(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  Peter did the math. Carter went through this same ceremony in graduate school. Could that even be possible?

  Carter continued, “I nominate Peter Bernhardt as Praetor candidate and humbly present him for your judgment.”

  “We accept the nomination and henceforth, you will be responsible for the education and behavior of Peter Bernhardt both within the confines and outside the jurisdiction of the Phoenix. Do you swear to uphold the standards and values of the Phoenix and pass these on to this candidate?”

  “I do solemnly swear.” Carter bowed again and backed up behind Peter.

  The Praetor Maximus turned to Peter. “George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamilton saw the transformation of the colonies into the United States of America as a momentous event. The American Revolution held the promise of not only political and social renewal, but personal renewal as well. That is why the Phoenix Club was created; to renew and reinvigorate our nation by nurturin’ the best and the brightest. We put ourselves in service of our countrymen and women, regardless of race, religion, or background.”

  The “in service of our countrymen” sounded great to Peter, although some of the phraseology was a little more nationalistic than he felt comfortable with.

  Then he lost feeling in his hands and feet.

  The Praetor Maximus continued, “For more than two hundred years, our members have gone to unimaginable lengths to protect this country from all who would harm her. But now we live in a more challengin’ time. Empire takes on a different meanin’ for us than it did for our forebears. Do you love your country?”

  The question surprised Peter, and suddenly the entire scene, surreal to say the least, turned menacing, especially when his rubbery lips resisted obeying his brain. “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  Like a soldier in boot camp, his throat still aflame, he yelled, “I love my country!”

  “Pledge allegiance to the flag.” The Praetor Maximus pointed to the large American flag hung above the altar.

  His arms numb and detached from feeling, Peter placed his right hand on his heart with great effort. It pounded fast in his chest. The only thing going through his head was the song, “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” Shit! That wasn’t it. He searched dizzy childhood memories. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.” Needing oxygen, he took a deep breath. “And to the republic, for which it stands . . .” Could he get the rest out? “. . . One nation, under God, indivisible . . .” His tongue, thick and wooden, stumbled over the words. “. . . with liberty and justice for all.”

  “You are not worthy!” bellowed the Praetor Maximus.

  Peter hadn’t noticed Carter holding a wooden staff. His friend bowed to the Decemviri, then swung the staff back like a baseball bat, slamming Peter below the knees.

  Peter sprawled on to all fours on the cold stone floor. Torchlight spun around him. Even with numbness, it hurt. The scene went from surreal to terrifying. While Decemviri jeered, he cowered.

  Carter’s concerned voice whispered in his ear, “Hang on, Pete. It’s only a play, and you’re the lead. Just roll with it.” He dragged Peter to his feet, but the room spun.

  The Decemviri’s laughter abruptly ceased and the Praetor Maximus asked, “Does Peter Bernhardt still wish to become a Praetor of the Phoenix?”

  Between the pain in his shins and the vertigo, everything was fuzzy. He concentrated on keeping vomit down and holding on to Carter’s arm . . . Carter . . . Carter was there to protect him. A few old farts humiliating him to make their day had to be the worst of it. Didn’t it? His pop always said to finish what he started.

  He lifted his head. “Yes.”

  “Repeat after me,” said Praetor Maximus.

  While trying to stand on legs that hurt too much to bear his weight and with drugs that filled his system with nausea and numbness, Peter repeated the following:

  “I, Peter Bernhardt, do solemnly swear that I will uphold the laws, rites, and traditions of the Phoenix Club and keep all I know of this august body a secret that I will take to my grave. Furthermore, I will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend both the Phoenix Club and the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of my membership on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”

  The Praetor Maximus replied, “Peter Bernhardt, you have replaced every loyalty you have ever sworn with that of the Phoenix Club. The Phoenix is foremost in your heart and soul. To prove your loyalty to the Phoenix and commit to the death of your old life, step forward to the altar.”

  How did he just swear that his club was more important than his country? He couldn’t remember.

