She walked off the ridge, plummeted, and jerked to a halt midair. A searing burn erupted in her left rotator cuff. Her arm felt as if it had been ripped from its socket. She howled as she twisted in the wind.
“Is it an Earther?” a man’s voice asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The woman who answered tugged the rope she had lassoed around Niyati’s left arm.
“What about her eye color?” The man grabbed hold of the rope and helped her pull.
“It’s neither Truattan nor Earther. It’s maroon,” the woman said between grunts. Three more men rushed over and helped them drag Niyati onto the ridge.
Niyati removed the rope around her arm. She cradled her damaged shoulder with her good hand and cackled at the clouds. “Great one, God!” She studied the gaunt quintuplet surrounding her. “Which one of you is the head angel?”
They stared back with gaping eyes. In the men she saw revulsion and horror. In the woman she saw grief that reflected her own. It took a second for Niyati to understand why they were reacting at all. Without a mirror to remind her, she had forgotten how terribly her flesh had withered from the bomb explosion a century-and-a-half ago in the Space Port.
“If you mean who’s in charge, that would be me,” the woman said. “I’m Norma Mardeen.”
Niyati had long ago mastered the Truattan language. She replied, “God is one crazy bastard!” and laughed. She couldn’t help it. The pain in her shoulder hurt so bad it nearly tickled, and the wound in her heart poked fun at her. The look on the angels’ faces, or whatever they were, when they saw her charred features, was precious. She said in English, “Yes, sir, you’re a crazy bastard.”
“You hear that?” one of the men said. “She is an Earther!” He slipped a knife from his coat and raised it to her neck. “No mercy!”
Norma pushed his hand back. “How is it you speak Earther?”
“I don’t,” Niyati said, realizing her error. “A soldier-friend of mine picked up the phrase from the enemy years ago and taught it to me. He said it was a profanity like ‘shove it up your ass.’ I use it now and then.” She laughed at the ridiculousness of her answer and repeated in English, “Yes, sir, you’re a crazy bastard.”
Norma studied her for a moment. “Is that your dwelling behind the shrubs?”
“Home, sweet, home.”
“And you built that heating/lighting thing?”
Niyati nodded skyward. “He sure didn’t do it.”
Norma glanced at the man who first grabbed hold of the rope. “What do you think, Teague?”
“About what?” Teague replied. “She’s loonier than a padoc and twice as fragile.”
Norma replied, “If she can build something like what she built in her cave, we can use her.”
“Maybe, but how do we know she’s not a plant?”
Norma raised the left corner of her mouth in a loopy smile. “If she’s a spy the Earther’s are in deep trouble. Look, we’re not even sure where we’re going, but the farther up we climb the colder it gets and the less firewood there is. How long do you think we’ll survive like that?”
Teague nodded. “Point taken.” He turned to Niyati. “What’s your name, friend?”
“God already told you. Who are you?”
Teague popped his lips and rolled his eyes at Norma.
Norma said, “We’re what’s left of the civilized world.”
“Five Truattans?” Niyati went numb. “That’s it?”
“No. There are about eight hundred of us. The rest are waiting around the bend. We’re the advance scouts.”
Niyati studied the ragtag quintuplet. They were thin, dirty, dressed in heavy, wrinkled clothing. “I’m sorry,” Niyati replied. “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes glistened with guilt.
“We don’t want sorrow, old woman.” Norma’s voice was stern. Iron. “I—we—want revenge.”
The revelation struck so suddenly Niyati winced. It was a bolt from Heaven. God didn’t want her to live to torture her, he wanted her alive to help these survivors destroy Ameri-Inc. and get their world back. Still, a sliver of doubt remained. Could this be part of His cosmic joke to string me along? She killed that thought. No, He couldn’t be that cruel.
“You okay?” Teague asked. “You look strange.”
She smiled. “Never finer.” She turned to Norma, “I know a place tucked in a pocket near the top. It’s large enough for all of you.”
“Yes,” Norma said. “That’s the place we’re looking for.”
