Guardian's Rise

by Matthew Renard

  I had to smile a bit at that. ‘Okay, so we could visit Sandwich-‘

  ‘On our way to Capehill.’ Sammy finished for me.

  I stared at my best friend, who stared back, arms folded, resolute. Even the fact he was slouching across the arm of our beaten up faux-suede sofa didn’t diminish from his natural presence.

  ‘You know Chayal Boded isn’t gay, right?’

  A flicker of anger crossed his face.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You’re not ever going to get with him. Assuming you even meet him. Assuming he’s even there. Assuming we even go! It’ll never happen.’

  Another flicker of anger, and... was that pain?

  ‘You know,’ he responded, quietly. ‘Some of us have hopes. Some of us have dreams, wants, and desires. And I know,’ he continued, putting out a hand to cut me off as I started to protest. ‘I know that it’s difficult for you to understand sometimes, since you’re clearly the only person in the world who matters. But some of us, Jay... some of us actually want to achieve our goals and dreams. One of mine is to meet Chayal Boded. There’s nothing sexual about it.’ He looked over at his poster. ‘Yes, I think he’s attractive. Yes, I admire him. But he stood up for what he knew was right. He was the first person to fight back. He was the first person who showed us we could win. I can’t meet Rosa Parks. I can’t meet Martin Luther King Junior. I certainly can’t meet Karl Ulrichs. But I can meet Abital ben Melamed. I can shake his hand and thank him for everything he did for us. For me. And for you.’

  He kept my gaze, never once blinking, never once letting his eyes flicker away. A tear rolled down his cheek, and in that moment, I knew I would never truly understand everything Sammy had gone through; how it made him a better person than I would ever be.

  ‘So,’ I ventured after a too-long pause. ‘Capehill?’

  He grinned, and everything else evaporated. ‘Capehill.’

  I sighed inwardly, and grabbed my laptop, turning it on with a well-practiced thumb. ‘Better find a decent travel package.’

  ‘You’re the richest man in the world!’

  ‘And I want to stay that way.’

  As the laptop finished loading everything up, a notification popped up in the window.

  Michael Taytum

  You need me, Mr Anson!

  Mr Anson. Hello to you, and firstly, congratulations on winning the global lottery. I’m sure that you have

  ‘What’s that?’ Sammy pointed at the screen, over my shoulder.

  ‘Oh, ignore it.’ I shook my head and pushed my glasses up my nose. ‘I’ve been getting tons of begging e-mails since my name was in the paper. It’s probably someone else asking for money.’

  ‘What, seriously?’

  I turned to glare at him. ‘That’s why I didn’t want my name in the paper, Sammy!’

  ‘Okay, okay. So, what does he want?’ Sammy moved in closer and peered at the screen.

  ‘I’m not going to open it.’

  ‘Why?’

  I turned to face him. ‘Because if I do that, I’d have to respond to him. And he’s probably got some massive sob story about how his daughter is a Gnarler, and he wants me to pay for augmentation, so she’ll be magically cured.’ I jabbed my finger at the screen. ‘He’s going to be just like all the other dozens of people who’ve e-mailed me. You saw that e-mail from the... the... who were they?’

  ‘Oh!’ Sammy started. ‘The Unified Humanity Group?’

  ‘Yeah, the guys that that want equal rights for Gnarlers. I mean, come on! I feel for them – Gnarlers are people too. But they’ll all be dead in a few years anyway. Just... no. I can’t help everyone.’

  ‘Awww.’ Sammy pouted. ‘Go on. I want to see what he wants.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll do the washing up for a week.’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘I’ll...’ He paused. ‘I’ll buy you anything you want.’

  I laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, you may have to loan me the money.’

  I sighed, shrugged, and clicked the notification. ‘Fine. If it shuts you up.’

  From: Michael Taytum

  Subject: You need me, Mr Anson!