  “Ready to let go?” murmured Carter. Peter’s head swam, but he nodded. Unsteady, he concentrated on the toga fabric that threatened to entangle his legs at any moment. Disturbingly, cave drawings appeared to move, in a This Is Cinerama panorama around the cave. Bison thundered, warriors ran, and chiefs danced. What the hell was in that damn drink?

  The semicircle of men appeared to double and split down the middle to reveal a stone altar (or two?) in the center of the room, sitting on a wooden plinth that looked like a Jenga game of railroad ties. On the brown-stained altar’s top, a live bald eagle was bound by its legs with a leather strap laced through a metal ring drilled into stone. The bird was a prisoner.

  “Take this.” Carter placed a ceremonial knife made of iron, with a wrathful Roman god carved in silver and ivory on the handle, in Peter’s hands, but his fingers were numb and he could barely hold it. His sight was so drug affected, the majestic bird and its twin flapped before him. If it had been only one, it would have been a damned big bird.

  “With the dagger of Jupiter, slit the throat of the eagle and bathe in its sacred blood,” ordered the Praetor Maximus, who stood next to Peter.

  “Wh-what?”

  Carter stage-whispered, “Kill the eagle.”

  That couldn’t be possible, thought Peter, his brain as sluggish as his body. It was so beautiful. And enormous! The eagle, its great yellow eyes darting, and white head weaving, sensed its own demise and flapped wildly in panic. Dodging the animal’s tremendous wingspan, Peter tripped on his dangling toga and fell on his ass. Two Decemviri hoisted Peter up.

  “Kill the eagle!” roared the Praetor Maximus.

  The loud voice disoriented him, and he wasn’t sure if the eagle was friend or foe. As he halfheartedly swung the knife, wings kept him at a distance. A Praetor snatched the ceremonial blade. The eagle was still trying to attack Peter when the Praetor Maximus snuck up behind and grabbed its great white head. Before Peter could stop him, the Praetor Maximus slit its throat. Bird blood sprayed from its neck all over Peter’s face and chest, covering his white toga in spots and rivulets as red as the Praetors’ togas.

  “You will suffer the fate of those who break the oath of obedience!” roared the Praetor Maximus. Four men broke ranks and grabbed Peter’s arms and legs. Carter tried to help, but the Praetor Maximus and another Praetor restrained him. The altar, with the great bird in its death throes, was covered in blood, and the remaining four lifted the top off. It was a sarcophagus.

  The dark interior gaped before Peter. The bottom, which he could barely see in the torchlight, moved and writhed, another hallucination. They hoisted him up and dropped him inside. Peter screamed, “Carter!” as the lid descended with a thud above, the scraping of stone tight against stone as it settled into place.

  Peter hyperventilated in the pitch blackness, a hair’s breadth from panic. Something slithered against his wrist, and another flicked gently at his cheek, and what he thought was a mattress wriggled. It wasn’t his imagination. He lay atop snakes. Screaming, he shoved hard, palms against lid, but the toga tangled his arms, fell on his face, and he couldn’t gain
leverage to shift the lid. The darkness cleared his mind, no longer confused by lying, doubled sight.

  The outer silence was broken by a faint crackling sound. The sarcophagus felt warmer. Snakes grew twitchy and slithered faster. He struggled to free the fabric wrapped around him. And he smelled a faint, familiar odor—burning wood.

  They’d set those railroad ties alight beneath the sarcophagus. It wasn’t an altar. It was a funeral pyre.

  And the snakes weren’t happy.

  Frantic, he pulled into the tightest fetal position he could, planting palms and feet under the lid. And pushed. Sweat flooded his eyes. Snakes slithered across his face. Air grew thin. He had one good shove left. Or it was over. Mustering every last ounce of control over his numb body, he pushed upward, straining every part to move the stone. Light, air, and smoke seeped into the coffin. He quickly stuffed toga fabric between the lid and the rim. His fingers struggled outside to find purchase along its lip, but drew back in pain. The lid was hot. He wrapped both hands in more fabric and thrust them through the gap. Cupping the edge, his feet gave an almighty shove. The lid slid off and crashed to the floor.

