by John Murphy
Killian fumed. Suddenly, he remembered he was naked and drew the last towel around his skinny waist. He paced as a fresh rush of adrenaline coursed through his body.
“You mean I’ve been living in a war zone, watching millions of people die and disappear, and no one knows?”
“Certainly, the Global Alliance knows, and we know. But beyond that, pretty much nobody,” Risky said.
“But the Global Alliance is behind this!”
Doc threw a hand signal to Risky, slashing across his neck.
“I can’t get into any of that,” Risky said.
“What the fuck, Risky?” Killian yelled. “Who the fuck are you guys?”
“We can’t tell you that, either. Suffice it to say we extracted you to safety and we’re going to put you back stateside.”
“Are they going to throw me in jail?”
“Not if you keep your mouth shut,” Risky said. “It’s important that nobody knows any of this. Say anything, and you’ll wind up behind bars.”
“You’ve got to tell me what the fuck is going on!”
“Sorry, Vaughn. We can’t do that,” Doc said.
“Whose side are you on?” Killian shouted.
Doc held out his hand, half in a calming motion and half on guard. “Vaughn—you saw what happened, who did what to whom. We can’t tell you anything beyond what you already saw. You have to draw your own conclusions about whose side we’re on.”
Killian paced angrily, holding his towel secure with one hand, his other hand pressed against his forehead.
“I’m sorry, but this is too fucking much to take in.”
Risky stepped between Killian and the sedated captives, watching Killian pace back and forth like a caged animal. “I think he’s about to crash, Doc.”
Doc nodded and watched Killian carefully.
Sure enough, the blood-sugar spike, the adrenaline surge, the combat trauma, and the soul-jarring news were too much. So much pain, so much terror, so many people dead—for nothing.
Pacing, pacing, pacing…
His parents had been taken from him; his life had been stolen. Now he might go to prison.
Pacing, pacing, pacing…
Felicia would never accept him like this, a skinny, ruthless killer of thirty-three people—government soldiers, no less. Would she assume he’d killed women and children as well?
A sob burst from him. He clasped his trembling hand over his mouth and paced even faster. Tears flowed from his eyes. His face stung and contorted in pain.
“No one knows?” he squeaked.
“No, man,” Risky said. “I’m sorry.”
Risky was in the same kind of stance as Doc, half-calming, half-defensive.
Killian stopped and screamed with all his might, “What the fuck!”
He lunged to attack the captives, but Risky intercepted him, got Killian into an armlock, and forced him to the deck. Killian screamed, with tears, snot, and drool flowing.
“Give him a quarter dose,” Risky said over his shoulder.
Doc was on Killian immediately and shot him in the ass with the sedative. Risky held firm as Killian struggled and kicked. Moments later, the urge to fight went out of him. He cried as his head swam.
Risky released his grip, and then he and Doc lifted Killian’s limp body by the shoulders and knees.
“Let’s take him to sick bay,” Doc said. His words echoed and swirled in Killian’s head.
“Take me with you,” Killian slurred in a pained voice.
“Sorry, buddy. No can do,” Risky said from somewhere in the fog.
As they carried him from the bay and down a narrow hall, Killian could barely see Doc’s face against the gray metal ceiling.
They hoisted him onto a bed. It felt good, better than he could ever recall feeling. Killian was no longer crying; he was floating.
“Tell you what, Vaughn,” Risky said. “Everybody stateside who’s your age has to do compulsory service for the government. You can choose to go military. Okay? But you can’t tell anyone about this—not about us, not about Bangkok, nothing. They would throw you in prison. Say nothing. You do well in the military, and we’ll talk again someday.”
“No,” Killian slurred. “Take me with you.”
“We can’t,” Doc said. “We don’t exist. You got that?”
“I just want to have a gun of my own,” Killian said, his own voice becoming an echo.
“You’ve got good instincts, Vaughn. You’ve got a lot of fight in you.”
Risky’s face loomed over Killian as he drifted into darkness.
“Someday when someone comes to you and says, Resistere ad mortem, you go with him. Got that?”
In his growing fog, Killian was transported back to Latin class. He saw his teacher in a sports coat and tie, with black wavy hair and copper-rimmed glasses. He saw his classmates in navy blue blazers adorned with the school crest. He saw Felicia next to him, beautiful and clean. The students looked at him expectantly, as if the teacher had asked him to translate.
Resistere ad mortem.
“Resist to the death,” Killian muttered.
CHAPTER 8
THE WORLD’S SINGLE MOST FAMOUS news anchor appeared on the video screen, followed by a swirl of graphics and trumpeted music.
“This is Walter Updike, bringing you news of the world. Our top-of-the-hour headlines…”
More music.
“Today has seen massive devastation in the southeastern coast of India from an offshore earthquake that created a tsunami. A massive wave struck the shores of Goa, India, as well as Somalia and other Indian Ocean regions. Sources in the area report a twenty-foot wall of water sweeping oceanside communities away, resulting in millions of casualties in the densely populated regions. Global Alliance rapid response teams have launched recovery efforts. In-depth coverage of this horrific disaster in a moment.
