerful ‘Sudo’.” Cecily raised an eyebrow.
Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) Page 28