  Flames licked around the coffin’s lip. He struggled to his feet. Above him was the flag. It was at least four feet out of reach. He bent down and grabbed four snakes, placing a couple under each foot to protect him from the hot stone and flames as he stepped on the rim. The sizzling, exploding snakes squished under his toes were disgusting, but the flag was still out of reach. Balancing precariously on the tomb’s slick edge as the flames licked his robes, he squatted, gathering all his energy. He had only one chance. If he fell down, he’d plunge into flames, or break his legs or back on the tomb. He jumped, extending his arms, reaching for the flag . . . reaching . . . and caught the end in both hands. He hung on for all he was worth.

  The world spun. His legs baked, the edges of his toga aflame. Hoisting himself up the flag as far as he could, he flailed his legs and arched his back to swing, needing momentum. His burning toga ignited the bottom of the flag. He swung once. The room tumbled in his sight. Twice. Three times. His hands started to slip. He needed one more big swing to arc past the flames below. As he flew toward the center of the tumbling, twisting, turning cave, he let go.

  It was a fast crash to the stone floor, still slick with eagle blood. His feet slid beneath him and he fell hard on his ass. Then he rolled around in the blood, slapping down his flaming toga. Extinguished, he collapsed in a heap. Just when he thought his ordeal was over, dark ash fell from the ceiling chimney, dowsing the altar flames and covering him. His robe was no longer white. It was black from smoke, charring, and ash and red from blood, completing his transformation.

  The men emerged from their hiding places, applauding Peter, chanting, “Our Phoenix is reborn. Our Phoenix is reborn. Our Phoenix is reborn,” but Peter couldn’t hear them.

  He had passed out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A thousand rampaging elephants thundered past, jolting Peter’s bed from the ground. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids were crusted closed. His hands came to their aid, hitting his nose and cheeks before finding eyes. He rubbed, picked, and finally pried them open. His bed was the backseat of a limousine; the rampaging elephants the suspension running roughshod over DC’s famed potholes.

  Carter sipped a whisky, cool, collected, and amused. “I know I’ve said in the past that you’ve looked like shit. I was wrong and I apologize. Now you really look like shit.”

  Lying as still as the bouncing allowed, Peter took an accounting of his body. Both arms. Both legs. And though he wished it weren’t true, his head. At their worst partying, he never, ever, had experienced a hangover like this. Shifting, his shins screamed in pain as pants fabric rubbed against bandaged burns. His arms ached, his fingers and feet felt on fire, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if all his lower body hair were singed off.

  And the smell. Beyond sweat, blood, smoke, and God knew what else, he reeked of whisky, but didn’t remember drinking any.

  “What was in the goblet?” croaked Peter. His voice was gravel low and filled with phlegm.

  Carter smiled his most devilish grin. “A tasty little cocktail of ketchup, tequila, peyote, a soupçon of Sodium Pentothal, and just enough ketamine to really fuck you up.”

  He was thankful he was still alive, imagining at least a few candidates over the years had had serious reactions to that brew. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “If I’d told you the truth, your far more sensible brain would have insisted it was stupidly dangerous and not have joined. And if you hadn’t acted exactly the way you did—disoriented, afraid, panicked—they would have known I’d spilled the beans and broken the rules. And you don’t want to break the rules. Trust me.”

  Peter tried to nod in agreement, but his head pounded.

  “You know,” said Carter, “different people solve the ‘problem of the burning man’ in different ways. Some pass out from the drugs or heat or fear of snakes, or they’re too weak to open the box and the fire burns out, and we get them before they suffocate. If they pass out, some wake up thinking they died. Supposedly Bess Truman screamed her ass off to convince Harry this wasn’t the afterlife. Could you imagine Amanda? She’d fucking have my ass.”

  Peter wanted to laugh, but everything hurt too much.

