by Taylor Kole
Sincerely,
Tara Capaldi
He passed the letter to Rosa and scoffed. Meeting in the very machine they delegated over must be the height of irony. But Honest Meeting Room provided immense advantages for something of this magnitude. It guaranteed ease of travel, it negated the debates over who would host.
Honest Meeting Room hovered near the top of the Lobby’s most popular worlds. Business transactions consumed the majority of its use, but also custody hearings, negotiations, and discussions of all types, because every statement made passed through a lie detector.
Real-world polygraphs gauged physiological indicators like sweating palms, erratic heartbeats, and/or irregular breathing. All of which could be manipulated with training or because of mental illness, such as adopting false memories. The detector in Honest Meeting Room monitored the brain’s electrical signals. Human thoughts sprouted near the center of the mind in the temporal lobe. When a person recalled a fact from memory, they retrieved it from the hippocampus in the bottom middle of the temporal lobe which also stored memory.
When a person fabricated a tale, the brain processed information through circuits in the cerebellum, located in the frontal lobe, where imagination and abstract thinking occur.
This made the deception detector in Honest Meeting Room unbeatable, regardless of training or mental illness. You’re either recalling a memory, or creating your own. Follow the current, and know the truth.
Alex perused the remaining documents: other personal letters of support, the probable proposals from various countries, the Health and Wellness outline that Tara had presented to him after Roy’s death.
When he reached the end of the attendants list and found Agent Andrew’s name absent, a twinge of joy curled the corners of his lips.
Picturing the strange man reading the list two dozen times, fuming to greater degrees each moment he reached the end; each time he read Alex’s name and not his, made Alex laugh.
“What is it?” Rosa said.
He dropped the rest of the packet on the table. “I was just laughing at one of Adisah’s life maxims: No matter what, the world finds a way to continue down an ever-improving path.”
Chapter Forty
Live news challenged the most seasoned anchor person, but the concept intrigued audiences, which boosted viewership. Gimmicks meant little to Rebecca Trevino. She boasted a massive following. Next to Alex Cutler, she might be the most recognizable person on the planet.
Adjusting her posture atop her new chair—one that still smelled of treated leather, on her new set, which covered twice the area of her old one—she scanned the list of off-limit topics for tonight’s enigmatic guest, and found it surprisingly short.
“Quiet on the set,” someone yelled. She passed the tablet over her shoulder.
Pressing her beige, knee-length skirt flat against her thighs, she looked over at the producer as he counted down. “Five, four, three…” He pantomimed the final two numbers.
When he made a fist and pointed, Rebecca mentally counted one-one thousand, then began, “Hello. Welcome to a special episode of Inside Today. My guest tonight is none other than Iranian President, Reza Shah.” She faced him, knowing the camera would pan out to encompass both of them in the shot before zooming in on his face as he responded to her first question.
“Thank you for having me,” he said in clear English. “It is my pleasure to be with you.”
“With fourteen days until the global summit that will decide the future of the Lobby—and many speculate, society as we know it as well—I imagine your administration must be very busy.”
“Yes. Very busy.”
“I understand you have declined your invitation to attend the summit. Can you tell me about that decision, and where the Iranian people stand on this divisive topic?”
“I can tell you, first, that the Iranian people are not divided. We are united as a people, and as a nation, in direct opposition to that device.
“I, and other noble leaders, will not attend, for there is nothing to discuss. We have formed our own thirteen nation coalition, one that your media neglects. We are focusing on our salat prayers, asking Allah the Benevolent for guidance, pleading with him to impart wisdom into the hearts, and sensibilities into the minds, of these New Age Axis and Allies.
“They must understand: God’s world has no place for an invention devised to tempt man into the gravest of all sins.”
Rebecca nodded somberly, as if she didn’t experience a tingle with each rise in the death trip total. “There is much speculation that the nations you labeled the New Age Axis and Allies will reach a compromise. A deal that could include the Eastern nations promising their citizens that if they live honorable, beneficial lives, they’ll receive eternal retirement as their reward. And that the West will not interfere with this practice as long as strict procedures are in place, including the denial of Lobby access to citizens from specific nations. Some even suggest that Atriums will reopen throughout the United States and its Western allies.”
A frown creased the president’s face. “That would be most unfortunate.”
Rebecca appreciated the twinkle of conviction in his eye. “However, ample evidence exists that both sides have increased their military readiness, should a compromise become unachievable.” Pausing, she prepared to lob her bombshell. “Would you say the Middle Eastern coalition, like the coalitions in the East and West, is willing to compromise to avoid war?”
The president adjusted himself. Her arm hairs reached for the skies. If her research proved correct, this would be the mega answer—the one that the estimated two hundred and forty million viewers had tuned in to see.
Pursing his lips as he shook his head slowly, he answered, “There can be no compromise with Satan.”
Internally, Rebecca screamed for joy. Outwardly, she remained stoic. That line would air on every station for the next two weeks.
“You’re saying these thirteen military powers are united and ready to use force if the Lobby is allowed to operate?”
