by Lee Bond
Thirty thousand years.
Knowing Trinity, the goddamn thing’d let him stew for three hundred thousand next time, waking him up to a Universe a million times more bizarre.
And he’d still be a puppet.
He turned. If he was going to do something that was contrary to everything he’d ever understood about Trinity’s … plans, he needed to know something that’d been bugging him for a long damn time. “Y’know whut? While we’re all on the damn subject o’ shit that ain’t make no sense, how’s about you fill me in on somethin’ as been buggin' me?”
Silence filled the rooms for an uncomfortably long time, yet Griffin didn’t move. He would not, until Trinity either condescended to fill him in or forced him to move.
“Ask away, Griffin Jones.” The voice held a bit of emotion in the otherwise neutral tone. Sometimes a good sign, sometimes ... not. It all depended on how It took the question.
“Since Ah’m doin’ all this shit as makes no sense without really bein’ a whiny bitch about it, can ya’ll tell me why in the fuck you set Garth up to be the richest goddamn man in th’ entire Universe? Shit don’t make no sense! He could be buildin’ a fuckin’ army out there to pull ya’ll down!”
“I am surprised at you, Griffin Jones.” Trinity chided. “In all the years we’ve worked together ensuring the survivability of the Human spirit, you’ve never stricken me as a man who failed to see the bigger picture.”
“It … it just don’t make no sense.” Griffin muttered. It was always on his mind, that money, that … abstract wealth. Garth wasn’t –had never been- the sort of person who even really understood money and here he was, probably the richest single entity anywhere. Griffin realized that Trinity did nothing without at least five or six different motives behind each decision, each with potentially hundreds –if not thousands- of outcomes, any one of which was to It’s eventual benefit…
This, though … it was confusing. Oh, adopting the gravnetic shield generators into pretty much every world’s defense grid was a masterstroke, sure enough. It’d be a fool who didn’t take advantage of that, but historically, Trinity took what it wanted.
“Ahh. Yes, of course. Consider this, Griffin; who else is a part of that equation?” Trinity paused. “Never mind, I can see by the expression beneath your helmet that you are in no mood for guessing games. The answer is quite simple. I am not giving money to Garth N’Chalez; I am taking it from Jordan Bishop.”
“Huh?”
“Of all the sounds in the known Universe, Griffin Jones, ‘huh’ is the one that singlehandedly expresses a sentient being’s inability to process any important information at all. If I were a human being, I would also say that it ‘gets on my nerves’. I abhor it. Ensure you refrain from using it in my presence from this time forward. Now, use that brain of yours.”
Beneath his helmet, Griffin flexed his jaw angrily, schooling himself in the fine art of keeping his yapper shut as he considered the implications of what Trinity was saying.
Inarguably, Jordan Bishop was one of the most powerful men Trinityspace had ever given rise to, and not least of all because of his mighty Conglomerate; the man was connected to other powerful men and women as well, men and women who cleaved to his particular point of view.
Historically, ‘secret’ agencies devoted to rooting out or otherwise disposing of Trinity cropped up like weeds. Hundreds of thousands of them, actually, spread liberally across Trinity’s nearly eternal domain. Virtually one hundred percent of them were insignificant in one way or another, barely worth Trinity’s concern.
Jordan’s group, though, his 'Dark Age Cabal' … was another thing entirely. Its membership was comprised of luminaries like Medellos, Voss, Uderhell, Tynedale, and Fujihara. Rumors abounded that the Emperor for Life himself was an honorary member and that all of the truly ancient Elder Yellow Dogmen were onboard. One of Trinity’s own Historical Adjutants –ironically enough, the very man who’d interrogated them all-, Kant Ingrams, was a charter member, supplying the organization with information and historical data on all of Trinity’s missteps in the hopes that the Cabal would be able to formulate an effective strike plan.
Never before had Conglomerates worked so closely together, never before had they pooled their resources in an effort to figure out how to either beat or stave back the effects of the Dark Age long enough to combat their unwanted AI ruler.
“The Cabal.”