“The Global Alliance Public Health Committee is set to meet this week in Geneva, Switzerland, where it will establish international guidelines on food flavor enhancers.
“The Global Alliance has reaffirmed its high court ruling on household items, such as kitchen knives, scissors, and screwdrivers, that must be registered to their specific owners in accord with the Civilian Interpersonal Safety Act.
“The Global Alliance forges ahead with its humanitarian program of urban regeneration, called ‘Chrysalis.’ Next spring, under the guidance of supreme Carthenogen architects, twelve lucky charter cities throughout Southeast Asia will begin construction of new supercities modeled after those on the home planet of Carthogena.
“This January’s Renaissance Day, the International Day of Rebirth, marks the fortieth anniversary of the arrival of the Carthenogens on our planet. The year 2035 was a time of torrid worldwide tensions, with humanity on the brink of global nuclear annihilation after China made a first strike on India. Our watchful shepherds from across the galaxy made their presence known to us and brought the conflict to an immediate end, finally answering humankind’s immemorial prayers for world peace. Forty years without war anywhere on Earth is unprecedented in history. May we live forever under the loving benevolence of the Carthenogens.
“Now, for in-depth coverage of today’s top headline, let’s go to Peter McCann, who is on the ground in Goa. Peter, what is the latest?”
* * *
Fifty miles outside Kansas City, Manny Roca made his way home from school the old-fashioned way—he walked.
At sixteen, he didn’t mind the two-mile journey from the eduplex, since it gave him a respite between tedious video lessons and working in his father’s electrical shop on the edge of the town center. He and his family lived in a sparsely populated town amid vast government farmland.
It was late October, and the end of warmth for the season. In another week or two, he would be making his daily trek in
wind and snow. He appreciated the afternoon sun while it lasted.
A low humming caught him by surprise, and he turned to look behind him. A caravan of transports carrying government laborers came up the road. As the transports rumbled past, people, mostly men, peered through slats in the metal sides. Their fingers poked though the slats like thousands of worms clinging on for dear life.
He counted six transports. His father had told him that each transport carried around one hundred men, so there were 600 orange-clad laborers headed to camps out in the county’s far reaches.
Manny’s father warned him frequently that that was the price for not studying hard in school.
After a few minutes of peaceful walking, Manny heard another sound approaching. He turned and recognized the pickup truck belonging to his boyhood friend, Whisper.
The vehicle rolled to a stop. Inside were Whisper, Scottie, Wilko, and Bensen—kids Manny had grown up with but now avoided. They had dropped out of school and were the bad boys around town.
Scottie’s window slid down, and Whisper called out from behind the wheel, “Man-u-ell! Hey, cabrone! Whudizit?”
“Hey, Whisp,” Manny said, trying to be polite.
“Hey, man! I never see you no more. You still in the brainwash?”
“Yeah,” Manny said, as if school were undesirable.
“Dude, you wanna join us for a game of Deathball?”
“Naw. I gotta work at my old man’s shop.”
“Come on, just a short game.”
Scottie held out some white and blue pills on his palm. “Hey, derp, you gotta try some of these!”
“What are they?” Manny looked but knew he’d decline.
“The blue ones are drift, and the white ones are spaz.”
Manny had heard of drift.
Bensen, in the pickup’s backseat, twitched and grinned maniacally. “Spaz is fuckin’ awesome!”
Wilko leaned forward. “Spaz makes everything in Deathball seem like it’s happening at hyperspeed. It’s pretty wank, even when you’re not in the Fant.”
Fantasia.
“Naw, not today, guys,” Manny said.
“Come on, man,” Whisper said. “Don’t get your scrotum in a twist. Come play for an hour. You don’t have to take anything.”
Bensen jerked back and forth in his seat. “Nutstroker, nutstroker!”
“Here.” Scottie held out a blue pill. “Take a drift home and try it tonight.”
“Naw, that’s okay.” Manny held his hand up.
“Dude, when did you stop being cool?” Whisper asked. “Man, we used to play Slaughter all the time.”
“Yeah, well, my mom caught me playin’ Slaughter and took away my Fant privs.”
“Go ahead, take the drift,” Scottie said. “Your momma won’t know. It’ll relax you. Maybe you won’t be so uptight anymore.”
“Thanks, guys. I can’t.”
Bensen jerked back and forth in the back seat again. “Deathball is kill! It’s so kill! Fuck this nutstroker, man. Let’s go!”
Scottie held out the single blue pill. “Take it home with you. Take it! Take it!”
Manny held out his hand and Scottie put the pill in his palm.
“You won’t regret this, dude,” Whisper said. “It’s totally wank! Catch you later, cabrone!”
The pickup spit dirt as it roared away.
Manny stood for a moment, then began walking again. When the pickup was out of sight, he almost tossed the blue pill into the ditch. Then it would be gone and unable to tempt him.
Instead, he continued walking, his hand gripping the pill. He envisioned himself tossing it, but then he saw himself willing the pill to jump back out of the ditch and into his hand.
He frowned. He knew he wouldn’t take it. Despite his better judgment, he slipped it into his pocket.
* * *
Manny entered the shop that fronted their modest home. Usually, his father was behind the counter or in the back refurbishing an electrical motor. Today, the place was quiet.
