by John Murphy
The other marines on embassy duty only wore camos when carrying weapons on exterior guard duty. Vaughn’s eyes flicked down. Indeed, the captain was wearing a pistol.
“Roger that, tango two,” the captain said into a mic on his right cuff. “Do not leave your post until you are relieved by your replacement, no matter what.”
Vaughn knew better than to call out to Captain Leon from across the lobby. His bare feet whispered down the plush carpet on the sweeping marble staircase, making his approach nearly silent.
“Hey Captain, what’s up?” Vaughn’s bare feet stepped onto the cool marble foyer.
The captain barely glanced at him. “Ah, Vaughn! I guess I can still say good morning.” He made a show of looking at his watch. Captain Leon had multiple manners of speech: polite and formal for the ambassador and staff, gruff and no-nonsense for his marines, and polite sarcasm for Vaughn. Vaughn rather enjoyed his special status.
“I was about to send for you,” Captain Leon said. “Did you get enough beauty sleep?” His voice engendered casual familiarity, but his movements and mannerisms were as professionally creased as his uniform.
“Yeah? What’s up?” Vaughn took a bite of his breakfast bar.
“We’ve got some protesters. They may be getting a bit unruly.”
“So I heard,” Vaughn said. “I do like the ruly ones so much better.” He looked for an acknowledgement of his wit.
Captain Leon didn’t even twitch. “We’re on lockdown today. I’ll need you to be dressed and…” Leon looked down at Vaughn’s feet. “Wearing shoes—not slippers, nor stocking feet. Shoes. Something comfortable.”
“Is it okay if they’re bunny shoes?” Vaughn asked, trying again to get a rise out of the captain.
The captain glared at him. “And I wouldn’t wear anything with Coke on it. These clowns don’t like anything that says ‘big corporation.’”
That was just another reason for Vaughn to despise the protestors. Coke was his favorite.
Vaughn looked around. “So where is everybody?”
“Your parents are at the Global Alliance Freedom Conference, along with most of the staff and security. We have Annette and Officer Assecula in-house and eighteen marines on post.”
“Wow! What’s going on?”
Captain Leon gave him a curious half smirk. “You really don’t know, do you?” His reply was more a statement of disappointment than a question.
“No. What am I supposed to know?”
The captain sighed. “The Global Alliance is meeting with ambassadors from every member nation. Since they’re meeting in Bangkok, naturally your mother was chosen to host the delegation from the United States.”
“But isn’t she already the ambassador?”
Captain Leon nodded. “She’s the ambassador to the country of Thailand, an official representative of the United States to this country only. When the United States’ ambassador to the Global Alliance is in town, he and his entourage stay here. You didn’t notice all the hubbub over the last week?”
“Um, not really. Kind of. I’ve got friends, you know. We try to stay out of that kind of stuff.”
“Fantasia?” the captain asked with a skeptical glance.
“Yeah, mostly,” Vaughn admitted. He loved Fantasia. It was the most advanced massively multiplayer online role-playing environment yet. Players wore sensory nets on their heads as they played. The advanced technology transported them to any world they desired, realistic or surrealistic.
“Well, you’ve got to get your head out of your ass and pay attention to what’s going on in the real world,” Captain Leon said. He spoke as if grumbling to himself. The deliberate use of the phrase “head out of your ass” made Vaughn feel like he’d been poked, but without the intensity dished out to the marines on station.
Vaughn looked out the window. He could see the protesters clearly on the other side of the wrought iron gates. They were dressed in ragged clothing, as if homeless. Their faces were heavily tattooed and scarified in tribal patterns. Several had large, round ornate stones and African-inspired labret gauges or lip plates embedded in their lower lips and earlobes. Others had various bones, thorns, and metal artwork piercing their faces, necks, and skulls, sometimes from one side of their face clean through to the other. Some were so heavily disfigured they appeared ghoulish and inhuman.
The protesters banged on buckets and pots and chanted incessantly. “Humans are a blight! Carthenogens are right! Humans are a blight! Carthenogens are right!”
“Okay, so what are these guys protesting about?” asked Vaughn.
“The sovereign nations of the world are demanding more autonomy from the dictates of the Global Alliance,” Captain Leon explained. “Right now, a lot of the decision making is done by the Carthenogens and passed down through the Global Alliance, which, in turn, tells the sovereign nations what to do. The Global Alliance likes having that power. The sovereigns are pushing back, led specifically by the US.”
“So what are these protesters against?”
“Generally, they’re against autonomy and claim that we would be better off under direct control of the Global Alliance. Get rid of the sovereign governments, and the Global Alliance will create fairness, equality, and peace for everyone, which, in my opinion, is a load of crap. A large percentage of those that you see are a bunch of stoned-out rich kids with too much time on their hands, if you ask me. They’re spoiled brats, really—useful idiots who spend their parents’ money mutilating their bodies, getting high on designer drugs, and being angry at all the injustice in the world. They come here from Europe and the Americas—or rather, are brought here—to raise a ruckus and provide distraction.”
Vaughn raised his eyebrows at the captain’s candor.