  Mr Anson. Hello to you, and firstly, congratulations on winning the global lottery. I’m sure that you have had a multitude of people asking you for money for various things by this point. I am not going to waste your time with pointless begging, wheedling or cajoling. Instead, I am going to merely offer my services to you as an attorney for any interests you may wish to have in the United States. I am certain that many of the e-mails and other communications have asked you for help on an individual level; people asking for help find loved ones who were lost in attacks during the war, people claiming to be long-lost relatives asking for assistance in getting back to their rightful homes. Potentially the occasional marriage proposal?

  No matter.

  I am certain you are a good and kind-hearted person Mr Anson and wish to do the most good for the most people. If this is not the case, then delete this e-mail as you see fit. You will never hear from me again. However, if I am correct (and although modesty dictates otherwise, I must inform you that I am rarely incorrect) than answering these e-mails one at a time will lead to frustration, disappointment, and misery. If one were to create a Foundation, on the other hand, you could assist in making lives better in a practical manner, whilst also investing resources into research, to improve things on a global scale. You could make valuable connections with Lemniscate, Borleath, AwaTen and SabrexTech. You could help end world hunger, poverty, and homelessness. Everybody could be employed. In short, Mr Anson, you could change the face of civilisation on this planet.

  If this is something that you feel interests you, please do not hesitate to reach out to me. Arrangements can easily be made for you and any companions to join me in Capehill; we can discuss this much better face to face.

  Yours faithfully,

  Michael Taytum

  +1 (941) 236-3690

  Sammy looked at me. I had been reading the letter out loud but was aware of having tailed off when Taytum got to the part about changing the face of civilisation.

  ‘Dude.’

  I didn’t turn to face him. I was too stunned. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know what this means, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  His reflection beamed at me from the monitor. ‘We’re definitely going to Capehill!’

  We didn’t go to Capehill. Well… not at that point in time. Michael Taytum kept me busy enough that I could make excuses. He was a great guy. He was polite (but not too much) and knew his stuff. I mean, really knew his stuff. He’d done his research on me: he knew what school I had gone to, my last job, about Sammy... it seemed at times as if he even must have known about Emily, too, but thankfully didn’t mention her (as I say, he knew his stuff). I asked him about it; well, you would, wouldn’t you? He’d laughed over the video-chat when I asked how he knew so much about me.

  ‘It’s my job, Mr Anson.’

  ‘Jason, please. Call me Jason.’

  That began our working relationship. As weeks went by, we got to know each other well. He was friendly and down to earth, and never bowed and scraped, or as he called it “practiced in obsequious behaviour”. The Anson Foundation came to life, and thanks to a combination of couriers, e-mail and videoconferencing it grew and took on a life almost of its own. Michael ran it well, acting as my proxy on the day-to-day activities, and checking in. At first once a day, and then once a week for updates and questions. The first time I joined the board of directors on a video conference I was nervous, but since Michael had coached me on certain things (sellotaping a sheet of paper with the names of people in their seating plan was a lifesaver more than once) and overall I think it went well.

  The Foundation focused primarily on helping people recover from physical and psychological trauma from the Danti attack. Whether it was in prosthetic limbs, r
adiation poisoning, or grief counselling the Foundation either subsidised the treatment, or paid for it outright. We had doctors, specialists and engineers join us who designed new prosthetics, which utilised a new technology, which we called Nerve Induction Technology. NIT enhanced prosthetics gave the user a sense, similar to as if they had never lost their limbs to begin with - they could feel again. There was even talk, Michael told me, of a new visual prosthetic being designed. He was constantly enthusiastic about all the work we were doing – in fact, there was only one real issue, and it came to a head about three months after the Foundation had opened formally.

  ‘Jason.’ Michael beamed at me over the TV, and I smiled at him. I could almost hear the oil in his voice; he oozed so much refined confidence. He played with a shiny black pen in his right hand, rolling it between his fingers. ‘So, tell me truthfully: how can I finally get you and Sammy to come to Capehill?’

  Sammy practically leapt onto the couch, waving at the screen. The built-in webcam had no difficulties tracking his quick movements, and Taytum seemed delighted at Sammy’s appearance – my friend had taken to wearing the orange, brown and gold of Capehill University and was currently wearing a CU cap, baseball jacket, and matching trousers.