“Pop?” Manny called as he passed the shelves of used equipment. He went into the back, which was also silent.
“Pop?”
He approached the door that adjoined the shop to their house. Before he grasped the grime-laden knob, he heard his mother sobbing hysterically.
Shit. His mom was on another crying jag. Ever since his sister, Alayna, had left for her compulsory service, his mother cried periodically with worry. Alayna had selected Humanitarian Aid for her service because it was supposed to be safe. His mother’s crying jags had gotten worse when Alayna was shipped overseas to India.
His mother’s wails pierced the old wooden door.
This is bad.
He turned the knob cautiously and pulled.
Indeed, his mother was at the table, crying. His father looked up, eyes red and sorrowful.
Icy blood rushed from Manny’s head. He knew.
“A government man came by today, Manny,” his father said. “Alayna’s gone missing in the tsunami in Goa…presumed dead.” His father burst into tears as soon as the words escaped his lips.
Manny had never seen his mother or father cry so hard. He thought of the blue pill.
* * *
Former vice president Barrett Kerrington rang the doorbell on an upscale home in Arlingon, Virginia. While no longer sitting vice president, he enjoyed the privilege of armed guards for life. His entourage of six Secret Service personnel flanked him. Eight more tended a motorcade of four armored vehicles. He liked having such an imposing statement at his continual disposal. Free of any responsibilities, official or otherwise, and free from the scrutiny of the god-awful press, he spent his time pulling strings.
He rang the doorbell again and clasped his hands in front of his finely tailored suit.
The door opened.
“Oh,” a woman in her sixties said. “Mr. Vice President!” The woman had met him many times before at official events involving the military. She wasn’t intimidated by his status, but surprised he would show up at her house.
“Gizzelda! How lovely you look today,” Barrett said.
She stepped back and opened the door, partly out of courtesy, partly in recoil. “My, whatever can I do for you?” Her voice quavered.
“Is the general in this morning?” Barrett asked. He so enjoyed catching people off guard.
“Well, yes. Do come in,” she said.
Barrett entered, followed by one of his agents. The others turned in unison toward the street and held Secret Service parade rest, hands clasped in the traditional fig leaf.
Gizzelda scampered off and returned with her husband, retired General Sominian.
“Ah, General! Good to see you. I appreciate your taking the time,” Barrett said.
“Mr. Vice President, this is most unexpected. What can I do for you today?”
Barrett motioned toward the living room as if he owned the place. “May we withdraw to a more comfortable area?”
“Certainly,” the general said hesitantly.
They settled into the house’s formal area. Like many suburban homes, it had a family area, in which one relaxed and watched entertainment videos, and another area that wasn’t “lived in” but set aside for receiving formal guests.
Barrett sat, throwing his arm along the back of the stiff sofa, and then crossed his legs.
General Sominian and Gizzelda sat across from him. The Secret Service agent waited in the foyer.
“Madam Purity sends her love,” Barrett said enthusiastically. The general went pale and kept his eyes locked on the vice president, shocked by his audacity. Madam Purity ran a chain of brothels in Europe and had many powerful clients, the general being one of them.
Gizzelda was accustomed to hearing odd names thrown about. Barrett knew the look she wore—pretendi
ng to pay attention but not really catching on.
“Yes! How is Her Royal Highness?” the general asked with false brightness.
“Oh, she misses you terribly and hopes you’ll come back and visit soon,” Barrett said.
“Gizzelda, would you get the vice president some coffee or tea?” Sominian asked.
“Tea, please,” Barrett said.
“Certainly!” Gizzelda said, getting up and whisking away as if escaping.
“Grumman!” the vice president said to his armed escort. “Could you tend to Mrs. Sominian?”
“Yes, sir!”
The vice president gleamed at General Sominian, the battleground established in his favor. “General. Thank you for taking your time,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Vice President. To what do I owe this honor?” The words were polite, but the tone hostile.
“I have a young son who has, contrary to the example of his elder brothers, chosen to perform his compulsory service in the military.”
“Yes! Well, good for him!” the general said, with a hint of sarcasm.
“It is less than a desirable path, I’m afraid. He could have gone to Harvard or Oxford or something. But you know how impetuous young people can be when it comes to garnering the attention of parents.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I fear he’s chosen the path of mingling with the rabble of society to prove some kind of point with me.”
The general nodded perfunctorily.
“It seems he wants to be a big fish in a small pond. He’s trying to outshine the ordinary, rather than compete at the top with his peers. My concern is that his strategy will create the exact opposite effect, that he will be so beyond his chosen group as to become completely incompatible. It’s like showing up to a game of baseball on horseback, with a polo mallet.” Barrett held up his finger to accentuate his metaphor.
“Yes, I see,” the general said, with an exaggerated frown.
“I’d like to give him more fertile soil in which to germinate. However, he’s so stubborn he refuses to accept my help getting into a bloody military academy. He’s already superior to the group he’s immersed himself in, and that’s quite unsatisfactory. He has some strange proclivity to rough it up with the boys on the block. Frankly, it’s more likely to tarnish his reputation, if you ask me.”