by Alten-Steve
Towering 555 feet high, the alabaster marble obelisk known as the Washington Monument is located at the east end of Potomac Park, approximately one mile west of the Capitol Building. At the very top of this hollow structure is an observation room, affording visitors a magnificent view of the park’s reflecting pool, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the 9-11 wall, the Middle East War Memorial, and the Lincoln Memorial.
The Lincoln Memorial is constructed of thirty-six columns—the number of states in the Union at the time of Lincoln’s death in 1865. Situated within the massive enclosure is sculptor Daniel Chester French’s giant stone-carving honoring the sixteenth president of the United States.
Ennis Chaney, the forty-sixth president of the United States, listens to Rabbi Steinberg’s opening invocation as he looks out upon a vast sea of bodies gathered around the Memorial and the park’s long rectangular reflecting pool. Network hover-cams dot the gray winter sky, each suspended in its preapproved flight pattern. Security cams dart in and about, scanning the crowd, who have already been searched for weapons. Congressmen and visiting dignitaries are seated along the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Several dab at their eyes, though few are actually crying.
Seated on one side of the former president is President Marion Rallo. Jacob Gabriel is on Chaney’s left side, the white-haired teen wearing a black suit and tie and dark, tinted, wraparound shades.
Concealed in an opaque envelope in the teen’s left hand is a photo of former secretary of state Pierre Borgia.
The crowd bows their heads as Rabbi Steinberg completes the invocation with a prayer.
At the east end of the park, Pierre Robert Borgia, dressed in a black SWAT team uniform, enters the Washington Monument. He flashes his false identification badge to the two armed guards, then allows them to scan his new false eye and fake retinal implant.
‘You’re clear to go on up, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Concealed within Borgia’s backpack is the Barrett M101-A .50-caliber Browning sniper rifle and bipod. Waving to the guards, he takes the elevator up to the observation deck, which is to remain closed until after the ceremony.
*
Ennis Chaney follows President Rallo at the podium. A harsh winter’s wind causes him to shiver, despite the heavy lining of his dress coat and undergarments. He touches his right ear, repositioning the dime-sized communication device.
‘Distinguished guests, members of Congress, my fellow Americans, my fellow citizens of the world: It’s not easy to have faith. It’s not easy in this, the twenty-first century, nor was it easy in the first century, when our ancient ancestors looked up at the stars and wondered, “Where do we come from? What is this life all about?”’
Chaney’s eyes are dancing now, moving to the rhythm of his words.
‘We need faith. Faith that is not predicated on fantasy. And yet we, as educated and sophisticated caring souls, must rely on faith to get us through times of confusion, times of pain and suffering …’
Borgia exits the elevator and steps out onto the observation level. He passes the bronze replica of George Washington and heads for the west windows facing the Lincoln Memorial.
Removes the glass cutter. Adheres it to the thick pane using the twin suction cups. Sets the automated device for an eight-inch circular cut.
As the device slices the glass, Borgia assembles the high-powered rifle, attaching it to its bipod.
Chaney looks from the right TelePromPter to the left. ‘Many years ago, another African-American stood on these same steps and addressed his people. He spoke of freedom and equality. He spoke of rising up from the dark and desolate valley of segregation into the sunlit path of racial justice. He shared with us his dreams. He shared with us his faith.
‘My godson, Immanuel, was a gentle soul. Like his father, Immanuel believed in humanity, but worried about our survival. On his last birthday, he shared with me a passage his brother, Jacob, had transcribed from one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The passage described something called the War of the Sons of Light versus the Sons of Darkness. Manny explained that the Sons of Darkness are the mass murderers of the innocent and all who support them. They are the zealots, who distort faith’s teachings as an excuse to commit mayhem. They are the greedy, who force society down paths that retard the future of mankind, solely so they can remain in power. “The war is on,” my godson told me, “and humanity must triumph, or our light shall be extinguished.”’
Behind the former president, Jacob Gabriel closes his eyes, focusing inward, as his mind searches the psychic realm for the signal line he seeks.