  ‘Go Assapan!’ Sammy shouted at the TV, and Taytum laughed.

  ‘Go Assapan, Sammy! I’m glad you got the gift package I sent you two. Looks like you’re already set to walk the streets.’

  ‘As soon as we convince our boy here that it’s a good thing!’ Sammy grabbed my shoulder and jostled me ‘I’ve been trying for, what? Months now.’ I smiled thinly, but I still had concerns. I’d been putting off the “holiday”, using the Foundation as a very poor excuse to stay at home. I didn’t want to walk the streets and be treated like a Messiah who had cured the blind and crippled people. Sammy had laughed when I said that and told me that I was “A very naughty boy”. In truth, there was something about Capehill that alarmed me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a... wrongness with me thinking about going.

  ‘Look, Michael...’ He must have heard the tone in my voice, as his demeanour shifted and became more business-like. ‘I’ve just got a couple of things I need to work out.’

  ‘Like what?’ He deftly popped the lid off his pen and lowered it to a pad on his desk.

  ‘Well, firstly, I’ve not been on those new planes...’

  ‘The fusion engine jets? Oh, they’re fantastic, Jason, really.’ He nodded. ‘I went on one last week to Japan; it took five hours.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s...’

  ‘From Florida. Jason, on the old planes that would have taken 15 hours to do! The flights are safer, cleaner, much faster, and near silent. I closed my eyes as soon as I sat down and slept through almost the whole flight! Didn’t even feel the take-off and was woken up just before landing.’ He shook his head. ‘Remarkable technology. Shame we had to have an alien invasion to make it happen.’ He made a small note on his pad. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Uhh...’ I stalled, looking at Sammy, who ignored me. ‘Well, there’s the whole thing about me being one of the most recognisable people on the planet. Richest man in the world, and all.’

  ‘“He’s not the Messiah...”’ Sammy muttered under his breath, so the webcam wouldn’t pick it up. I did, though.

  Michael grinned at me, and it may have been the first genuine looking emotion I had noticed from him. ‘Okay, Jason... let me level with you here. Yes, you’re the wealthiest single individual on the planet. Yes, if you visit Capehill, it will be news. And yes, if you walk around with the Capehill University billboard there currently posing as your best friend you will stand out.’ He glanced over at Sammy. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken!’ Sammy puffed up his chest. ‘I look good.’ He muttered to himself.

  ‘However, most of that news will be generated on your side of the Atlantic. Remember, we have millionaires, CEOs and PIs walking around the streets of Capehill every day! You can’t walk three blocks without bumping into someone whose photo has been on a magazine somewhere.’ He shook his head. ‘Nobody will care you’re there. And if it makes you feel any better, I can... secure you some travel documents in a false name for your outward journey.’

  I stared at him. ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘I’m the lawyer of the world’s richest man, who happens to run a multi-billion OWD Foundation that helps with war victims. People will turn a blind eye.’ He shrugged. ‘If not, I can make it legal. Besides’, he added as an afterthought, ‘it’s only illegal if you get caught.’ He made another note. ‘What name would you want to travel under?’

  ‘Denzel!’ Sammy shouted. I turned to look at him, and he looked back indignantly. ‘What? I can’t travel under a fake name, too?’

  ‘Nobody would be looking out for you. Idiot.’ I scowled at him, and he matched my glare.

  ‘You’re the idiot. Idiot.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Michael butted in. I guess he’d seen too many of these conversations in the month or two we had been having these video-chats devolve into insult matches between Sammy and myself. ‘If you’ll allow me to make the arrangements, I can have you here within the next 24 hours. The passports will be couriered to you within six hours, so I suggest you pack, get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you both tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, there’s anything else, Jason?’

  I felt the moment stretch out. It was a moment that I could almost feel cut across other moments - my answer would change not just my life, or Sammy’s, but potentially every single person on the planet. If I said yes, I could eliminate all the problems of the world... if I said no... well. We’d managed to get by this far without my help, right? Regardless of my answer, I would still change lives.

