by Chris Ayala
After paying the ridiculous amount of money, Willie swallowed down the food in six gulps. A hundred dollar bill would've tasted better. And that's practically what he just ate.
His watch buzzed. Another notification. Truck 532175 approached with that confidential cargo and had less than a mile before arrival. Wanting to buy a Pepsi, he shunned at the idea of how much it would cost for that. A water fountain would have to quench his thirst.
Then he felt something cold seep through his skin. Something so instantaneous and shocking that it made him stop as he climbed up towards the dock. Standing there like he had forgotten his car keys, he contemplated what he was feeling.
At the exact same moment he tried to understand this overwhelming strange sensation, the electricity in the building shut off. Grumbles came from the workers; some noting verbally that the power had never died out before. Using flashlights, the warehouse employees scattered to open the door manually for the truck's entrance.
Since his childhood days, Willie had felt the electricity around him like the flow of air conditioning in a home. Controlling the bolts of power had been his curse and his gift. But even during power outages, he'd never experienced true freedom from the waves of energy like now. His heart beat different and he felt almost light headed. He grasped the railing, trying to take deep breaths and stay calm. What was happening?
He looked down at his tablet. The screen was pitch black. Pressing the power button did nothing so he resorted to tapping it a few times.
"Hey," someone hollered, "anyone having problems with their ear pieces?"
"My watch is dead," someone else griped.
In fact, every bit of electrical equipment in the building was off. As the workers raised the dock door, Willie could see outside. All the street lamps were black. Flashlights aided the truck driver as he backed his trailer into the warehouse. The closer that trailer got to Willie, the more his heart rumbled. Something was in there. Something "confidential". Something powerful enough to shut off power around it.
A group of Union Keepers huddled and spoke irrationally toward each other. Whatever was being said, nothing could hide their nervous sweat. Not until Willie saw one of them continuously pressing the trigger lightly on his gun did he realize the truth. Their guns had stopped working. Fingerprint scans were necessary for the guns to fire. The surge had killed their weapons too?
After the trailer docked, Willie supervised as the lock around the trailer doors was severed by bolt cutters and the doors swung open. Inside was an enormous black box; practically the same length as the 53 foot trailer. It had what seemed to be a control panel. Lots of buttons and keypads, but no screen anywhere. What was this thing?
"Oh what the hell? Where we supposed to put that?"
"It's not even on a pallet, how's the forklift gonna get it out?"
While the men complained about the shipment, lack of power, and their dead cellphones, Willie approached the driver's door. Doing some paperwork on a clipboard, the driver didn't glance up as he climbed out of the truck. "You William Cooper?"
Rubbing his head to gather his composure and professionalism, Willie answered, "Yes."
"Sign here and here," the trucker said handing him the clipboard.
Normally, he'd keep his nose out of things he didn't need to know, but this was different. Willie never before experienced such loss of electricity. He asked, "What is it?"
Like he said it for the hundredth time today, the trucker answered, Classified. Even I don't know."
As he signed the paperwork, Willie tried to squeeze anything else out of him. "Did you at least get a name of what it was?"
"Guys at that government building in Nevada kept calling it 'Project Syncope'."
"Project Syncope," Willie repeated questionably. The name didn't ring a bell.
"All I know is," the chubby trucker said retrieving the clipboard from Willie and breaking off his copy, "I am damn glad to get his off my truck. You have any idea how it is to drive around with no power? Can't even listen to the goddang radio. Had to use flashlights for headlights. Everywhere I drove, all power went out. No zaps or surges. Just like someone turned off a light switch."
Willie bit his lip. "Thanks, boss."
As he climbed into the truck, the trucker said one more thing before closing the door. "You know what's crazy?"
"What?"
"If that thing is that strong now…imagine what it'll do when it's turned on."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Different countries had lines drawn amongst them for a reasons. People liked segregation because they were…segregated. Then the Union comes along to force the defiant system to a become peaceful. For some, shaking hands amongst peers was easy. For others…not so much. Gerard took a huge breath, wishing peace wasn't so difficult.