“The only way there is through a burrow, but it’s dangerous. There are winged creatures with sharp teeth that mean business.”
“The Dark Prey,” Norma said. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”
Niyati locked eyes with Norma. “None.”
Norma frowned. “Then I guess we go through the burrow.”
“You never answered us, friend,” Teague said. “What’s your name?”
My name? Niyati thought. God had given her a mission of resurrection. One that Niyati wasn’t part of. Niyati had leaped over the cliff and died. She thought back to her childhood and her mother’s telling of the Hindu Goddess Bhārat Mātā, “who was the vision of a unified motherland.” She thought of Jay and her own motherhood. She thought of her new undertaking to restore these people’s motherland. “My name is Mata.”
“Okay, Mata,” Norma said. “Pack up. It’s time to go.”
Mata took the first step toward her new life.
Chapter Forty-Three
Date: 2250
White House Press Room
Washington, Capitol State
President Morristone, a tall, handsome man with white teeth, smooth skin, warm green eyes and a shock of black hair, said, “Lechoslaw Blaszczyk of Warsaw People News,” to the holograph screen in the third row, second stand across.
The holograph projected the image of Blaszczyk, a small, rumpled man with amber-tint eyeglasses and a hairline that had receded to the lower portion of his head. He said, “Mr. President, the price of GTS products has skyrocketed in the past six months.” His lips moved out of sync with the words because they were being translated from Polish to English through the holograph’s translation system.
“According to unnamed sources the massive interruption in supply is due to Irish-Asian Alliance attacks on transport vehicles. Senate Majority Leader Critcher has stated that the only way to stop the IAA pirates is to federalize the GTS operation and turn it over to the U.S. military. Do you support his amendment to do that?”
President Morristone grimaced. “Besides the legal issues, it would do grievous harm to our economy to suddenly assume a responsibility that Ameri-Inc.’s militia are more than capable of handling. Furthermore, I am a strong proponent of private enterprise, and will use my veto pen to answer Senator Critcher’s amendment, should it pass.”
“Do you have the support of your own party in the house and senate regarding that?”
“You’ll have to ask them. Next question.”
Blaszczyk’s image shrunk.
“Mr. President! Sir!” The sixty or so holograms shouted out in a wobble of sound. He nodded to a hologram in the front row. “Lil’ Janet C-Po, of New York FaceTimes.”
Lil’ Janet C-Po’s image expanded.
“As reports of GTS shortages have spread, your poll numbers have declined. If the disruption of GTS deliveries continues to escalate, how big an impact do you think it will have on your re-election chances next year?”
President Morristone smiled into the rows of cams imbedded in the far wall of the room. “I can assure all Federal Americans, both here and throughout the solar system that I am in constant contact with Ameri-Inc. Chairperson Takáts. As I’ve stated several times, she is making tremendous progress, and expects to have the transportation routes trouble free and back at full capacity soon—”
“How soon?” C-Po inserted.
“—meanwhile, our GTS reserves are capable of taking up the slack until the
n.”
“Sir, how soon?”
Morristone nodded to another hologram screen. “Yitzhak Castellanos of Paris Teleworld.” Castellanos asked about GTS smuggling operations and the escalating violence it was causing along the European borders.
Morristone went through another thirty minutes of GTS-related questions before he gave up and uttered the safe word “antipathy” whereupon his chief-of-staff, Henry Hilligoss, stepped in and politely reminded the president that he was late for his next scheduled appointment. President Morristone thanked the White House press corps for attending and was escorted from the briefing room.
Followed by Henry and a small cadre, President Morristone went straight to the Oval Office. He and Henry entered. The rest of the group remained outside. Inside the Oval Office, President Morristone removed a vial from the pocket of his suit jacket. G-89 and the presidential seal were embossed on it. He unscrewed the lid and removed a stubby silver straw imbedded in the eighty-nine proof GTS powder. Morristone took a healthy snort and wiped his nostrils. He held it out to Henry, who did the same.