Borgia adjusts the bipod’s height so that the barrel of the rifle protrudes out the hole in the window. He loads a high-velocity .50-caliber exploding round, then peers down the infrared scope with his only functioning eye.
It takes him a full thirty seconds to lock the target in.
Gun scope …
The reflecting pool … viewed from above.
The podium … he’s not targeting me, he’s after Chaney!
Jacob’s eyes snap open as he speaks into the microphone cuff links. ‘Washington Monument—observation deck!’
There are 147 members of the Secret Service patrolling the area, all tuned in to Jacob’s radio frequency, but it is Dominique Vazquez-Gabriel, disguised as a security guard, who is first to react.
Aware of the TelePromPter, Borgia activates the infrared laser, invisible to the naked eye, and brings the glowing orb to the center of Ennis Chaney’s chest. He slips his right index finger around the trigger. Collects his breath.
Pulls the trigger.
‘Martin Luther King said the ultimate measure of a man is where he stands during times of challenge and controversy. As we stand here, united in our sorrow, our survival is being tested. History is asking more of us than tears, it is asking us to rise to the challenge of our own mortality. As intelligent beings, created in God’s image, it is our obligation to reach out to the stars and experience the heavens before we die, so that we may realize our true place on this Earth—’
Adrenaline pumping, Jacob commands his mind to enter the nexus.
The area suddenly brightens as everything slows around him. Chaney’s rasping voice crawls to a dull echo.
Jacob cannot see the bullet, but he can see the gelatinous ripples as it pushes through waves of energy, angling down from the distant white tower.
He jumps to his feet, his Hunahpu mind dissecting time and distance—
Jacob!
Jacob’s heart skips a beat. He sees her standing in the twentieth row, an azure-eyed vixen whose fluid movements, as she approaches, separate her from the rest of the crowd.
Lilith … please—not now!
You deserted me!
Gelatinous ripples widen as the bullet appears.
I came here for you, Jacob. I’m offering you a last chance.
Ignoring her tantalizing presence, Jacob leaps—
A bucket of crimson explodes from Jacob Gabriel’s black suit as he and former President Ennis Chaney tumble sideways off the dais.
Pierre Borgia smiles, then turns suddenly at the elevator bell signal. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles to load another .50-caliber exploding round into the chamber.
Dominique steps out of the elevator.
‘You?’ Borgia slips the bullet into place, his finger at the trigger. ‘I should have killed you and your wacko patient when I had the chance!’
‘You tried. Now it’s my turn.’
Borgia raises the rifle barrel—
—as Dominique’s flexes her right biceps, commanding the microwave pain-cannon to fire.
The blast of searing heat separates assassin from gun, sending Pierre Borgia writhing on the ground, his nerve endings sizzling.
Desperate cries rend the crisp November air.
Waves of onlookers at the west end of the park drop for cover. Secret Service agents sweep President Rallo into an awaiting vehicle. Congressmen and guests disperse, some for their
limos, others for the interior of the Lincoln memorial, where Secret Service agents huddle around the bloodstained body of Jacob Gabriel.
Rabbi Richard Steinberg grips the white-haired youth’s lifeless hand and prays as a dozen news hovercams jostle for airspace overhead.
A terrified physician pushes through the throng. With quivering fingers he gently unbuttons Jacob’s suit coat, revealing an undergarment drenched in blood. He shakes his head.
The horrified crowd yields to an ambulance. Word carries with the panic: ‘The other Gabriel twin’s been shot! Jacob’s dead!’
Seconds later, the insanity of the moment is interrupted by screams coming from the park’s east end as a window shatters atop the Washington Monument and a body—the body of Pierre Robert Borgia—hurtles through the air, splattering like a sack of scarlet flour at the base of the Monument below.
A wisp of thought, in the consciousness of existence.
Jacob?
Where are you, son?
Where are you …
PART 6
ADULTHOOD
‘To succeed is nothing, it’s an accident.
But to feel no doubts about oneself
is something very different: it is character.’
—MARIE LENÉRU
There is no security on this Earth, this is only opportunity.