Today, he had to train thirteen soldiers in combat. Thirteen soldiers from seemingly thirteen opposite countries.
"In Pakistan, you would be hung for such hypocrisy!" One soldier said, finger thrusting upwards.
"This isn't Pakistan…it's the Union, dip-shit," Another soldier, probably American judging by the hick accent, said sarcastically. "We got none of them stupid names anymore."
Partially true, but not completely. The Press had trouble explaining the new map according to the Union. Basically, the continents were what separated the Union's districts; not countries. The United States' name (the name men and women died to protect) was now merged with Mexico and Canada to become The North American Union. Or the NAU, as though who hate using long titles deemed it.
Gerard rolled his eyes. He tightened his dark blue obi, a belt well deserved for years of training in Aikido. The others wore white uniforms and white belts. Not only could the soldiers barely hold their formation, they could barely hold their mouths.
"Shut it," Gerard commanded. "Backs straight. Eyes to me."
Most of them complied, a few took longer to follow his instruction after finishing a whispered conversation. But after a minute, the dojo finally had a moment of silence.
Barefoot on the room-sided mat, Gerard paced his group of individuals ready for training. "You are here, because you ass wipes are the first batch of genetically modified Union Keepers. Swimming inside your veins are nanobots. They will enhance your body's natural strength and speed. Does this mean you can pickup a car? No. But it means you can dodge one."
Under his breath, one of the Union Keepers looked at the dark-skinned gentleman to his right. "You hear that, Habib? That means you can dodge a camel now." A few muffled giggles interrupted Gerard's train of thought. He stopped and sighed. This was Marcel's idea of global equality? Adult men bickering like school boys?
"I'm from Istanbul, asshole. We don't use camels," the Turk retorted.
"Oh, great, we got a damn Muslim in the room."
"The Union isn't about religions anymore, you goddamn spic!"
"Yeah, because you assholes kept bombing people over a stupid Bible and ruined it for the rest of us!"
Gerard stepped up to the student he suspected to have the biggest mouth and cockiest attitude. Judging by his missing teeth, bad hygiene, and southern accent, he assumed the jackass could've been from Alabama or any of those other south states that still flew the confederate flag on their front lawns. "We are not here to bitch and whine. We are here to learn how to control the nanobots."
As expected, the arrogant American spat back, "We know how to control them."
Quickly, Gerard threw a punch and it landed on the redneck's throat. He fell to one knee, grasping his throat. Gerard snorted, "No…you don't. Or else, you would've seen that coming." As he walked away, the student mumbled something through a bruised Adam's apple. Gerard paced the group again, "Nanos live in your adrenaline. So you must learn to control that. You must always be on the edge of…" He paused to search for the proper word.
The only student who showed any interest spoke up. "Fear?"
"Yes," Gerard nodded, "Exactly. You must always be scared shitless idiots, inst
ead of just regular idiots."
"So you teaching us to be pussies?" Someone snickered. "Great, he's teaching us to be French."
Bickering broke amongst the uniformed officers again, like a dam shattering. Gerard couldn't make out much of the arguments. The ones he did comprehend were ridiculous stereotypes about towels on heads and gun-toting hillbillies. Gerard held up his hands. "Shut up! Jesus, things were easy when we had borders."
Then a voice echoed in the dojo. "Actually, things were much tougher when we had borders." Everyone quieted at the familiar voice.
Marcel.
He entered from the north entrance. Wearing a pure white Karate uniform and black belt reminding Gerard that he was outranked. It also reminded him of how Marcel had grown up. Even though his best friend was five years younger, he seemed five years older. Sleepless eyes left dark circles and speckles of gray showed what forty did to male hair color. Still, Gerard felt proud of what Marcel had become. In High School, he had been the shy guy, a Senator's son, in the back of the classroom secretly acing all the quizzes.