“I am saying that we are praying for a peaceful resolution. We have yet to identify any nation as an enemy of God. Any actions in the near future will reflect the true views of the two billion outraged Muslims around the world who, along with our Christian brothers, want to eradicate a machine that lures souls, which are otherwise destined for paradise, into a false platform of devilish design.”
The camera stayed on him for a full six seconds, then panned out.
“Thank you for your candor, President Shah, but to be clear, you are saying that the Middle Eastern coalition, comprised of thirteen powerful countries, will target buildings—even if they sit on the sovereign soil of peaceful nations—in pursuit of eradicating the Lobby?”
He folded his hands in his lap, straightened his spine, and said, “We shall do everything in our power to assist in the destruction of each wire and every bolt that threatens the world Allah the Righteous has bestowed upon his children.”
With that, they went to a commercial, during which time Rebecca Trevino envisioned herself going onstage to claim her Pulitzer in journalism.
Chapter Forty-One
The United States military’s enlistment number hovered around one point four million. Only seven individuals, out of that vast number of soldiers were four-star army generals. Having such an important figure visit you and your organization should have brought the highest honors to Colonel Alan Cox of the Lord’s Thorn. Instead, he felt defeated.
After securing Eridu, Alan asked after his protégé, Tim Vanderhart. Thirty hours passed until they confirmed his death. Alan had known within ten minutes. Had Tim survived, he’d have been at Alan’s heel, hollering about the thrill of conquest. Alan had intended to boost that excitement with a bump in rank, which would have granted Tim access to the meeting just wrapping up. Witnessing two generals shake hands could have crossed off a goal on Tim’s bucket list, if he’d have lived to age twenty.
Alan exhaled as he wat
ched US Army General Koster enter the elevator and exit the gargantuan condo occupying La Berce’s top floors.
General Trieu of the Lord’s Thorn had dismissed the other colonels and asked Alan to stay behind. As their honored guest descended, Trieu strutted back, beaming.
“Can you believe all that?” He passed over one of the dark-stained wooden bridges throughout the home. The water that used to run underneath had been drained long ago, leaving a dry bed. Each step over the bridge echoed, amplifying the emptiness.
Alan had spent his life in Northern Michigan, where home prices hovered around seventy thousand dollars. Much better than Detroit’s ghettos, where a once-loved brick home could be purchased for two-thousand bucks. Where five grand got you the best home on the block. Where sometimes the city paid you a hundred dollars to take a home, if you promised to make it livable.
He imagined this cavernous marvel of earth-smelling wood carried a value triple that of entire Detroit neighborhoods, and probably cost more than entire square miles of property around the NMCD old clubhouse property.
“You’re a smart man, Alan,” Trieu said as he passed him and peered out the window, no doubt to savor every glimpse of the four-star general’s departure. “You tell me—why did I ask you of all people to stay behind?”
Alan snorted. He thought he’d dread this. Instead, relief accompanied his expected termination. He’d been insubordinate, bordering on mutinous, since their landing, but as the saying went, “life off the farm wasn’t all song, dance, and long legs.”
“To relieve me of my duty?” he said.
Trieu’s eyes’ glimmered. “No, sir. I want to promote you. Hand us each a new star, courtesy of General Koster.”
A military Humvee drove beneath them. From this height, it resembled a crab scurrying across a beach. Their army friend had choppered in various military equipment: high-density receivers to allow excellent satellite relays; crates with M4A1s and AR-15s and one with rocket-propelled grenades; containers of leisure items for the officers; low-temperature clothing; night-vision goggles; climbing gear diverse enough to allow multiple teams to operate in any region—a bountiful reward for a successful mission.
Eridu teemed with activity. The women and children had arrived two days ago. The vehicles that brought them filled the Atrium parking lot and desert beyond the airport. And though most of the helicopters had survived the assault, most of them had been returned to their original owners.
Due to the volume of new arrivals, families were still locating loved ones. Once done, they were assigned lodging at the compound’s east end.
It disturbed Alan that none of them asked where the previous residents—whose photos decorated the walls and whose clothes filled the dressers—had gone.
Alan didn’t want a promotion but assumed if he refused, he’d die. Trieu’s first order after touching down at Eridu—to shoot anyone who moved—revealed the man’s heart.
Each night since the takeaway Alan feared waking to a blade slitting open his throat. Without Tim to mold, and with having ingested a lifetime worth of nightmares over the past week, Alan hardly gave a shit.
“You still with me?” Trieu asked. “No ideas as to why I’d want that?”
Alan shook his head.
“You’ve opposed nearly every decision we’ve made here.”
Easiest thing I’ve ever done, Alan thought. Instead of replying, he worked his jaw to one side, dug his tongue into an upper molar.
“Yet you don’t vocalize your disapproval. You haven’t tried to organize a revolt.”
“Perhaps I don’t disapprove,” he said with causticity.
“Ah, but you do, Alan. We both know it. But you have impeccable respect for the chain of command.”
“Unfortunately.”
General Trieu swiveled his body, taking in his burly guest. “You broke Verhultst’s nose. Fractured his eye orbital.” He looked back out the mega window. “What was he doing? Harassing one of the female captives?”
“Raping.”
“I guess that’s applicable.” Trieu inspected Alan’s reflection in the window. “Despite you being one against three, you helped that woman because you’re a good man. It earned you major respect around here.”