“Indeed, Griffin, the Cabal. A most pernicious and threatening organization of like-minded individuals there have never been. It is not merely enough to kill the various members; I could do so easily. Their deaths would create a vacuum across thousands of worlds, and this close to an impending Dark Age, I find myself reluctant to risk that. Whether I like it or not, powerful human beings like Emile Voss and his shrewish wife Annalisa Uderhell provide for the worlds as they plummet into the darkness. Without them, entire systems would be lost. As their leader…”
“Jordan Bishop is the most dangerous.” Griffin nodded, suddenly enthusiastic. “An’ regardless o’ whether or not Garth’s gravnetic shields are better, th’ guy is losin’ a shit-ton of money all over everywhere. Those defense contracts’ve always been the butter on that man’s bread. Between him runnin’ all over the place tryin’ to get Garth killed and desperately tryin’ tah get back on track financially, he’s gettin’ crazier’n a shithouse rat. If he continues t’fail, he’ll just get crazier an’ crazier until he does somethin’ t’piss off the others in that there Cabal o’ his. They’ll kick him out for certain and then he’ll really go bonkers. After all, the Cabal is his baby and daddy won’t like that. Nice. Ah like it.”
“It is not enough to merely punish some people, Griffin Jones. Sometimes they need … more. Suddenly bereft of the … protection that the Cabal would offer during the approaching Dark Age, Jordan Bishop will find himself seeking dangerous avenues to success. He will descend into madness, both in his attempts to kill Garth N’Chalez and in his desires to ‘bring me down’. He may even attempt to undo the Cabal’s efforts. In so doing, he will illuminate people and practices I might ordinarily have underestimated. Ultimately, he will be working for me. In the last stages of his madness, with his last sane breaths, I will tell him this. And then one of my Enforcers will end his life.”
Griffin shuddered at Trinity’s vindictive streak. Trillions upon trillions of people the Universe over believed their AI overlord to be kind and beneficial, and to a certain extent, It surely was.
Very few people had ever heard of or met the ‘other’ Trinity, the one who was playing a game with all their lives. If they even suspected … well, they’d probably prefer to burn their worlds to ash and cinder. Now Trinity had trapped Jordan Bishop as sure as a spider traps a fly and nothing in the Universe could save him. The only thing left remaining was his death.
“Curiosity satisfied, Griffin Jones?” Trinity didn’t wait for an answer. “Now. Do as you are told or you will not enjoy my wrath.”
Silence filled Griffin’s rooms.
“Goddamnit all to fuckin’ hell an’ back. ‘Save Chadsik al-Taryin’. Ain’t that a fuckin’ kick in the nutsack!” Griffin headed out, resolute, angry.
Everyone Heads off to The Museum for a ‘Good Time’
The Museum of Latelian Natural History was a common fixture on every planet in the Latelian Regime; upon a time, it had been an icon unique to Hospitalis, but as colonies grew to cities and cities into countries and countries into worlds, citizens demanded the privilege of hosting the great Game on their own soil.
Thus, the dictatorship truly began to grow strong, much to the joy of the Chair.
Since a big part of the Game was the responsibility of displaying the awe-inspiring Box for the entire duration of the event, it grew necessary to construct an identical Museum on each planet as it reached ‘maturity’. Each new Museum served to make the Game even more popular by allowing citizens to have a more active participation in the systemic event. In turn, this generated trem
endous profits for the Host-planet; wealthy patrons -who simply could not bear to view the slaughter on Screens- hied themselves to the Host planet and stayed there for entire series of Games, generally spending a fortune in the process.
Though every world had their own Museum -and their own, distinct, ways of displaying the honor and history of the regime down through the Ages- the one on Hospitalis cherished above all others. The distinction of being ‘first’ gave curators of that Museum the right to show things no other could, to highlight and commemorate the first generations of contestant with dignity and respect.
The Hall of Warriors existed only in Hospitalis' Museum and was closed whenever the Game was off-planet. Called the Walk of the Dead by many of the patrons when out of earshot of employees, the Hall existed to uphold those men and women who’d gone before, who’d fought and died and tried in the arena for the ultimate in victories.