Officers' feet smacked together, backs straightened, and their right fists covered the spot on their chests where a heart beat. Better than the salute Hitler received, but still as creepy. Gerard just stood there. Saluting Gerard would've felt like saluting Nelson. Family was family, not leaders.
Marcel pointed to a wall. "Do you see that?" Hesitant heads turned. Secured to the east wall hung two weapons, each with wooden handles and extended curved steel. The tip of the blades were so thinly sharp, they looked like paper from this distance. "Those are called Kama, or some would call Double Kai. It's a Japanese weapon originally intended for slicing crops before being used to slice throats." Next to it, Marcel introduced another weapon that looked like big enough to carve a turkey for Thanksgiving and cut it in half too. The nearly foot long single-sided sword gleamed under the above lights. "That is the Butterfly Sword from Southern China, roughly the size of a human forearm is meant for stabbing." At the first right of the dojo, a beautiful practice room with bamboo walls, was a pair of black sticks with dragon imprints in an X formation. "Those are the Escrima Sticks from the Philippines. Don't be fooled by their simple style, the Escrima art has been around since the early 1600s and that weapon can hinder a man unconscious in less than four seconds." He made his way towards the front of the group and stood before the trainees. "You know why I created this dojo with such unique weapons. To prove a point. Every country…knows how to fight. It doesn't matter where you are from, but who you fight for."
The students nodded in agreement. If only Gerard could muster obedience so easily. He had to admire Marcel; admire him for how much others admired him. He built quite a reputation and there was no doubt who these students wanted to battle for.
Gerard, finally the center of attention again, continued teaching. "Martial Arts is an art. When nanotechnology first started, scientists made the product but couldn't figure out to control it. Like how I can't control some of you fuckers. It wasn't science they needed to guide it, but…art. So once people were trained in Tai-Chi, Kung Fu, and all these styles…they were able to create a flow. Once the flow happens, you have an offense and defense. That's it. Cause and effect. Like a game of chess. One move at a time." He looked over at Marcel, poised and proud in the corner watching. Moments like this, Marcel showcased his passion for equality worldwide. He had once said what would the world be like if everyone became blind. A world without prejudice. It seemed improbable, not impossible. Marcel Celest's vision was what made him so popular. The most imaginative of leaders garnered the most respect, but also the most ridicule. And his opposition grew expediently. They gathered in an underground bunker with plans to end his reign, his vision, and his leadership. Maybe Gerard could warn him. Tell him where the People of Bliss hid. But instead, he decided to see the true struggles in his best friend's mind. The easiest way to discover that…was in a battle. "How about a demonstration for them, Marcel?"
A student interjected. "That's disrespectful. He's the Supreme Leader."
Marcel held up his hand. "I appreciate the deference, but this an old friend. He can call me what he wants." With a big smile, he answered, "And yes, let's do a demonstration. It's been a while since I spiked these nanos in me."
The students stepped back, clearing the center mat and sat down on the outer edges of the dojo while Marcel slipped on a head guard and mouth piece. Gerard preferred no safety gear, he'd taken worse punches. They both stood at opposite ends of the mat. Since this was a class, Gerard instructed the students further. "Harnessing your adrenal glands is important. With training, you can voluntarily send that signal to your mind and slow the pace of time in your mind. Your reactions will be quicker."
Then he experienced a flutter in his ear. It sounded like a palmetto bug searching for a place to land, a familiar and welcome feeling as the nanobots in his adrenaline gland rushed to heighten his senses and slow his perception of time. After a cordial bow to each other, Marcel dashed forward in a formation of punches, kicks, and uppercuts. Gerard swung out of the way of each, sweeping downward and tripping Marcel to the ground. One of the students sucked his teeth while another one booed. Gerard smiled like he'd just been knighted.