“While they seem harmless enough,” the captain continued, “they provide camouflage for truly dangerous anarchists. There are terrorists lurking in that crowd. The big explosion you heard indicates they’re planning something more than a protest.”
“You said they’re brought here…by who?”
“By whom,” the captain corrected. “Players behind the scenes. The Global Alliance is a façade. A group of nefarious folks orchestrate everything, including protests, riots, and other forms of civil unrest. When people back home see rioters, their first instinct is to demand that law enforcement crack down. People think that only the Global Alliance can handle this sort of unrest, which gives the Alliance more power—absolute power.”
“Holy shi—! Uh, er, cra—…You’re kidding me, right?”
Captain Leon shook his head. “No, I’m not. You need to pay attention, be observant. Learn the easy way, not the hard way.”
“I promise I’ll study more.”
“Don’t worry so much about what they’re teaching in class. Look out your front door.” The captain pointed with a rigid knife hand gesture. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’re witnessing a massive power grab in the making.”
“You’re right, Captain,” a female voice barked from behind them.
Vaughn glanced back. It was Officer Assecula, a stocky woman in a bland gray uniform with black-rimmed glasses about the size of Coke bottle caps. Her hair was nearly shaved on one side of her head. On the other side, it stood straight out, seemingly defying gravity in kinky salt-and-pepper curls that came to a point. She was the Global Alliance political officer assigned to the embassy.
“You know there are strict rules against sharing opinions and speculation with embassy personnel,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Captain Leon said, acquiescing immediately. Despite the captain’s rapid retreat, Vaughn could see that he was holding back intense emotions.
Officer Assecula shifted her narrow glasses up her nose as she looked at Vaughn. “The important thing to recognize here, Mr. Killian, is that the Global Alliance assures citizens the right to free
speech and public protest, even if what they’re protesting is your government’s actions. The people you see today have every right to do what they’re doing.”
“But weren’t we engaged in free…” Vaughn started.
“No!” Captain Leon interrupted. “Officer Assecula is right. I shouldn’t be sharing my personal opinions with embassy personnel. I apologize, ma’am, and to you, Vaughn.”
“Technically, I’m not embassy personnel…”
“No!” the captain said. “Again, I was in the wrong, and I do apologize.”
The captain’s tactic, it seemed, was to win by refusing to participate. Officer Assecula spun on her heel and clip-clopped out of the lobby. “I will be noting this in your record, Captain,” she called over her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll sign it.”
When she was gone, Vaughn and the captain turned their attention back to the protesters. The captain didn’t even roll his eyes. That took serious control, Vaughn thought.
Vaughn disliked Officer Assecula as much as he liked Captain Leon. The captain represented calm, cool discipline, something lacking in the frantic activity around the embassy. Assecula seemed to create turmoil everywhere.
The ceaseless craziness made even Vaughn’s parents feel distant, too busy to spend time talking to him. He always felt like an interruption, as if they would rather he not be there at all.
Captain Leon was strict about keeping his subordinate marines from interacting with Vaughn, even though they were only a few years older than him. Captain Leon didn’t want those in his charge being a bad influence, which Vaughn respected. Besides, he had his own friends from school, and they were a bad enough influence.
The protesters marched in an erratic loop in front of the gates, banging and chanting away. One of them had a bass drum and beat out a deep thump, thump…thump, thump, thump…thump.
Vaughn turned to Captain Leon. “How come you’re not with my folks today?”
“I’ve got Gunny Horton with them. The State Department has a full team protecting the US ambassador to the Global Alliance and your parents as well.”
“So you get to hold down the fort?”
The captain looked at him sternly. “If you must know, I’m here specifically to protect you.”
Vaughn felt flattered. Then a chill washed over him. Typically, he existed in the shadows of the important people and events at the embassy. Hardly anyone paid attention to him, a fact he was generally okay with. But the captain’s words made him feel conspicuous, vulnerable, a target. Considering that his mother was often the focus of inexplicable anger, it made sense that he would be a point of leverage. Images of him being hauled from an embassy vehicle and yanked apart by angry, Coke-hating protesters flashed through his mind.
Suddenly, he saw the captain differently. No longer was he one of many obstacles to be dodged in Vaughn’s day-to-day life, like a mouse looking to avoid sharp heels in a crowded room. Now the captain seemed his only defense against the menacing horde outside the gates. He felt the blood drain from his face. There was only one captain, but there were thousands of protesters. Sure, marines with machine guns surrounded the embassy compound, but Vaughn had an urgent desire for more bodies to protect him.
Vaughn stared out the window for a few uneasy moments more. He noticed much more detail than before. No longer was the horde a teeming mass of rags, picket signs, and dreadlocks. The imminent threat the protesters posed accentuated their ugliness—their anger, teeth, fists, contorted faces, and malicious intent. If they were willing to mutilate their own faces, what would they do to him?
He worried that they’d find a way to penetrate the iron gates and pursue him like a pack of wolves. The thought that his parents and the delegation returning in a convoy of armored cars would have to pass through those gates chilled him.
The bass drum boomed its threats over the clinking of sticks hitting pots. Thump, thump…thump…thump, thump, thump.