  “Some candidates strip off their toga and dampen the fire with it. Common in the nineteenth century, but not so common now, except from former Boy Scouts and firemen. I hear more than a few members tried to piss on the fire, thinking that would put it out. I was pretty proud of your ‘superhero’ approach. We’d taken bets, and nobody, including me, thought you’d go there. So congratulations.” He took another slug. “What made you think of it?”

  “Todd Rundgren. ‘Initiation.’ ”

  “And what made you think of the brain-computer interface concept?”

  “Rundgren again. ‘Born to Synthesize.’ ”

  Carter shook his head in disdain, muttering under his breath, “How the fuck do you do that with such shitty taste in music?”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “My life of excess inured me to the more vicious drug effects. I knew the worst that could happen was I’d pass out from lack of air. I didn’t think they’d let me die. And I was right. Anyway, this is important. Your oath of silence is real. You can’t even tell Amanda what happened. I certainly won’t.” Carter smiled to himself and took another sip of whisky.

  “Okay, but answer a question: How could you be a member since grad school? You were a snot-nosed research assistant who had his ass wiped by Nick Chaikin, just like the rest of us.”

  Carter shook his head at the naïveté. “Not everyone comes from a humble manger like you, Pete. Remember that painting of the founders? Well, my ancestors were among them. There’ve been Potsdams, Reeds, and Dickinsons in the club for two centuries.” His glass was empty, so he poured more whisky. “Did you know the term WASP—White Anglo-Saxon Protestant—was coined to describe my family and neighbors? My family knew the ‘right’ people all over the world. Eventually, a few thought I should join the club early. They considered my contacts, interests, intellect, and ambition and decided early membership was the best way to cultivate my talent for trend forecasting. They felt my access to Silicon Valley could be the basis of a great company for me, the club, and the country.”

  “Jesus,” whispered Peter. “I’ve known you for seventeen years. Why don’t you ever talk about this stuff?”

  “Come on,” scolded Carter. “First of all, the club’s secret. Second, you were raised to believe social class doesn’t determine your future. And then there’s the California factor . . .”

  “California factor?”

  “Do you honestly believe that in California, the land of milk and honey and reinvention, a guy like me gets points for being a WASP prince? Only snobs and bigots care about that shit, and if you haven’t noticed, they’re in shorter supply in California than in other parts o
f the country . . . Thank God.”

  “Hey, I would have given my left nut to be you when we met,” blurted Peter. “But you’re not hiding too well. You’re still the best-dressed and most-connected guy I know.”

  Carter tilted his head and lifted his glass. “Thank you. But the connections? Well, that comes with the territory. Clothes? I don’t know if that’s about being gay or well-bred, but we Potsdams have style. Whatever it is, it stops with me. I’m no breeder, and I’m not looking for the ‘right wife’ to continue our dynasty. Hell, I don’t even want a househusband, and it’s a real pisser my family can’t admit to themselves I’m queer. They pretend I’m choosy for all the ‘right’ reasons. Hey, whatever gets them through the night.” Carter looked tired. He took another slug and laid his head back on the leather headrest. “Their rarefaction is a fucking pain in the ass, but I guess it gave me a foot in the door at an age when most guys were still figuring out how high they could get on a Saturday night without dying.”

  “Are there lots of ‘legacies’ like you in the club?”

  “If you’re asking if we’re all inbred aristocrats, no. We’re not. It’s not what makes a person important in this country. Again, it’s a foot in the door. But that’s it. American royalty is just another celebrity shell game that sells Vanity Fair and Town and Country and People, which sells fashion, transportation, entertainment, and real estate; unless of course, your daddy makes a fortune for the right people and they make you president of the United States. New Money, Old Money, wherever it comes from, still makes this sorry-ass world go round.”

  “Clearly. But I’ve got one more question.”

  “I’m loose. Shoot.”

  “What happened to the eagle?”

  “Stage trick. We drug the bird and use a hidden sack of blood. Pretty effective.”

  “Bullshit. Josiah killed it. They’re endangered.”

  “Sweetheart, you were so high that bird could have been John Wayne in drag. And they’re not endangered anymore. Someone raises them for us at the zoo. Really,” Carter soothed, “the eagle’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”