“Get me Rebeka on the private line.”
“She’s on Truatta, sir.”
“I don’t care if she’s on the toilet. Get her on the line.”
“Yes, sir.” Henry squeezed his left thumb, index finger, thumb and pinky in a reoccurring pattern.
Morristone studied the crabapple trees outside his window. He took a deep breath, remembering the fun he had running through his parents’ apple orchard back in the day. He was about to mention it to Henry, when his right pinky nail blinked pink. Morristone took his place at his desk.
“In three…two…one,” Henry said.
The holographic image of Rebeka’s face projected itself in front of the president. “Good morning. You’re in a pile of shit,” he said.
~~~
Inside her corporate suite Rebeka picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. She put it back on the dining room table and replied to President Morristone’s holograph, “Good afternoon, Mr. President. It is afternoon there, yes?”
Xia cocked his head in curiosity. He was seated across from her, sipping tea. He was dressed in a red-and-white stripe calf-length nightshirt and a red stocking cap with a tassel tip that hung below his left shoulder.
“No more games,” Morristone said. “My economic advisors are predicting a depression if the GTS supply isn’t restored to pre-warehouse explosion levels. My poll numbers are in the danger zone, and I can’t keep throwing out that bullshit about IAA pirates.”
“Now, Franco, calm down.”
Morristone slammed his palm on the desktop. “I will not calm down!”
Henry Hilligoss, who was standing outside of Rebeka’s view, winced.
Xia nearly dropped his teacup.
Rebeka replied evenly, “They are a rag-tag group of rebels who will be annihilated from the face of the planet. That is my guarantee.”
“They better be or I’ll sign Critcher’s amendment to federalize GTS operations.”
“It’ll never get past the senate floor,” Rebeka said. “I’ll see to it.”
“Once GTS rationing starts and the voters begin to riot,” Morristone said. “You can kiss your influence goodbye.”
“That may be, but if you sign that legislation I’ll dismantle your re-election machine in a heartbeat.”
“If GTS supplies aren’t up and running, it won’t matter whether I have an election machine or not.”
Xia glanced at Rebeka’s thumb, which tapped nervously on the table, away from the camera’s view. In her eyes Xia saw something he’d never seen before; self-doubt. It was fleeting, but nevertheless it had appeared. Just as quickly, she stilled her thumb, raised her chin, and said, “How much time do I have?”
Henry raised two fingers twice at Morristone.
“Two weeks to wipe out the insurgents,” Morristone said. “And another two months to have the GTS back to an acceptable level.”
“Impossible,” Rebeka said. “We would have to get immediate Federal approval to quadruple our human factory labor.”
“That can be arranged,” Morristone said.
“My generals will need more WarBots. They’ll have to be transported by hyper-spacecraft to arrive here on time to do battle.”
“Done. What else?”
Rebeka took another sip of coffee and dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. “I’ll let you know.”
“Good day.” Morristone’s image dissolved.
Rebeka squeezed the knuckle of her left ring finger. It blinked orange. She said into it, “Mr. Duffy, contact General Bangura and inform him that I would like to meet him and his advisors in the War Room in one hour.”
“Certainly, Madam.”
Her knuckle returned to normal. She said to Xia, “It looks like I’ll be extending my visit here for at least another two-and-a-half months.”
“Do you mind company?” Xia glanced sideways at her as he reached for the orange marmalade. “Strictly your choice, of course.”
Rebeka’s stomach fluttered between desire and uncertainty. “Surely you have business to take care of.”
“My dear, my holdings practically run themselves.” He spooned the marmalade on his toast.
Rebeka pursed her lips. Ten weeks with Xia. On top of the possibility of her empire falling apart she had to deal with her damned feelings. God, it would be so much easier if it were Jocsun sitting here. One good romp in the sack and she’d shoo him out the door. “I’ll be tied up most of the time.”
Xia shrugged. “I’ve never had a problem occupying myself.”