“Lot of good it did her.”
Trieu shrugged. “War’s a nasty business. In this situation, we can’t let anyone go. Can’t afford to take care of them, risk someone slipping off. Poisoning their food was a mercy.”
Alan inhaled through his nose. The general might be better trained, but Alan was twenty years his junior and sixty pounds heavier. Alan experienced a flash of clutching the back of the man’s neck, and bashing his face into the glass before them, to see if he found death by severe head trauma a mercy.
“You remember walking into that room on the first day?” Trieu said.
Alan flinched. They’d entered the upper-level access room together on the first day. He’d never forget the sights, or the smell. Slumped bodies occupied dozens of chairs. Three times that number were strewn on the floor, like discarded garbage. Enough piss pooled on the floor to constitute a pond.
“That’s what we’re fighting here, Alan. It’s uglier than my tough decisions. It’s the Devil’s work.”
Alan nodded. He’d led the volunteers who had hauled away the corpses.
Those twenty-four hours passed in a haze. Fill the elevator with human bodies, and send it down. After each return, they’d wash it out, get that floor spotless, then dirty it again. For what?
Unconsciously, they’d saved removing the children for last. Thirty-two of them. Twelve no older than nine. The youngest, a toddler, died with a look of absolute horror on his face. A single gunshot wound punctuated his chest.
“You a New Testament guy, or an Old?” Trieu asked.
Alan had dyslexia, so had never read either. He knew God existed. He knew that more and more of the world was being cast under some spell of MTV stupidity, short skirts, and society as a hive-mind. He knew big-name pharmaceuticals were drugging a generation to make them dependent, so those in control could instill socialism and attain dominance. He knew, due to a genetic memory that stored a person’s actions and had compiled generational traits since the genesis of life, that a high percentage of blacks were violent, sexually deviant, and corrupted everything they came into contact with. Yet he’d never wanted them dead. Just let them have their continent of chaos and anarchy, while the rest of the world prospered with kindness and compromise.
Trieu continued, “The Old Testament is all that matters. Ain’t no substance to the New. It’s passive bullshit about turning cheeks. Ain’t no mention of God. How crazy is that? Just some guy going around talking to people, tempting them to go against everything said in the first half of the Bible.”
In the distance, the Humvee stopped near a helicopter, and specks boarded the awaiting transport.
“If you love Jesus, I’m not going to knock it, but he ain’t God. It don’t say that on ‘nan one of them pages. God tells us the Devil’ll strike, and it’s up to us to douse his fire.” He paused, then said, “Do you have any doubts this machine is Satan’s minion?”
The memory of lifting that young boy off the cold floor remained fresh. The kid had been chucked aside with such disregard that he’d landed on his face, smashing his nose almost flat to one side. The boy’s tight, well-kept afro showed his pride in appearance, which meant pride in self, and often in others. He might have been a good-looking kid, had rigor mortis not molded that final look of death into place.
He pictured Tim’s face battered and distorted like that and inhaled. The one solace of Tim’s death: he could move on, avoid being siphoned into a godless machine.
“No, I have no doubts. It’s a soulless evil devised to destroy everything good and pure in our world.”
“That’s right. Yet you think many of my decisions have been… harsh.”
Alan scoffed. “They could have been handled with more compassion, yes.”
“T
hat’s why you have to be our second in command.”
Alan focused on his own haggard reflection, as the helicopter blades in the distance started to spin. With a heavy beard, a mustache grown to cover both lips, and thick hair, he looked like the last survivor of a lost clan.
“Between you and me, we have unwavering loyalty from every man on this compound. This thing’s just beginning. We have a short time to train until this international summit decides the fate of every breathing body on this planet.
“If what General Koster just said is true, America is willing to compromise her values. They’ll discard God’s laws. Thankfully, some in the military will protect our future. They intend to take the fight to foreign soil, and start a war, regardless of commands. As they lay waste to the enemy, the Lord’s Thorn must cleanse our homeland.
“We have our targets, their addresses, and the men. We have technical support, the explosives, and the financing. What we need is leadership.” Turning to face Alan, he extended his hand as if to shake. “I know you’re still ready to lay down your life in the pursuit of destroying this great evil. Be the check that balances me.”
Alan looked at the hand. He couldn’t support General Trieu’s actions, but they lived in a fallen world. Alan’s only certainty was that the Lobby brought wickedness. “As long as in that process, we don’t become the monsters we intend to defeat.”
“Fair enough. But you accept that our hands must get bloody.”
Alan clasped and squeezed his general’s hand. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Examining himself in a section of his bedroom wall that was temporarily converted to a mirror, Alex admired his look: well-groomed hair styled with Rosa’s supervision, a coal-black suit. Respectable. His true opposite.
When thinking of the acts he’d put in motion over the past three weeks, Alex was eighty-twenty. Eighty percent crippled with depression, twenty percent filled with exhilaration; both pertained to his future. The disproportionate, fluctuating emotions left him feeling woozy, like a hypnotized man standing on an automated walkway that would transport him through the next four hours, regardless of his desire to step off or turn around.