Clean-up crews called the stretch ‘The Tomb’ and absolutely refused to spend any more time in there than was strictly necessary, even during the Game when the mess was easily considered deplorable. They claimed it was haunted, that the eyes of the mummified warriors followed them around the room and, when it was just them sitting around sharing a cigarette, that it was just plain old spooky.
The curator of The Museum -rumored by all to be as old the building itself- puttered around after closing, picking up most of the mess himself, changing garbage bags and locating deftly hidden beverage containers. At the end of every Game season, clean-up crews engaging in such tomfoolery found themselves without jobs. For being heathens who believed in spirits and hauntings, The Curator ensured that they got blacklisted. The curator wasn’t just old school; he was before school had ever existed.
The Museum Of Latelian Natural had a lot to offer, yes indeed, and the Hall of Warriors was but a small part.
By the end of the day, instead of displaying history for future generations, it would become a part of history.
xxx
The Tomb was Naoko’s favorite spot in the entire Museum and she yearned to drag Garth there right away, but he insisted on going through the various rooms to witness Latelian history ‘in order’. He claimed it was so he could get an even better understanding of the people he’d joined but Naoko guessed he knew how badly she wanted to visit the Hall of Warriors and was making her wait on purpose.
Probably because she’d talked non-stop about The Tomb on the drive over.
Now they were standing in front of the mural depicting the Great Discovery of The Box. As far as Naoko knew, the portrayal of that momentous occasion was entirely true. Far off in the distance, two mighty civilizations posed, locked in an endless cycle of destruction, leveling vast engines of war against one another, firing weapons dreadful to behold and wreaking damage profound enough to warp the fabric of space itself.
In the foreground, a small -a pathetically small ship barely even worth mentioning- lurked, literally emanating a desire to remain unnoticed by the mighty gods hammering away at each other for all time.
Between the tiny ship and the colossal war-cruisers bristling with energy cannons and surrounded by swarms of fighters was The Box; to maintain the illusion of majesty, the artist had rendered The Box itself as a vague impression, tantalizing generations of Latelians by revealing a bent cube of starlight, refracting energy weapons and warping space. The imagery was spectacular, the colors of weapon discharge as vibrant now as when she’d been a child.
“This is what I’m talking about.” Garth pointed directly at the hint of The Box.
“What is it you are saying?” Naoko stepped beside Garth and stared at the fresco even though she, like all people her age and older, could sketch it from memory. He hadn’t said anything about anything. Sometimes Garth was so confusing!
“This.” Garth went to rap The Box’s location with his knuckles but stopped when he felt Naoko stiffen. He tucked the offensive hand in a pocket. “This guy, this artist dude …” he read from the tiny plaque, “Sa Giuseppe Ginsalvo. He’s got the whole thing right, which begs the bloo … fu … what I wanna know is how this rinky-dink ship found The Box. It’s invisible.”
“It is not invisible, Garth.” Naoko indicated a part of the plaque that Garth hadn’t read. “Sa Ginsalvo opted to portray the mystery of The Box by not showing it. It’s a metaphor, or artistic license.”
“Artistic license my rosy red bum.” Garth squinted at the warped depression on the mural. “And the proportions are all fu … buggered. This guy even pass art school? It’s not really a cube at all. Who in their right minds would build a cube to travel through space? Except for the Borg of course, and they’re …” he trailed off when he realized his voice had gotten somewhat loud.
Garth swore that if he walked into where The Box was being held and saw an actual goddamn cube he’d blow the whole goddamn planet up out of sheer irritation. He thought he was doing really well in keeping the more … aggressive … components of his instincts at bay, but seriously. If they were worshiping a giant Rubik’s Cube, people were going to get hurt.
“Sa.” Naoko whispered nervously. Overall, the people around them were doing well with Garth’s presence. She’d heard very few people muttering Offworld slurs. Thankfully, most of the whispering had more to do with his showing in the Game and his amazing survival of the Port Disaster. If he persisted, though, that could change in a heartbeat. “It is bad enough that people here recognize you from that silly N4U story the other night. Don’t make it worse for yourself by being so … loud.”