Rebeka studied the paunchy, bearded, red-haired man in the silly nightcap as he munched on toast and jam. She thought any idiot knows that when a man blatantly fawns over a woman, she automatically loathes that man. Then why in hell am I so attracted to him? “In that case, Xia darling, keep yourself busy because I have an annihilation to arrange.” She kissed his cheek and entered the bathroom.
~~~
Rebeka had dressed to mean business: an open double-breasted black suit jacket, black collared shirt buttoned to the top, knee length black pleated skirt and red leather boots that rose to the skirt’s hemline. She again eyed the five men seated before her: Three star General Bangura, Two-star Generals Holcomb and Shaheen, Corporal Gorshincorn and BC Combs. Except for the testosterone and tobacco stench, Rebeka thought, the small circular war room wasn’t much different than her boardroom back on Earth.
“Let me put this in simpler terms, gentlemen. I don’t care about the logistics, the manpower, or the weather conditions. If the insurgents aren’t wiped out in the next two weeks I will have each and every one of you relieved of duty.” She couldn’t eliminate the tobacco odor, but she could damn sure do something about the testosterone.
“On what grounds?” BC Combs asked.
“Incompetence.”
“With all due respect, Madam,” General Bangura inserted. “If we’re relieved of duty, the Commercial Military Guidebook states that we are guaranteed a say before a civilian tribunal.”
She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow to let him know he had her attention.
“If that were to happen,” the general glanced at the others, “we would be forced to reveal certain facts regarding the use of Truattans for labor.”
Rebeka studied the half-dozen men. Muscular, tan, and now smug.
“Now then,” General Bangura added. “A more realistic approach to the rebel problem would be to wait six weeks when the weather lightens and—”
Rebeka stole a move from President Morristone’s playbook and slammed her fist on the mahogany table with such force the men jumped. “You little shits!” She stabbed her finger at them. “Go on trial, tell them everything. Tell them how you went along with it.”
“All we did was follow your orders,” General Holcomb replied, complacently.
“Were you following my orders when I supplied you with higher-grade GTS than is allowed under the so-called Commercial Mil
itary Guidebook?”
The men stole glances at each other.
“Get used to viruses, wrinkled skin and wilted biceps, gentlemen. From this moment on you are cut off from anything but minimum Guidebook requirements.” Rebeka kept the fire in her face. “Thank you for your time.” She walked toward the door.
“Hold on,” one of the men said.
Rebeka stopped but purposely kept her back to them. Someone cleared his voice and said, “We were a little hasty.” It was General Bangura.
Rebeka turned.
“We’ll need a fleet of aviation WarBots and at least two more troop brigades within ten days.”
“That can be arranged.”
“We’ll need a host of medical supplies for our wounded, and temp holdings for the POWs,” Corporal Gorshincorn said.
“You’ll have no need for POW facilities,” Rebeka said. “Absolutely none.”
“But…?” By the startled look on Gorshincorn and the other men, Rebeka knew that they understood.
“Anything else?” she asked.
General Bangura regarded each man. In turn, they shook their heads. Bangura’s eye’s returned to Rebeka. “If you can arrange it all, we’ll have a plan of attack drawn up for your approval, and placed into operation by the end of next week.”
“Very good, gentlemen.” Rebeka left the room.
Chapter Forty-Four
Date: 2250
8 Star Island Drive
Star Island, Miami Isle, Florida
Dressed in matching red silk bathrobes adorned with bronco bucking cowboys, Herb and Carl held hands and watched the afternoon sun glitter across Biscayne Bay. They were seated outside; at a gold-framed marble table. Herb raised his nearly empty glass above his shoulder. The outdoors domestic, Paula, scuttled from the Tiki Bar with a pitcher of Singapore Sling.
Paula had salt-and-pepper hair and moved with a slight limp. She quietly refilled their glasses and returned to the Tiki Bar. The Tiki Bar was located halfway between the bay’s seawall and the canopied Spanish style lanai that the two men were languishing beneath. The lanai was built on the rear of Herb’s three-story mansion, which stood a couple of hundred feet from the shore.
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