“Humans are a blight! Carthenogens are right! Humans are a blight! Carthenogens are right!”
Vaughn tried to get his mind off the idea of invasion. “Why do they hate humans and love the Carthenogens so much? I don’t get it.”
The captain glanced over his shoulder before speaking. “That’s all about self-loathing,” he said quietly. “There’s a natural tendency in humans to harbor self-doubt and feel flawed. Most people have things to occupy their time and distract them from those feelings, like work, taxes, school, and kids. These guys opt out of the normal stuff when they become hooked on highly addictive drugs. These drugs not only make them high, but they amplify the lows they feel when they’re not high. It makes them dwell on their insecurities. They get depressed and angry, shifting between extreme emotional states. They find ways to blame their situation on the outside world. They’re only half-serious about the things on the signs. Mostly, their rage is motivated by self-loathing. They see the Carthenogens as perfect, supernatural beings and free from flaws, something they aspire to be in a hyperintensive way. The sovereign governments then become the villains, the obstacles to the utopian society the Carthenogens promise in which they can ultimately envision their own happiness.”
“Huh,” Vaughn grunted.
The captain spoke quietly through barely parted lips. “They’re pretty much harmless.”
“Except for the anarchists?”
“Yes.” The captain nodded. “Except for the anarchists.”
Thump, thump, thump…thump…thump, thump.
“Humans are a blight! Carthenogens are right! Humans are a blight! Carthenogens are right!”
Thump…thump, thump, thump…thump.
The drummer’s timing was off. It interfered with the rhythm of the chanting. Several times, the drummer tried to get in synch with the chanting, but to no avail.
“They made a mistake giving the drum to a white guy,” Vaughn muttered.
Captain Leon shot a surprised glance at Vaughn. He struggled to suppress a grin. His pencil-thin moustache twitched, and then he burst out laughing—an overly hearty, bent over, echo-through-the-halls laugh.
Vaughn couldn’t suppress his laughter, either. He had finally gotten the captain to lower his professional mask, if only for a moment.
“They’re spoiled rich kids,” the captain said, wiping his eyes. “I don’t see a single black guy among them.”
“Touché,” Vaughn said, grinning.
The captain struggled to resume his professional demeanor, wiping tears from his eyes. He kept looking at Vaughn and catching his breath, as if holding something back. Finally, he shot out his hand, proffering a handshake. Vaughn stared at it, confused. Following the etiquette of always shaking a friendly hand when offered, Vaughn put his hand into the captain’s. The captain shook firmly, saying nothing, only smiling.
He stared at Vaughn long enough to disrupt the barrier of their formal relationship. It appeared he had something on his mind.
“Thank you, Vaughn,” the captain said, almost whispering.
Vaughn hesitated. “For what?”
The captain kept shaking his hand, gripping it firmly. “For not being a spoiled rich kid.”
“Uh, sure,” Vaughn responded.
The captain released his hand. “I have a young son at home in the States. I hope that he can keep a good head on his shoulders. I hope that for you, too. You have a lot of advantages and a lot of potential to do great things. Don’t screw it up.”
Vaughn looked out the window. It occurred to him that the captain was trying to tell him what he might have said to his own son if he were there.
“Uh, thanks. Sure thing,” was all Vaughn could muster.
A sense of privilege mingled with loss swept through him. He trembled inside as he realized the danger posed by the protestors was likely greater than Captain Leon was letting on.
“Now quit wasting my
time,” the captain said, becoming stern again. “And go get dressed.”
Vaughn started for the stairs, then stopped. “Hey Captain, do you suppose I’ll be able to go out tonight? I was hoping to meet up with my girlfriend.”
“Oh, that sweet blonde from—where was it? Finland?”
“Yeah,” Vaughn said.
“What’s her name?”
“Felicia. Felicia Virtanen.”
Captain Leon sniffed. “Those Scandinavians are strong on hot women, but weak on everything that counts.”
Vaughn ignored his comment. “So can I?”
“No! We’re on lockdown until further notice.”
“But—”
“Denied.” The captain turned his back.
Vaughn paused halfway up the staircase. “Captain—should I be worried?”
Captain Leon continued staring out the window at the protesters. “No,” he said finally, pausing long enough to belie his words. “You can resume what you were doing. Just get dressed and stay in your residence unless I give you an all clear.”
* * *
As Vaughn got dressed, he tried to assure himself that Captain Leon and his men would be able to keep the dark forces at bay. Still, he couldn’t help but envision the wolves of anarchy skulking among the ghoulish protesters.
He lay back on his couch and put the Fantasia mesh over his head, the padded earphones reducing the chanting outside to haunting whispers. Still, his shoulders and neck were tense. He did his best to ignore them.
The sensory mesh resembled a soft helmet. Inside the comfortably padded interior, electronic probes touched his scalp, creating a sense of motion during play. He lowered an opaque visor over his eyes, which featured a holographic screen inside.
Vaughn entered a virtual meeting chamber, an enormous medieval hall complete with weapons hanging on the walls. He met the avatars of his friends, who waited impatiently.