Not prepared to look weak to his strongest constituents, the Supreme Leader leapt up, his foot so close to Gerard's face he could smell it. He backed off while he watched a more aggressive Marcel, a more stressed Marcel, throw punches with fury like Brent.They were becoming alike, infuriated with the paths they'd taken. And Gerard saw this, as he did when he battled Brent, as an opportunity to show weakness. He hadn't felt a rush like this in months. The thrill of the fight. Before, the only action Gerard had was catching his pen before it fell off the desk. He blocked several punches before allowing one to slip by and hit his upper lip. Marcel stopped, catching his breath and instantly became worried. "I didn't mean to –"
But he did. The Supreme Leader meant to bust Gerard's lip, because he needed a punching bag. And Gerard was going to give him the opportunity. Because if Hitler had been aware of his own cruelty, understood it, then maybe he'd chosen a different path.
The sparring didn't pause. Marcel fought and block, Gerard spun kicks. Then at a final moment, Marcel grasped Gerard and shoved him to the ground. He began ravenously kicking his face. Gerard pretended like the hits hurt by covering his face and screaming. He shouted with a suppressed grin, "Marcel! Please!"
Marcel stepped back, sweat dripping from his head gear. He ripped it off. "Oh Jesus," he whispered, "I'm sorry. I…"
Trying to helpless, for perhaps the first time in his life, Gerard crossed his hands in front of his face. If he was talented like those soap opera stars, he could conjure up some tears and make Marcel's soul rip in two.
"Seriously," Marcel insinuated. "I didn't mean it." He held out his hand to help Gerard stand.
But something unexpected happened. He didn't like not being prepared for moments like this. Blood poured out of Marcel's right nostril. Acting over now, Gerard pointed to Marcel's nose. "You're bleeding."
The Supreme Leader dabbed it with the back of his hand and looked at the large amount of blood. "You got me good."
"I never hit you in the face."
Before Marcel could question it further, he slumped over and collapsed to the floor unconscious.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blacker than black. Darker than dark. More nothing than nothing. Marcel Celest had travelled the cosmos in dark energy but never seen anything so black. The Doctor kept talking, saying something about the treatments for cancer. How advanced the treatments have become. How in the final stages, the odds of defeating cancer lessened. Every time he said the word cancer, Marcel's heart skipped a beat. He never looked away from the x-ray of his lung, secured to a white light background. Still so dark. Blackness swallowed his right lung and parts of his left. His ability to heal expediently had no power against this. Because this was beyond even his capabilities of evil.
&nbs
p; Gerard put a hand on his shoulder. A show of comfort. But nothing could comfort this. How does anyone respond to finding a friend succumbing to cancer? You'll pull through. No, Marcel wouldn't pull through this. You should spend your final days with family. No, Marcel's family hated him. There's a chance of a cure. No, there wasn't. He could control minds and influence the elements, but not defeat the blackness swallowing him into an abyss.
The Doctor tried to explain that smoking all those years caused the tumor. Marcel's struggle to quit cigarettes ended up another regretful decision; he was going to die anyways. But something told him, tobacco didn't do this. Darkness did. Was Lucifer aware this could happen to him? Marcel had been one of several humans in history with the ability to change the future. Lucifer told him all people had fates, except for a minute few and those progenies could alter the future. But had his predecessors experienced this same side effect? Cancer? Pain? Death?
Why didn't Lucifer warn him?
"Can I have a moment please?" Marcel said, not sure if the Doctor was done speaking. "With my friend?"
The Doctor seemed hurt by the word friend, then looked at Gerard as though there was confusion who Marcel meant. Gerard often got this look; the look of jealousy. It must've made him feel like a gold medal winner. The Doctor walked out the office and closed the door.
Marcel slumped back on the stool; the stool he didn't remember even standing up from to get a closer view of the x-ray. Gerard had never gotten to his feet, maybe he hadn't been as surprised. Sure, Marcel smoked but not everyone who smoked contracted lung cancer. Not in a time when the disease was practically curable.
Thankful that Gerard didn't say I'm sorry, Marcel enjoyed the silence for a moment. He thought about Lucifer's action, or lack of action actually, so shortly after they compromised. If cancer was a component to the power of dark energy, even a simple warning would've sufficed.