  So, screw it. Sammy was always right, and Sammy wanted to go to Capehill. I owed him that much.

  ‘No. See you tomorrow, Michael.’

  Chapter Three

  Capehill

  ‘We are now arriving at Capehill International Airport. Total flight-time today was three hours, 47 minutes. We apologise for the longer than expected flight time. On behalf of all of us at British Airways, we thank you for your patience, and ask that you please do not unfasten your seatbelts or stand up before the plane comes to a complete and total stop...’

  The sound of nearly every seatbelt being unfastened filled the cabin, still audible under the sound of some people clapping,

  ‘...and please ensure your belongings are with you when you disembark. Flight crew please prepare for debarkation. Thank you.’

  Sammy started to stand and grab his bag from the overhead compartment. Others did the same, whilst I sat still in my seat; I was fairly certain mine was the only seatbelt still fastened. I checked over my travel documents - I was travelling under a painfully fake name: “Jasper Knight”. However, it had worked, and soon old Jasper Knight would cease to exist, and Jason Anson would be free to roam the streets of Capehill.

  ‘You know what I wish?’ Sammy shook me out of my thoughts as he dropped my bag into my lap.

  ‘What, Sammy?’

  ‘I wish I had the window seat.’

  I managed a tired grin. Not that I was actually tired, per se, but Sammy had made the same joke repeatedly throughout the entire flight. ‘So do I, Sammy. But since this thing doesn’t actually have windows...’

  He looked down at me, reached up, and tossed me my bag from the compartment. ‘You know what I mean. We flew over Capehill and I didn’t get to see it.’

  ‘We just landed there!’ I shook my head. ‘We’re going to walk through it. You and me, feet on the pavement-’

  ‘Sidewalk.’

  I stared. ‘What?’

  ‘They don’t call it pavement here. They call it a sidewalk. And rubbish is trash, and herbs are “urrrrbs”. Plus, don’t even get me started on how they pronounce oregano.’ He sighed and shook his head, mimicking my earlier movement. ‘You’re so not ready for this.’

  He was right, of course. Sammy w
as always right.

  I won’t bore you with the story of how we got off the plane and through the airport. If you’ve ever experienced those things yourself, you know exactly what happened. Long queues at immigration, waiting for our luggage to arrive, praying nothing got lost (it didn’t) and also that our bags looked in as good a condition as when we put them on the conveyor in London (again, they didn’t). The airport was just that - an airport. It wasn’t special in any way, or reflect the fact it was on the outskirts of the most technologically advanced and famous city on the planet. It was a slightly worn, well maintained airport. Bad paintings and “inspirational” murals welcomed travellers in different languages, and there were no useful shops on this side. It was very standard fare, although I was immediately struck by the smell of the air. Not that Capehill, or America in general, smells bad. It just... the smell of a new country the first time you experience it is an odd one. Same planet, same air, but it just smelled strange, and exciting, and new. It smelled exactly like I thought it would, and also completely different.

  I know. They should have sent a poet, right?

  Once we’d collected our bags, we stood waiting near the doors, not quite sure what to expect. A man in a suit with our names on a wipe-board? The entire Capehill Cupie cheerleading squad welcoming the world’s richest man (even under a fake name)? A parade waiting for us? We decided to not expect anything, and we weren’t entirely disappointed.

  We didn’t get anything.

  Sammy and I looked at each other, and as one, turned to the exit, and walked out into the bright, unforgiving sunshine of the East Coast.

  Capehill International Airport sat high up near the outskirts of the city, near the area now known as Haddenfalls; a large waterfall which led from the Manatee River and ran through what used to be Bradenton. A lot of the USA had been completely changed, geographically speaking - a local man transported from ten years in the past literally wouldn’t recognise it, thanks to the Danti doing some weird Terraforming where-ever they could. So technically, we walked into the bright, unforgiving sunshine, some miles out from the outermost limits of the city. However, that couldn’t diminish the thrill we got as our eyes adjusted to the bright morning glare of-