—DOUGLAS MACARTHUR
21
SIX YEARS LATER
NOVEMBER 19, 2033: SATURDAY AFTERNOON,
MABUS TECH INDUSTRY ORANGE BOWL,
BISCAYNE BAY, MIAMI, FLORIDA
The pelican balances on a wooden piling, struggling to preen its feathers. Like most of the other coastal scavengers, the bird no longer actively hunts for its meals. The shallows are devoid of fish, the marshes long paved over. Processed food sustains it now—all the scraps it can eat.
The pelican’s beak opens and closes in spasms, gasping insufficient breaths of hot air thick with body lotions, perfumes and the unmistakable scent of human perspiration. Mau-Mau music—a blend of calypso and rap—blares from hundreds of speakers situated around the Teflon-coated fiberglass pier.
A final gasp and the pelican drops from the piling, its lifeless form splashing upon the olive-colored, gasoline-tainted surf twenty-five feet below.
Another scorching Saturday afternoon in late autumn … the inner harbor at Biscayne Bay once again transformed into a human beehive of activity.
Moving inland from the piers is a latticework of inflatable walkways and air-supported bridges that weave in and out of hundreds of stores and eateries. Shoppers and sunbathers, families and students, locals and tourists, representing a multitude of races, religions—and colors—flock to the trendy mall-park.
Skin color in the 2030s is now a matter of choice, the once-popular tattoo replaced with ‘body-dipping.’ Developed by dermatologists in response to the alarming rise in skin cancers caused by the continued deterioration of the ozone layer, ‘dermo-shields’ were originally designed as clear body applications featuring an SPF-50 ultraviolet skin protector designed to wear off in 90–120 days. Unfortunately, very few people under the age of sixty sought out the preventive treatments.
Six months after its development, an enterprising group in Australia introduced color to the formula, and body-dipping became an overnight sensation.
Clinics opened everywhere. Clients could select from a multitude of flesh-toned colors, including Caucasian, Bohemian-Tan, Chinese, African, and American Indian. Dermatology became a fashion statement, racial discrimination ultimately ‘confused.’ Even better, the four prescribed annual ‘dips’ were covered by all three levels of the FMC (Federal Medical Coverage).
More radical applications quickly followed, designed to appeal to the sought-after age twelve-to-twenty demographic. Clinics introduced ‘rainbow-shields,’ and a new race of ‘alien-adolescents’ invaded the schools, their epidermis stained from head to toe in shades of greens, blues, violets, reds, and yellows. When this fad led to increases in gang-related violence, municipalities and states instituted laws forbidding rainbow dips to anyone under the age of eighteen.
The Mau-Mau music slips into prerecorded ocean acoustics. A family of African-Americans, stained Bohemian-Tan, pauses along one of the catwalks to observe the activity below.
Bonzai-boarders balance precariously on fluorescent orange-and-yellow skateboards that ride on ‘zip tracks,’ the cushions of methane microjet air allowing riders to defy gravity—at least the first four to six feet of it.
A small crowd gathers at the guardrail, anticipating either an amazing feat or a spectacular fall. Spurred on by the applause, several of the more daring riders link arms and race along a skull-and-crossbones-painted path leading to ‘suicide hill,’ a four-storey, 360-degree vertical loop.
The blueberry-stained teens rise in unison along the nearvertical wall and invert, the crowd’s oohs and ahhs quickly turning to gasps as gravity’s invisible fingers latch on to two of the boys closest to the center. Suspended upside down, they are yanked from their boards, the rippling disturbance sending the entire pack tumbling headfirst toward the crash mats forty feet below.
On ultrasound proximity alert, air-bag suits inflate a milli-second before the first body strikes the tarmac.
For a long moment the dazed adolescents lie motionless in an entanglement of purple-blue flesh and equipment, their crash collars and helmets momentarily restricting all movement. Gradually the air suits deflate, freeing bruised but intact limbs. A smattering of applause greets the daredevils, encouraging them to reorganize and attempt the impossible assault again.
Above, the bright Miami skyline buzzes with a high-pitched whine coming from a dozen VTOLs—Vertical Takeoff and Landing vehicles. Powered by four fixed turbine ducts that provide thrust for launch, these two-man skycars whiz back and forth over Biscayne Bay like swarms of giant polyurethane wasps. Less-maneuverable one-man VFVs (Vertical Flying Vehicles) hover over the nude sunbathers along South Beach, the two-propeller craft rented by the hour.