“Oh, uh. Yeah, right.” Garth said sheepishly. It was difficult, keeping a reign on his drives. “This is all just … very exciting.” He looked apologetic before turning his gaze on a small cluster of people standing ten feet away from him and Naoko. “Go away!”
Instead of running away, the crowd shuffled nervously closer. Garth’s forehead beetled in utter confusion. Who did that? Who crept closer to someone who was obviously spastic?
Naoko did her best to mimic The Box’s metaphorical representation.
“Could … could we get an autograph, sa?” An older man asked, holding up a Sheet in his hand.
Garth looked at Naoko, who refused to do anything except look as inscrutable as a Sphinx. Si Alix wanted him to do everything in his power to make the people adore the living crap out of him, but if he did that, there was the whole ‘bigger they are, harder they fall’ thing to deal with and he didn’t intend on falling any further than the couch when all was said and done. If he stole The Box and he was immensely popular when he did it, it’d be that much harder to get away without having to level entire swathes of the city.
“Please?” the old coot asked again, oozing oldness.
“No.” Garth shook his head firmly, ignoring the shock on the faces of the people clustering around the old guy. He noticed, though, that the old guy himself didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked even more determined. Was the old coot a Slammer? Instinct said yes.
He raised a finger. “Before you even get the idea in your head that you can pester me into giving you an autograph, consider this: I am much younger than you. I can certainly say no until you die. And I don’t do hospitals, so there’ll be no ‘I am dying and it would mean so very much to me if Sa Garth Nickels was to give me an autograph’ either.”
Garth pointed at each of the people in turn. “I am not legally required to sign autographs. My publicist suggested I even avoid talking to people because I am such a cranky man. I am so cranky, in fact, that it is entirely likely I will stand here doing nothing but being incomprehensibly rude to you and if you don’t like that, I am also insanely wealthy. I can literally follow you around all day asking you stupid questions without getting bored. Call Si Alixia van derTuppen. Apparently, she’s running some kind of ‘Garth store’ out of the trunk of her car. Now scoot. I am on a date and don’t want to be bothered. If you see people like yourselves –which you will, ‘cuz this planet is stuffed full of maniacs- warn them. Now scoot, you silly bug
gers.”
Naoko watched the small crowd disperse hurriedly, some of them quite angrily. The old man sneered at Garth and then tottered off towards a public Sheetcomm booth. “What was that all about?”
“Gar.” Garth took one look at Naoko’s lovely eyes and relented. “I have absolutely no desire to be famous whatsoever. When I found out I had to give press statements for the Game, I bribed an official at the offices to make stuff up. When a handler tried to hassle me into giving him information, I broke his hand. My last handler caught me off-guard one morning and I spouted that nonsense about me and wolf-men and it hit the Sheets before I knew what was up. And now … this.” He flailed his arm around weakly, taking the whole world in. “I hate it. If I’d known surviving the port would do this, I would’ve maybe opted for melting into goop.”
The Mural of The Box was obviously causing him great distress, so it was best if they moved on. Naoko took Garth’s hand and moved him gently towards the next display. The people who’d approached him for autographs went the other direction.
This one covered the events of the first true Game, but in a more artistic light than the one previous. Instead of a factual depiction, the artist had designed the piece of art to show a triumphant Allyn Devince standing atop The Box, head illuminated with the glow of victory. At his feet lay the losers of the Game, their faces indistinct beyond the gnashing of teeth and downcast eyes.
“So you don’t want to be in the public eye, then?” Naoko asked casually, trying to disguise her curiosity by looking at the painting.
Garth shook his head, not at the question, but at the wall painting. There was such an overt religiousness in Devince’s portrayal it was a wonder the artist had avoided persecution for being a holy fanatic.
Again, The Box in the work was a simple cube lacking anything remotely useful. He sighed. If he insisted they head to the main area where The Box was, bypassing all the murals, paintings, and what-have-yous, Naoko would become suspicious, especially after he’d gone to such great pains to sound pro-history. Revealing that he knew as much as any History major … no, it was best if he just hung in there.