Below, the aqua green surface is crisscrossed by sailboats and schooners, windsurfers and super yachts, all competing for maneuvering space within the crowded marina. The occasional Luxon-glass nose cone of a two-man minisub sneaks a peek above the watery playground, the Argonauts ever fearful of the whirling blades that cut great swaths across the ceiling of their more private underwater domain.
At the center of this entertainment Mecca is the MTI Orange Bowl—a mammoth steel-and-tinted-glass horseshoe rising sixteen storeys above the sweltering south Florida playground. Home to the University of Miami’s PCAA-champion football Hurricanes, the arena is bursting with the energy that comes from its capacity crowd of 132,233.
Patches of orange, lavender, and teal bare-chested bodies denote the different skin-stained Miami fraternities harbored in the west bleachers. A group cheer prompts a response from the visiting Florida State student body, their own skins dipped ‘Seminole red,’ while bare-chested women from both universities pose for hovercams, showing off their ‘calypso’ tanned and augmented breasts.
After six minutes of play, the home team trails cross-state rival FSU 3 to 0, and the Miami crowd is beyond antsy. Chants of ‘Mule, Mule, Mule’ bounce across the cushioned Teflon seats, electrifying the air as the ’Canes’ offense sprints onto the field for the first time, taking possession at their own sixteen yard line.
There are no team huddles. All instructions are communicated from position coaches directly into the players’ helmets via encrypted microspeakers.
The orange and white-clad Hurricanes set themselves on the artificial grass field, the roots of which are designed to give on impact. There are no human referees. A dozen infraction cameras linked to high-speed macroperceivers adorn the sidelines, analyzing the playing field, searching for infractions. There are no first-down markers. Concealed beneath the padded emerald green turf is an electronic grid linked to remote sensors embedded inside the football. Fluorescent yellow laser lines indicate precis
e ball placement, while digital sideline markers display both the down and the yards necessary to achieve a first down. A vertically oriented electromagnetic plane extending upward from the goal line must be broken to score a touchdown, the accomplishment instantly igniting a rainbow of laser lights and the scoring team’s unique holographic special effects celebration.
The goalposts themselves are violet-colored holograms that activate for field goal or extra point attempts. Striking the ‘post’ causes the ball to spin wildly, the outcome always a crapshoot.
Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler, Miami’s twenty-year-old star sophomore tailback lines up in the backfield behind his quarterback and best friend, K. C. Renner, as the game ball is set into place by Robo-Ref—a two-foot-high mobile trash-can-shaped device.
On the Miami sidelines, Mike Lavoie, the team’s offensive coordinator, selects a play from his Port-a-Coach. Sam listens as the annoying computerized voice chirps in his left ear.
Sixty-three, halfback, pitch right … on two.
Sam blocks out the crowd’s thundering crescendo and slows his pulse. His mind focuses inward, directing his consciousness into what his sports psychiatrist calls ‘the zone,’ a soothing pool of existence harbored somewhere deep within his brain.
Senior lineman Jerry Tucker squats over the pigskin, the massive 378-pound center’s buttocks stretching the reinforced polyurethane-and-steel fibers in his pants to their max. As he touches the ball, all player-coach field transmissions are instantaneously severed.
The play clock ticks backward from fifteen.
Now Sam immerses himself fully into the zone, grimacing as the familiar ripples of queasiness magnify into waves of intense pain—
—and time and space suddenly appear to slow to a surreal crawl. The din of noise evaporates to a dull baritone buzz. The football rises away from the turf in slow motion.
Easy … don’t jump offside. Sam waits impatiently, the burning in his gut intensifying as the leather object momentarily disappears between Tucker’s elephantine thighs, reappearing a lifetime later within K. C. Renner’s hands. The quarterback fakes left, then pivots to his right, his planted cleat tearing away a clump of artificial grass and sand that spins as it rises, twirling in the air like an orbiting Kelly green satellite.